A Thousand Thoughts

"We love because it's the only true adventure." - Nikki Giovanni

2009-06-23T23:09:20Z

As of June 10, 2009, Chris and I have been married for three years! We had a nice dinner out at a tapas restaurant in Rockville, but our official celebration is this weekend, when we're going to Ocean City. Chris has never been there, and what is a better carefree weekend away than the beach?

Recently, two different movies reinforced for me what it means to be married and in love. Both of these have minor spoilers, so if you want to see these movies and haven't yet, don't read too much further.

The first was Pixar's latest, Up. Now, I love Pixar, but I was absolutely not expecting this movie. I was expecting a cute movie about a grumpy old man and a kid heading off on some grand adventure. Which I certainly got. But the first twenty minutes of the movie aren't about the grumpy old man. Rather, the movie starts when Carl (the future grumpy old man) is a little boy, and meets Ellie, a boisterous, bright little girl who turns his world upside-down. He wants to be an adventurer - but in her own way, she already is. She has grand plans to have a treehouse in South America, and pulls him into her dreams, makes them his dreams, their dreams. Not surprisingly, those dreams and their relationship long outlast their childhood. And those dreams - while fantastic - drive their fairly ordinary life together. (Well, not completely ordinary. She works as a vet at a zoo and he sells balloons there.) Between the section with Carl and Ellie as children, and the "grumpy old man" section, there is a 20 minute silent movie about their life together. Without words, it shows them getting married, moving into their first house complete with a mailbox they paint themselves, celebrating their joys, mourning their sorrows, and sitting quietly together into their old age. It ends with him at her bedside as she passes away. I cried through this entire montage. Not heavy sobbing, but quiet tears rolling down my eyes. And not just during the sad parts - probably more during the lovely, joyful parts. I cried because it was all so beautiful, and true. Even if they never went to South America together - even if that particular dream was lost in the busyness of everyday life - they were so in love and so happy. And their relationship, born out of friendship and a shared sense of child-like glee, reminded me of Chris and I. Even though Chris and I didn't know each other that early, I understand growing up together, having that person shape who you are early on in your life. Being positive that that person will always love you, and in some ways, always has, even before you knew it consciously. I understand never wanting to be without that person there beside you, because you never have been truly separated. When being away from that person means that you are missing a part of yourself - knowing you are a better person because of their presence. Chris was crying a bit too, so it wasn't just me. That aspect of the movie - the lifelong companionship, devotion and pure joy from being with each other - really shed some light on a comment someone had made to me the week before. On Memorial Day weekend, we went to Hannah's house and we were talking to one of our poker people and his fiance. When we said that we had been high school sweethearts, she asked, "What is it like not having baggage?" and I didn't know how to answer the question. I think I didn't know how to answer it because for me, the question I would ask her is, "What is it like knowing who you are without them?" That's why I think I understand Carl's absolute agony without Ellie - I can imagine going through that myself in such a situation. I can imagine having difficulty answering the question "Who are you?" without the influence of the person you love so very much.

The second movie that highlighted the joy and sometimes difficulty of love was Away We Go. Co-written by Dave Eggers (author of one of my favorite books) and his wife, it tells the story of a couple who finds out they are pregnant and have to decide on a city to move to. (Funnily enough, the couple isn't married and never will be, but that's irrelevant to what I got out of it.) They visit a number of couples, each who has their strange quirks and problems. The wife in the most affecting of the couples is played by Melanie Lynskey, the weird neighbor from Two and Half Men (surprisingly), and the character says something that really struck me. Unfortunately, I can't find the quote anywhere, but it was basically, "Being in a family is the hardest thing you will ever do. It will bring out parts of you - giving, loving - parts of you you never knew you had." And although we don't have any children, I get that quote. It's not that marriage itself is all that hard (contrary to what people think), but it's not easy either. It's not easy living with someone every day, finding ways to meet both your needs, forgiving both small and larger problems. It's not easy finding time to spend together when on one hand that's all you ever want to do, and on the other hand, there's so many other things (work, writing, activism, for me) demanding that time. It's not a constant struggle, but it's a constant giving of yourself. It's giving of your time, your affection, your effort, and your intimacy. Even just when it manifests itself in washing the dishes. And I'd imagine that giving of yourself is only multiplied unimaginably when you have children. The other part of the movie that struck me was that the relationship between the two main characters reminded me of our relationship. Sure, they were funnier and quirkier and more clever. But they made fun of each other, knowing it was a sign of love. They were obviously friends, and enjoyed talking to each other. They were easily affectionate - so much was expressed through glances and smiles. They wanted to be good parents, not by being perfect, but by finding a home that would be the best possible for their child. And as we're now saving for a house - won't really look until next year though - I understand their need to find a place that says "home." What is home? Can it be anywhere you want it to be, so long as the two of you are together? Or is there a particular place that you know is right when you find it? As Chris and I are struggling with that - and how to fit it into our current lives - I understood the character's struggle and the effects it has on their relationship.

The one thing that connected both movies together for me is the idea of love as an adventure. Chris and I have been on many adventures together, many that we wouldn't have gone on by ourselves, because we lacked the strength or the courage. But being married is itself an adventure, and now that we've been married for three years, our lives together are as much of one as they ever were. And far more of an adventure than they would have been apart. As I wrote in the letter to Chris that Father Keith made us write to each other before the wedding, "I expect that in a lifetime spent with you, I will learn and get to know so much that I have no way of seeing now. And I look forward to that lifetime of learning from and loving each other." Three years later, I still look forward to learning more every day.

Happy Fathers' Day!

2009-06-22T02:31:40Z

In my parents' house, my father has always been the quiet one in the background, while my mother is the loud one, the social one, the one who takes charge. So naturally, when my friends at home think of my family, they think of my mother. Drew even claims he's never heard my father talk, which is blatently not true (but still funny).

But I've seen a side of Dad that few people have. He's not all that different of a person when my mother isn't around, but he has a chance to shine. Mom can be a bit overwhelming, and he often allows her to do the talking. Without her there, he talks and shares more, from his thoughts on politics - usually a bit vague and simultaneously insightful - to his quirky sense of humor. Thankfully, throughout my childhood, I always had some time set aside that was time between just Dad and I.

When I was little, it was going to the Burning Bush town pool. Mom didn't like going to the pool, so Dad would bring me and we'd stay there for hours. I'd swim around for a while, showing off my ability to do handstands and flips underwater (I certainly wasn't doing them that well on land) and pretend I was a world-class gymnast. He would applaud, and then get into the water himself. He always got in by jumping in off of the high dive. I think he liked the cold rush of water. Eventually, I followed him and did the same. Once he was adjusted to the water, we'd go into the semi-deep part, and he'd pull me onto his shoulders. He'd crouch down in the deeper part, stand up quickly, and launch me off his shoulders into the water. It was incredible! Just for a moment, I was flying. As I got older, he taught me how to dive off of the high dive. I was scared, of course, and I think I climbed down a couple of times before I finally did it. But standing at the bottom of the ladder, he talked me through it. And then I finally did it - a different kind of flying, I never got enough of the hang of it to do anything but sort of lean into the dive, but that was enough for me. At the end of pool time, we'd towel off as much as we could, but still soaked the seats of his Taurus that we had named Mork (because everything was egg-shaped). He didn't care, so long as I was happy.

My love for the water extended to competitive sports, when I joined the swim team in sixth grade. Dad drove me two or three days a week to practice, all the way to Schenectady at first, and then to the Clifton Park YMCA. Sometimes we would listen to the radio, and not speak at all, but just be comfortable in our enjoyment of the music. (As a sidenote, as a little kid I was always impressed at Dad's ability to identify songs on the radio during their first few seconds. I thought he knew all of the songs in the world! It was a disappointing day when I found out he didn't.) Sometimes, we would talk, about any number of subjects. I would ask him his opinions, something he rarely shared with Mom around, as it can be hard to get a word in when she's sharing her opinions.

At some point in-between swim team and high school, skiing became our default activity. My mom skis, and actually taught my Dad how to do it, but was never particularly willing to ski unless conditions were perfect. Dad loved to ski, even when the snow was rather crummy. The fact that they had a Sunday afternoon family deal at Bromley Mountain only made it better, as Dad is incredibly thrifty (I get this from him as well). So for a couple of years, Dad and I would go skiing regularly on Sunday afternoons. I was almost as good as him at that point, so we were able to have fun on all of the black diamond slopes and bomb down the blue squares. Besides Bromley, we also went to Gore Mountain, which had the advantage of being relatively nearby. Skiing with Dad was immensely fun because he was always incredibly upbeat. Mom tended to complain. In contrast, whenever we were on a three or four-person lift with someone we didn't know, Dad would cheerfully ask, "Have you been to the top yet? The weather's pretty good today." I think he would have made that comment about the weather even if it was sleeting. He was so chipper that Mom and I started to call him Mr. Rodgers and sing, "Won't you be my neighbor?" As downhill skiing got more expensive and the deals seemed to disappear, we went downhill skiing less and less. But around that time, I had been on the cross-country ski team for two years, and started to do that on weekends. This time, I was the one who taught Dad how to ski. It was pretty funny at first, because he had it all wrong. But once he realized he had to push rather than pull with his poles, he kept up pretty well. We'd ski along, content in our silent company.

Once I got to college, Dad began some new traditions to remind me that he was always there for me. Specifically, he sent me the Sunday comics every week. On Sundays at home, we would sit around and read the paper, and I'd always ask him where the comics were. Since I didn't get them in college, he sent them, often with some newspaper article he thought I would be interested in. I always looked forward to getting my weekly envelope from Dad in the mail. These days, he doesn't send me comics. But instead, he's started regularly sending me something else - pictures on my cell phone. He's gotten more into texting than I ever could have thought - he hardly ever used the computer at home - and loves taking photos and sending them to me. I actually remember the first photo he ever took on his phone - of Mom and I cross-country skiing in Saratoga State Park. Since then, he's sent me photos of covered bridges, a mama duck and her babies crossing the street, Mom and him cycling, and sunsets. Basically, anytime he's doing something that he thinks I'll find interesting, he sends me a photo. Because I refuse to erase any of them, I have so many on my phone that I'm running out of memory!

Even though he exudes calm and quietness, I've always found spending him with Dad to be an adventure. He's funny in an unpredictable way, and taught me to take chances that I never thought I could take. So I'm glad to have Dad as my father, and was glad to talk to him on the phone today (and text him!).

I wrote this piece my senior year of college for a Writing for Magazines assignment, but I still like it. It covers a lot of the same stuff, but put it in context of what I was going through in college as well.

“Daddy, flip me again!” I yelled, struggling to be heard above the other screaming children in the pool.

When I swam back to him, I slowly treaded water because I couldn’t quite touch the bottom. I looked up and saw his face, strong and kind. His brown, thinning hair slicked back against his head. His large hands on top of the water, ready to pick me back up. He seemed like the tallest person in the world.

“Please?” I asked, my smiling face shining with water.

“Okay, but this is the last time. Then we can go in the diving pool!” he said, grinning.

He plucked my small body from the water and hoisted me up onto his shoulders. I adjusted myself in the appropriate position – legs over his shoulders, leaning backwards – and waited.

“Ready?” he said. He bent his knees until we were low, near the surface of the water.

“I’m ready!” I yelled, closing my eyes.

“Here we go!” he said, standing up while pushing my feet up with his hands.

I was flying! For a second, I was free of gravity. I was spinning, spiraling through the air. Splash!

Doing a somersault, I felt the cool water run over my body. I swam over to the shallow end of the pool, and did a carefully choreographed series of handstands and cartwheels. One-two-three-four, over and over and over again.

I stood up, dizzy, flinging my hands over my head in victory. “Did you see that?” I asked him, my eyes bright.

“It was great,” he replied. “Now let’s see how you do on the diving board!”

The town pool always belonged to Dad and I. In the summer, we went nearly every day. Returning home wet and happy, we regaled Mom with our adventures. Even when she occasionally came along, she was in the background, on the sidelines. The spotlight was on Dad and I. In a household where Dad was a quiet man constantly surrounded by two talkative females, it was rare to have anything focused on him.

Over time, I became too big to flip and my love of swimming turned into a competitive urge. I joined the swim team in fifth grade, and we stopped going to the town pool.

However, by that point, Dad and I shared different moments. We chatted when he drove me to school and swim practice. In the winter, we went skiing together and talking during those long rides up the chairlift. Whenever we were in a triple with another skier, he would comment on the weather and ask the person if they had been to the top yet. He was so perpetually friendly to strangers that I would tease him, singing, “Won’t you be my neighbor?”

Now that I am in college, I don’t spend a lot of time with my parents. But Dad and I still make opportunities to talk together. Whenever he is near Ithaca for work, he will stop by and take me out to dinner. At times, a meal with him has been a saving grace.

On my 21st birthday, I woke up with a pounding sinus headache. Throughout the day, the headache continued, accompanied by chills and a sense of extreme fatigue. Between classes, I curled up on one of the worn chairs in a student lounge, put my jacket over my head and attempted to sleep. As I lay there, I remembered my dinner date with Dad that night, my only “birthday” plans. I decided to call him.

“I feel awful, Dad. I don’t know what happened – maybe I’m not getting enough sleep? Maybe we should cancel? I really don’t want to cancel though,” I said into my cell phone.

“You don’t sound good. Let’s not cancel right now. How about you call me back later and let me know how you feel, okay?” he said, in his quiet voice.

“Okay, that sounds good,” I said, in the most pathetic voice I could muster. “I love you.”

“I love you too. I hope you feel better and I’ll see you later. Bye,” he said.

“Bye,” I replied. I hung up the phone, and attempted to go back to sleep.

My symptoms subsided later in the day, and I decided not to cancel on him. Although I physically felt better by the afternoon, I was still miserable. No one had wished me a happy birthday, and none of my friends appeared to be planning anything. I was bogged down in work and the entire month seemed like a blur.

However, seeing Dad made me feel immediately better. I was still whiny, but I knew he would listen and love me no matter how much I complained.

We decided to go to Ruloff’s, a funky restaurant, for dinner. We were seated, and began looking at the diverse variety of junk pinned up on the walls.

“They have a lot of random crap, don’t they?” he said.

I laughed for the first time all day. He grinned. That’s my Dad, always lifting me up.

Inauguration Part III: The Ceremony and the Celebration

2009-04-04T12:36:51Z

Finally, after an eternity of waiting (6 hours), the actual Inaugural program began. We were close enough that we could tell there were people on the steps of the Capital. In fact, we could see the red sweaters of the children in the chorus. We could see even more through our binoculars – okay, we could see slightly larger people-shaped things. We were close enough to definitively feel that “we are here, part of this historic event!” and not just watching it on TV in a very cold living room. But in terms of seeing anything useful – not so much. Needless to say, we had to watch most of it on the Jumbotron.

It started with the Prelude by the Marine Band, which sounded like pretty much every Marine Band song I've ever heard. The songs by the San Francisco Boys and Girls' Choruses were nice though. Senator Dianne Feinstein opened the program with an introduction that served its purpose, but was unmemorable. Rev. Rick Warren then gave the Invocation, which was both theologically and socially/politically awkward. By choosing the pastor of Saddleback Church, which is a conservative, evangelical mega-church that is anti-gay marriage, some liberals, especially gay/lesbian activists complained that Barack Obama betrayed them. (I know Brent was really pissed.) Listening to Warren's speech, I could tell that he was trying so hard to be inclusive, while also mentioning Jesus as many times as possible. I've been in enough evangelical churches to know that any occasion for a major speech in front of “non-believers” – including weddings, funerals, any family gatherings whatsoever – require preaching about Jesus and an altar call if you can fit it in. So you could see he was fighting the urge to describe the Four Spiritual Laws (an overly-simplistic summary of the Gospel taught by Campus Crusade) or the “Bridge Metaphor.” On the other hand, he wanted to show the general public that evangelicals weren't scary or prejudiced or narrow-minded. So he used a lot of “inclusive” language (“God loves everyone” and “Let's love one another”), all of which was true, but not very moving. And then once in a while, something extremely evangelical-Christian slipped through. Like saying the Lord's prayer at the end, which in words alone can apply to Judaism, but which is obviously so, very very Christian. Overall, it just made for a mildly lame, weird, mostly inoffensive but ineffective sermon.

But then – the performance that followed made everyone forget Rick Warren's boring-as-hellness. Aretha. Aretha Franklin. Absolutely fantastic. You could tell that she was so thrilled and passionate to be singing at the first black President's inauguration. She had this crazy, wonderful hat on, with this gigantic, bejeweled bow. As the rest of her outfit was plain gray, it highlighted her awesome presence. She sang “My Country Tis of Thee” with such joy, warmth, and enthusiasm you could feel it in every word, every chord. Then, the Vice Presidential Oath of Office, which was pretty much uneventful. Joe Biden is Joe Biden, and as long as he doesn't say anything, it's going to be uneventful.

The next musical selection consisted of the Greatest Chamber Orchestra of All Time – Yo-Yo Ma (oooh), Itzhak Perlman (oooh), Gabriela Montero (who? well, I'm sure he's good) and Anthony McGill (ditto). They played a lovely, lovely version of the classic Shaker tune Simple Gifts. It was brilliant because it had so many levels while being so simple at the same time. For one, the wonderful lyrical theme of the song ('Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, / 'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be ....) was perfect for the occasion. For what is more American than the appreciation for freedom? On the other hand, the song is incredibly easy – it's the first song you learn in seventh grade band. But they turned it into this beautiful, complex song with lots of layers, without losing that ideal simplicity. It was disappointing to find out they weren't actually playing that day – just playing to a recording – but it was lovely nonetheless.

Then, there was what we were all waiting for - the Presidential Oath of Office. The time that would mark a new era in politics, or at least a new era in American history, depending on your political leanings. (Even if you think Obama is just another politician, I don't think anyone can say that the first African-American American president being sworn in is not a Big Deal.) With baited breath, we waited and watched. We felt proud for being an American, here at this moment and waved our flags enthusiastically. We cheered, happy to know that our country had reached a major milestone. But at the end, we tilted our head sideways and thought, "What just happened? They botched it up!" How do you botch up the Presidential Oath of Office? Honestly, I don't think it's entirely Justice Roberts' fault. At first, I really thought it was all now-President Obama's fault, in fact. But I know I would have been confused as well if I had memorized it one way and someone else said it a different way right before me. It wasn't a big deal in the end, but it was kind of ridiculous in its level of importance and silliness of mistake.

The inaugural address was next, which I was looking forward to. I found so many of President Obama's previous speeches to be inspiring and memorable, and hoped this would be the same. Overall, I liked it very, very much. I wouldn't say it was the most inspiring or the eloquent speech ever, but it was both of those things in a measure that was appropriate and right. I know conservative commentators thought there weren't any particularly memorable phrases ("Do not ask what your country can do for you...") but I thought there were a few, and I wasn't sure that was what we needed as a people right then. What we needed was a speech that was inspiring and honest, and I think it was both of those things. At least, he rivteed me with his speech. Almost everything - even my cold feet - seemed to matter a lot less now that he was finally speaking.

From the very beginning, I liked that President Obama said was that he was humbled to be there. Although Obama doesn't always seem humble, he always seems grateful that people put trust in him, which Bush never did. And I don't know if it is an inaugural tradition or not, but thanking Bush for his service to the country was classy. Most of all, I like how Obama emphasized over and over how it's the spirit of the American people that drive the greatness of this country. Throughout Bush's administration, it seemed like the people were ignored or put-down by both parties. I think so many people liked and believed in Obama because of his trust in the American citizens to work hard and do the right thing. People like being respected and appreciated. And they like a leader who asks responsibility of them, which has always been a stumbling block for liberals. I thought this sentence summarized both of these ideas well: "At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents. So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans." I also liked that he told it like it is - that things are tough and they are only going to get tougher. (And as we've seen, it was a accurate assessment.) But despite the doom and gloom, he still managed to maintain a tone of hope. I particularly liked how he dually expressed confidence in our ability as a country to get through the toughest times, but also the cold reality that we can only it by all of us doing better than we have recently. I also liked these lines: "Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America. For everywhere we look, there is work to be done." Indeed, there is. Also, he did something that few politicians can do without sounding contrived - he acknowledged and celebrated our diversity and the strength that we draw from it. He mentioned the immigrants from Europe and the slaves alike who came to America, and even managed to talk about religion without forgetting atheists.

In terms of specific subjects mentioned, I certainly cheered loudly when he said "we will restore science to its rightful place," to expand alternative fuels and energy, and tackle climate change. But I also liked that he touched on the need for stronger regulations in banking, the importance of civil rights even in times of conflict (or as I said to Papa Shea, "I don't want my country's policy to be based on fear!"), and the necessity of building better relationships with countries around the world. These issues are all near and dear to my heart, as they all relate to some area I am passionate about, whether social justice, the First Amendment, or peace. In terms of the latter subject, this was a great line: "Our security emanates from the justness of our cause; the force of our example; the tempering qualities of humility and restraint."

Lastly, I liked how he tied our current "winter" to the original winter crisis in our country's founding - Valley Forge. Often, it's good to remember what has come before us, so we can move ahead. I think Obama knows that too - and not just in speechwriting - and I'm glad that he's willing to learn from the past. I think that willingness to learn is the hallmark of a great leader.

And then it was over. Only not really. You see, the ceremony was still going on, but the important part - the Presidential part - was over. So everyone started leaving the Mall en masse. I tried to convince Mama Shea and Melissa to stick around for just a few more minutes, to listen to Elizabeth Alexander recite her poem. Listening to the poem, I liked it. I liked the imagery, the focus on the common people that Obama spoke about, the hard work of those in the past inspiring us now. It was a poem of hope, a hope held in many people's hearts that early afternoon. As she said: "In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, / any thing can be made, any sentence begun. / On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp, / praise song for walking forward in that light." Praise, indeed. Unfortunately, she wasn't the best person to deliver it. Many poets seem to have this problem, which is ironic, because poetry is written to be read aloud. But although she wasn't the most engaging, I enjoyed it anyway, allowing the words to wash over me without comprehending (or really hearing) all of them.

The last thing we heard was the benediction, which I heard after-the-fact was far better than Warren's speech. Unfortunately, everyone, including myself, had abandoned any thought of standing one second longer out in the cold and were in the process of leaving the Mall. I heard snippets of it, but it just seemed to go on and on, as disconnected words. Anything that could possibly be standing between me and warmth was clearly not important any more. Instead, we scrambled up walls, hustled along the sidewalk, and even trampled through the Air and Space's garden. I stepped on a tree and walked over a bush. I felt really bad, but there were a very limited number of exits. The whole thing was planned so poorly, that I didn't feel too, too guilty for my minor squishing of public property.

We finally got inside the Air and Space Museum, and somewhere along the way, I lost track of Mama Shea and Melissa. They got swallowed up into the crowd ahead of me. However, I knew we were all meeting at the McDonalds there, and headed in that direction. As the place was absolutely packed, it was unsurprising that I couldn't find them. So I sat outside the restaurant, looking for Chris. In the meantime, I went through the awkward process of checking to see how my feet were doing without being gross about it. Because when my feet get cold, they go beyond just getting cold. They get cold, and then they turn white and go numb. It's not frostbite, but it's a definite lack of bloodflow. Because of the frigid temperatures and the endless standing around, I was quite worried. I had prepared that morning with lots of layers and footwarmers, but my feet still felt rather lifeless. Thankfully, in taking my shoes and socks as unobtrusively as possible, I found that my feet were only a little white and still had some feeling in them. It was quite a relief.

Eventually, after calling Chris about 15 times and wandering around the extremely crowded McDonalds, we all found each other. I found Mama Shea first, then Melissa returned, and then Chris finally showed up. He said he barely made it in before they closed the museum. Bizarrely, although she stood in line and ordered from the counter, Mama Shea only bought 2 sodas and no food. Chris's response, delivered in a sad, disappointed voice was, "That's it?" Mama Shea replied, "But I have sandwiches in my pouch!" But as the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches had been in her jacket pocket for many hours, and were both squished and cold, they weren't exactly appealing. On the other hand, none of us were willing to get back in line. So I drank some water, Chris mooched soda, and we all warmed up to the point where the thought of going back outside wasn't completely horrifying.

We walked back, the same way we came. We were slightly less lost this time, rather colder, and definitely more tired. It was like finishing a athletic event or the end of a grand party you organized. There was exhaustion and a bit of relief it was over, but a remaining sense of buoyancy, of light and lingering excitement.

Besides, the day wasn't entirely over for us – we still had a party to go to! I had bought tickets to the party thrown by DC for Obama, the group that organized the canvassing. Unfortunately, unlike the post-election party, I didn't know if anyone I knew was going to be there. (As it turned out, there wasn't.) All of our poker people were going to the Lawyers for Obama party at a different bar down the street. But $30 a person for unlimited drinks sounded pretty reasonable, especially considering that tickets for some of the balls were hundreds of dollars. I would have loved to go to the DC Neighborhood Ball - one of the official ones that Obama was guaranteed to make an appearance, with tickets for only $25! – but it was only open to DC residents.

Once we arrived home, we sat around for a while, and then got dressed in our party best. I wore the dress from my wedding rehearsal dinner, an Asian-style fitted black and white number. I was concerned that it no longer fit, but Chris reassured me that it actually did look good. I don't ever completely believe him, but I was convinced enough to go ahead with wearing it.

Although a bit bundled up in coats and scarves, the walk from home to the Metro and from the Metro to the bar was really cold. I never did understand how girls in college wore tiny little skirts and low-cut shirts in the Ithaca winter. It was a relief to reach the bar, which although not warm, was a vast improvement. We had been to the same bar for the post-election party, and it was a pretty classy place. Lots of leather couches and blue-colored lights - the sort of place that just feels “cool.” On top of that, this time we were in the “VIP” section upstairs. However, we soon found out that it wasn't all that much more exciting. All it meant was that we had unlimited booze and even that was only basic liquor rail drinks. Which meant that I couldn't have my trademark drink – orange juice and Malibu rum. They only had regular rum, which has the twice the alcohol and twice the alcohol-flavor. Alas. So I ordered an orange juice and rum, and went back to the couch on the edge of the room that we had staked out. As we got there shortly after the party started, it was really quiet for the first hour or so. We sat around, talked about the inauguration and other things, drank, and ate. One of the advantages of coming early is that when they come around with hand-passed hors d'oeuvres, you get first dibs. We ate a lot of finger food, most of it surprisingly good. Eventually, the party did pick up, and soon the dance floor was crowded. As both Chris and I love to dance, we soon joined them. We danced to Spanish songs about Obama (da da da, Obama!), we danced to hip-hop songs about Obama (boom, boom, boom, Obama!), we danced to just plain old rock. Mama Shea and Melissa joined us on the floor at various times, all of us switching off so at least one person was protecting the purses on the couch. I find dancing in heels exhausting, but it didn't matter – we were dancing! We were dancing and we were having fun and it was a wonderful day and a wonderful night.

But eventually, the magic wore off and we were back to being tired and sore and cold. And the rum combined with the orange juice was making me rather nauseous. The party was dying down anyway, and I had to go to work the next morning. I would have taken the next day off, like Chris, but I had required training for my program that I had signed up for months in advance. (Although I couldn't complain too much, because both Martin Luther King Day and Inauguration Day were national holidays, so I got them off for free.) We sighed, gathered up our things, and headed back out into the cold night. We had originally contemplated stopping at Ben's Chili Bowl, a legendary DC landmark that Obama had eaten at earlier in the month, but ditched that idea soon enough. It was late, and definitively time to go home. Once there, I stripped off my clothing, put on my pajamas and collapsed into bed. It had been a long day.

To quote Melissa: “It was wonderful, but I would never, ever do it again.” I don't think I was quite as miserable as her, but it certainly was a very intense experience. But needless to say, I was very glad I did it. There was something uplifting and quite honestly, historical, about being there. And having our level of dedication and determination just involved us all the more, made us feel that we participated in something grand. That we didn't just watch but that we were truly Part of Something Big. Because we were. Never again was the nation going to experience this first. It transcended politics. And that's why I was glad I was there. Yes, I supported Obama because I agreed with his policies. I was certainly glad he won, and believed – and still believed – that it was a significant change for the better for the United States. But here, this occasion, the United States proved that racism may not be fully overcome, but that we could look past the color of someone's skin enough to judge them on their ideas, their words, and their actions and in that examination, see a President. And that, more than anything else that I have ever experienced, made me proud to be an American.

Inauguration Part II: The Morning

2009-04-02T00:11:54Z

Inauguration morning, I woke up at 3:45 AM. The Metro was scheduled to open at 4 AM, and we wanted to be on one of the first trains going into DC. Melissa and Mama Shea, bless their souls, got up even earlier than I did. As we had all showered the night before, most of our time getting ready was dedicated to dressing very, very warmly. I had five layers on top – a pink fleece long-underwear top, long-sleeved bicycling shirt, fleece jacket, my peacoat, and the outside of my ski jacket on top of it all. Then, three layers on the bottom, including the fleece long-underwear. Over all of that, a hat, gloves and mittens, bicycle socks, fleece socks, and most importantly, my official Obama scarf, complete with campaign logo.

We got to the Metro station about 4:10 AM. It wasn't near full, but there were definitely a number of people on it already. All looking extraordinarily bundled up. As we anticipated it would be impossible to actually change trains at Metro Center, we got off at Judiciary Square instead and walked to the Mall. Except that instead of walking straight towards the Capitol, we had to detour all the way around it because of security. Thankfully, they shut down one of the highways through the city, allowing pedestrians to walk through the tunnel under the Capitol. From the Metro station, we followed the loose group of people, twisting and turning, until reaching the tunnel. There, it became a mass of people, a river of excited humans, all walking towards one location. It was bizarre walking through the tunnel, with the only vehicle being the occasional police car. I kept walking backwards, taking photos of people, and then running to catch up with Melissa and Mama Shea. Even when we emerged, it was still terribly dark out, and the number of people only continued to grow. We got pretty confused for a bit as to which direction we should take to the Mall – we seemed to disagree with the rest of the crowd. At one point, we were walking down a pretty abandoned street, which was a little creepy.

But we did eventually get there, around 5:30 AM. Once we were there, it was even more ridiculous. There was a huge crowd of people crowded near what was supposed to be one of the few entrances, but the police wouldn't let us in. People kept yelling, trying to find out what was going on. Without really answering anyone's questions, the police kept telling people that only those whose group was already inside could come in, but who was already inside by 5:30 AM? After being yelled at for 10 minutes, we continued on down the Mall. Eventually, we came to a point where people were cutting through the Hirschorn Museum's garden, even though it was obvious we weren't supposed to. But it wasn't officially closed, so through we went. I tried desperately not to trample any plants, but I think I stepped on a few by mistake. Once we reached the actual Mall, we actually ran towards the Capitol, in hopes of getting a good spot. Mama Shea was rather slower than Melissa and I, but we always made sure to check behind us and make sure she was still there. Most of the section was empty so far, and once we actually reached people, we started weaving our way through the crowd. Eventually, we reached a point where the crowd was pretty dense and we were satisfied with how close we were.

And then, we waited. It was still very dark, and we knew it would be for a very long while. The TVs were up and ready, but nothing was showing on them. So we took some photos, and chatted to the people behind us. There were a couple of college students from McGill (one was Canadian, one American), and a bunch of kids around our age from California. They were very kind, and offered to share their cardboard with us, if we shared our space with them. As we wanted to sit down, and cardboard was better than the hard, cold, frozen ground, we readily took their offer. The people in front of us weren't quite as social. The couple in front of us had a blanket, but the guy was sleeping on his back on it for probably about an hour after we got there. It was a little odd.

The whole area was like one big, weird, cold party. To add to the party atmosphere, the Boy Scouts were handing out flags, so everyone was very patriotic. And waving the flags gave us something to do. Everyone huddled together a bit, some talking, some just chattering. For a very long time, I was warm, sweating from being in so many layers on the heated Metro, and then hiking quickly to the Mall. But standing and sitting in the bitter cold, I gradually got colder and colder, wondering when the sun would rise. Thankfully, it rose over the Capitol in a beautiful pink and purple sunrise about two hours after we arrived. It didn't warm up right away – I don't know if the temperature ever actually rose during the day – but it was a sign of hope, at least. Even this early in the day, hope for warmth was starting to seem important than political hope.

After a certain point, Mama Shea, Melissa and I started rotating out to go take walks around the Mall. They went to the bathroom, but discouraged by the thought of the Port-a-Potties, I just wandered around. I found people doing the “Cha Cha Slide” and joined in for a bit. I spotted army cadets talking to enthusiastic inauguration-goers, and took a photo of them at relaxed attention. I peeked inside a white plastic tent and saw people were shivering together inside, having no source of warmth other than each other. I thought about joining a giant group surrounding a television camera on a moving arm, taking video for some news channel, but decided against it. The day before, we hung out in front of the CNBC booth, but failed to be there when the “crowd” camera was actually on. We saw a couple of the CNBC anchors though. Also, by this point in on Inauguration morning, the giant Jumbotron TVs had started playing the concert from Sunday afternoon. People were grooving to the music, and one was so joyous I had to take a photo of her. I couldn't help but smile, even though I couldn't really feel my feet any more.

Around 7:30 AM, I received a call from Chris. He had called me at 6:15, to tell me he had arrived at work, but no one was there. Which was quite surprising, because his boss told Chris he was supposed to be there that morning. Almost everyone else was serving at an inauguration party on Pennsylvania Ave. that they had to be there at 3 AM because of the security issues. At the time, I told him to wait until 7 AM and leave if no one showed up. Chris's second call was to tell me that he had been hanging out at the coffeeshop across the street until his head chef showed up, at which point his head chef told him he didn't need to be there. Because didn't Jeff tell him he didn't need to be there? No, he didn't. Clearly. So I told Chris to come down to the Mall and meet us there. After taking a cab as far as he could – to Chinatown – he walked the same way we did. Around 9:30 AM, he called me a third time, babbling a bit. Trying to figure out what he was talking about, I left our spot again to search him out. By the time I figured out where he was, I also understood his problem. Our section was absolutely closed to people coming in. Chris was standing at a gate at the end of our section, which was open, but guarded by a couple of very zealous policemen. I went up to Chris, and talked to him through the chain link fence. I even handed him our extra mittens, as he didn't have anything on his hands. (He was at least able to pick up a hat from an Obama vendor on the way over.) It was like some bad Holocaust movie. And like one of those movies, no matter how much I pleaded with the guard, he was not going to budge. I made the “can you please let him in?” question, “but he's my husband!” plea, the “we planned well and him being here late was an accident!” but none of them worked. No sympathy at all. So I went back to Chris, talking through the gate. He informed me that apparently he wasn't the only one kept out of our section – he had seen a very annoyed Samuel L. Jackson in the next section down! His handler was obviously in big, big trouble. After talking to me, Chris walked all the way back to the Washington Monument to watch the event from high on the hill. Afterwards, he said it was actually pretty crowded back there, as everyone was gathered around the Jumbotron.

From then on, we didn't do much else except watch the TVs. They showed the rest of the concert from the day before – This Land is Your Land was gloriously hippie-hopeful. I sung along to the song, and sang especially loudly when Pete Seeger sang the really activist verses about the Freedom Highway and private property. Then they started showing the various dignitaries and politicians coming in. At least it was more interesting than what they had on before, which were a series of tips for staying warm. It was a bit useless, considering that we couldn't leave, for fear of not being allowed back in, and were told previously that we couldn't bring in thermoses anyway. But watching the “important people” was rather fun. I tried to take a lot of photos of the Jumbotron, over people's heads, and had limited success. Some came out clearly, some came out with completely different people in them than I expected, and some came out with some level of thematic significance (lots of waving flags). Hillary and Bill got cheers, as did Colin Powell. (Is there anyone who doesn't like Colin Powell?) I personally cheered for Al Gore. Not surprisingly, Bush got heckled when he appeared on screen (“Na na na na, hey, hey goodbye...”) and Cheney got really booed. Most of it was in pretty good nature, although one lady behind me definitely bothered me. She had a little kid – probably no more than 5 – and I could totally respect her wanting her kid to participate in this historic moment. But when Bush and Cheney were on screen, she made the nastiest, most self-righteous remarks one could possibly make to a 5-year old about political issues. She said things like, “Look at him, honey. He's a bad, bad man. He should die.” Even if you disagree with someone, even on something so horrible as a war, you should never, ever tell a five-year-old someone should die. I held my tongue, but it made me angry that a political movement that I love because it is essentially grounded in the hope of a better future should have so much bitterness and lack of forgiveness. But I think that's true of any political movement – they all are subject to that. Besides the essential “Jesus loves everyone” idea, that is why we need to love those we disagree with – sometimes, they are right! That's why I didn't boo, even in a half-hearted way. I campaigned for Obama because I wanted to move beyond this nonsense. I wanted to build a better future, with better politics.

Inauguration Part I: The Lead-Up

2009-03-21T05:12:51Z

For me, President Obama’s inauguration practically started on Election Day. It was so thrilling to see that what I did actually made a difference that I was eager with anticipation. In addition, since I was way too tired on Election Day to celebrate in DC, I was looking forward to a good party on Inauguration Day.

And I knew we were going to have people to celebrate it with. Mama Shea and Melissa had planned on coming to the inauguration way before Election Day – pretty much since we moved here. Melissa said that she would refuse to come if McCain won, but clearly, that ended up not being a problem.

Friday

On the Friday before the inauguration, we met them at the airport, first Melissa and then Mama Shea. As Mama Shea’s flight was delayed by weather, we ended up going straight home, instead of into Baltimore or Bethesda. We made up mixed drinks (of course) and hung out until it was time to go to bed. Melissa had seen the apartment before, but Mama Shea was quite impressed by our setup. It’s always nice when someone confirms your domestic abilities, especially because I always feel deficient in that area.

Hearing of the hoards of people descending on DC for the inauguration, I determined that we would not be frequenting any of the traditional tourist stops. And sadly, the weather was too cold to wander around in any of the fun shopping areas. So I picked a couple of art museums, and hoped for the best. Our first stop was the Phillips Collection, which pleasantly surprised us. For one, the museum was half-price for the inauguration. But more importantly, it happens to feature Melissa’s favorite painting of all time – Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. I knew the collection included Impressionist Art, but I was actually surprised at how prestigious it was for a rather small museum. Besides the Boating Party, it also included a painting I recognized by Picasso ( The Blue Room), works by Degas and Matisse, and several Van Goghs that I didn’t recognize, but I really enjoyed. One, The Road Menders, featuring a beautiful tree-lined street, evoked my memory of St. Giles St. in Oxford so strongly. The sturdy, yet ever-moving trees in front of the traditional Dutch houses, reminded me of walking to church along the street under the trees’ shade. Beyond those, the museum had some other fascinating exhibits: one on painters who engaged in social commentary, a searing series of paintings on the African-American migration from the south to the north and a temporary one on Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s (the crazy artists who put all of those flags up in Central Park) efforts to cover part of the Arkansas River in filmy cloth. Adding to the atmosphere of all of this art was the fact that it was housed in a beautiful old mansion but still organized in some sensible manner (unlike the “don’t touch my stuff or I’ll take away your money!” museums).

After standing around and staring at art for a couple of hours, we moved on to the National Portrait Gallery to stand around and look at more art for a couple more hours. But before we left Dupont Circle (one of the few beautiful historic districts in DC), we stopped at the Firehook Bakery. Grabbing one of the four tables in the little quaint-looking cafe, we noshed on sandwiches, fruit tarts, and hot soup before venturing back to the Metro. Once we were at the National Portrait Gallery, we decided to start with the portrait photography exhibit. I think Portrait photography, whether of famous or ordinary people, is fascinating. This exhibit mixed them both, from “normal” people staring the camera straight-on with dead honesty to Morrissey in concert hopping around the stage like a madman. I found myself staring at them, hoping to draw some kind of lesson or learn something concrete about humanity. From there, we wandered around, and happened upon what was then the newest addition to the collection – the iconic Shepard Farey painting of Obama. Honestly, I had no idea it was so big – it was far, far taller than us. The painting was so popular that there was a line to have people take their pictures with it! Being in Obama-mode the entire weekend, we patiently waited so that the curator could take our photo, even if it was just on Melissa’s cell phone. We sent the photo to Chris’s Aunt Pat and to Papa Shea. Aunt Pat was amused; Papa Shea was at best, apathetic.

From there, we moved on to an exhibition about Lincoln (random facts: he was enigmatic; he probably grew his beard to look older) and then the Presidential portrait gallery. The gallery has portraits of every President, which are made according to his wishes at the end of his term. Most are fairly realistic, except for Kennedy’s, which was almost impressionistic. The wide lines were blurred together, an apt representation of both Kennedy’s dynamic presence and our country’s vivid but conflicted vision of him. It really captured his character and legacy in a way that most of the other Presidential portraits didn’t. Although Norman Rockwell apparently painted Nixon as more attractive than he was in real life, the most controversial portrait they had was the most recent: George W. Bush. We spoke to one of the curator/guides about it, and she looked thrilled that someone cared. She told us that Bush actually had a talented friend from Yale paint the portrait for him. He’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, with that famous half-smile that says, “Sit down and have a beer with me.” Apparently, some people were slightly offended by the friendly tone of the painting, but more were disconcerted by the plaque hanging next to it. It downplayed America’s violent adventures in foreign affairs, and mentioned the economic downturn but didn’t pin blame at all on Bush’s decisions. Despite the current view of Bush, I can understand the writer’s hesitation to have a judgmental commentary. This was going to be a document accompanying the painting pretty much forever. And the others certainly highlighted their subjects’ high points and ignored the low points – Nixon’s barely mentioned Watergate and scandals of others were largely glossed over.

But despite the controversy, George W. was not the star of the exhibit that day. While I was talking to the curator, I saw a bunch of people whispering and pointing at a crazy-haired gentleman with his back to us on the other side of the rather small room. I leaned over to the curator, and said, “Who is that?” She said, rather excitedly, “It’s Bon Jovi – he has a private tour arranged!” To which I looked over, and stared and gaped for a moment. And then nudged Chris, who was standing next to me, and whispered “It's Bon Jovi!” As if he didn't hear the curator himself. And wasn't already looking at him. After tracking down Melissa, I found out that she had already seen him, and had actually been sort of following him around for the past few minutes. Apparently, she got close enough to touch him – although she didn't actually touch him, of course. Needless to say, it was very weird. The closest I've randomly gotten to a celebrity before this was that I once saw Ricki Lake in the Times Square Toys R Us. But she wasn't that popular by then, and she was always sort of ridiculous anyway. No one ever worshiped her. But there are people who totally worship Bon Jovi. I don't – I really dislike most of his songs – but that aura surrounds him. The “It's Bon Jovi! Wow...” aura. It pretty much made the entire room stop and stare, and then pretend like they didn't just stare. Because that would be rude. It was such a D.C. reaction in its celebrity-gawking reaction but complete denial of that reaction. Not that Bon Jovi seemed all that exciting in person. In fact, nothing particularly screamed rock star except for his hair. Which is, actually, even outside of concerts, completely ridiculous. I have no idea how he manages to look like he's just walked in front of a giant fan at all times.

We saw a few more exhibits in the museum, including an incredible painting of an imagined, untouched West, and moved along. We had dinner reservations at Aria (a restaurant), followed by tickets to see the Capital Steps. As we knew Melissa and Mama Shea were coming for the Inauguration, we bought them tickets as soon as they went on sale, figuring the political parody group would be perfect to see that weekend. We picked Aria to eat at because when we went there with my parents, the food was pretty good, and more importantly, it was right next to the theater. Unfortunately, the theater menu was the only thing available this night, and the choices were far less interesting than on the regular menu. My dish was pretty good, but everyone else was rather disappointed with theirs. To make up for it, we drank a lot of wine, leaving me rather tipsy. Wine really affects my balance, so when they decided they wanted to kill time by hanging out in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, I wasn't all that keen on it. Not wanting to be a drag, I went anyway. The Avenue was shut down for security reasons, to prepare for Tuesday, so we could actually see all the way down to the Capital and up to the White House without any traffic. We sat on the bleachers that were going to be prime seats just a few days from now, and chatted with tourists and DC residents alike. The entire weekend, everyone was so congenial and light-hearted that you couldn't help but smile despite the cold.

Capitol Steps was great though - almost as funny as when we saw them the first time. I say almost because about a third to half of the songs and sketches were the same as ones we saw when we went with my parents. However, considering that we saw them less than four months earlier, replacing about half of their material was pretty damn good. The new ones addressed current day issues, of course, including my favorite, "Help Us, Honda." Done to the tune of "Help Me, Rhonda" by the Beach Boys, it featured the Big Three Auto executives dancing around, singing for financial assistance from Honda, Congress or anyone else who could possibly give it to them. As my e-mail box for the past several weeks had been filled with news about the issue, I thought it was hilarious. It's actually up on the Capitol Steps' homepage, under February 9th: http://www.capsteps.com/.

After the show, we wandered back up Pennsylvania Ave. to check out the parade route some more. We walked behind the White House, where the special glassed-in viewing area for the President and the bleachers for the media were set up. The whole thing was a little surreal, as if we were getting behind the scenes at the Oscars. Although the weather didn't seem too bad at first, it felt increasingly worse the longer we were outside. Eventually, we were really hustling to get to the Metro stop because Mama Shea was extremely cold. Afraid that Chris and I didn't know where we were going, she started freaking out, in fact. It was awkward. And then once we reached the Metro stop, she refused to walk down the escalator. I honestly don't know how she survived a childhood in New York City. Maybe Clifton Park has crept into her bones.

But despite the weather, it was a very good day. I had managed to pick attractions wisely, and everyone enjoyed them, for which I was very grateful. I like knowing I've been a good host.

Sunday

Unfortunately, Chris had to work on Sunday, so we went into Baltimore. Melissa's good friend from college, Jackie, lives there, and we planned on going to the Aquarium and then meeting Jackie for lunch. The Aquarium was a perfect place to visit because Chris had already been there with Drew, and despite my love of marine animals, I hadn't visited there yet. After some amount of frustration involving parking that involved me driving around in circles near the Inner Harbor and swearing to myself a bit, we finally made it to the Aquarium. My very first reaction was "Yikes, it's really expensive!" Which it is - $30 a person! And Mama Shea said that she wasn't paying for anything on this trip for us except for dinner the night before. But because we were going to be there a while, and wanted to see the whole thing (including the dolphin show and "4D immersion theater"), I paid up. Also, I wanted to get inside as soon as possible - the ticket booths are outside for some bizarre reason and it was pretty chilly out.

Fortunately, I knew as soon as I stepped inside that it was going to be worth it. As you walk through the doors, a huge waterfall is right in front of you, falling down into a pool with fish native to the Baltimore area. The waterfall splashes down realistic-looking (albeit fake) rocks, that surround native trees. From there, we turned right and entered the dreaded Tourist Zone. The Aquarium provided a coat check and lockers, but required you to buy tokens for them, which required cash in small bills. Thankfully, we had the small bills, but it was still a mess of confused visitors, most armed with strollers and/or small children in tow. The second floor was set up much more intuitively, thankfully. A huge set of teeth from an ancient shark welcomed us at the top of the stairs, and it seemed wrong not to get a picture posing inside of it. Luckily, it was set-up for just that, and the photographer was kind enough to take multiple photos with my camera, as well as the official Aquarium tourist camera.

As it was close to the time for the dolphin show, we headed straight over there. Chris had said he was unimpressed with it, but I thought it was fun. However, I did notice that they don't have the dolphins do some of the more "showy" tricks. I know places like Sea World have dolphins do them, but as some of them are pretty unnatural, I was glad the Aquarium refrained from that. I would have liked to see more of the dolphins actually doing things though, and fewer overdone video clips. I also missed a couple of impressive things because I was trying to take photos, which was disappointing. After the show, I went down to the tank with the little kids and their parents. I've always been fascinated by watching dolphins swim, observing their combination of strength and fluidity. While the little kids were placing their hands against the glass, I watched, smiling at the dolphins and the children who are so fascinated by them. I hope that some of them maintain that fascination after they grow up. I know I have. Part of it is knowing that they are so intelligent, and yet so very, very different from humans. Monkeys are smart, but we are very similar to them. But dolphins have evolved almost as much, if not past monkeys, but their entire way of seeing the world, from habitat to communication, is so vastly different. Yet they too are able to communicate with us, despite their divergent evolution. I think they are as close to intelligent aliens as we will make contact with, at least in my lifetime. And of course, they are simply inherently beautiful. As a child, I wanted to keep a dolphin when I grew up. My plan involved having a house on the cliffs of Cape Cod (yeah…my geography was a little off), where the dolphin could swim back and forth between the pool in the house and the ocean. Having that ability for the dolphin to be able to leave, if he or she wished to, was always key. I think I always understood that a dolphin could not be kept as a pet - they were just too smart and freedom-loving for that. But they could perhaps, be a companion, if they so chose to be. Deep down in my heart, I still want that, and that connection resonated through me while I stood at the glass, watching them swim.

But I did leave eventually, as Melissa and Mama Shea wanted to see something else besides dolphins. We went to the Immersive 4D Experience next, which was basically an "interactive" version of a section of David Attenborough's Planet Earth. I found the sprays of water and "scampering" insects a little distracting, and thought I would have much rather watched it normally. 4D just doesn't work for documentaries - it's too gimmicky. We then moved up to the main part of the Aquarium, which has the giant water tube running through the middle. In the opening section, we looked down on manta rays, serenely gliding through the water. Dolphins may be the closest we get to meeting intelligent aliens, but there are plenty of other ocean creatures that may not be very smart, but are certainly alien. Winding up a wide spiraling staircase, we came to a section on Maryland's own ocean and bay ecology. Considering that I always love knowing about the ecology of the area I live in, and yet know little about Maryland's land and seascape, I was glad for the insight. Next up was an exhibit on adaptation, which I think was mainly an excuse to show a lot of neat, brightly-colored or oddly-camouflaged animals. Charismatic minor-fauna. I spent a lot of time trying to photograph a couple of specific fish, but animals that never stop moving are really hard to get good photos of. Especially when they're behind glass. But probably the coolest animal was the giant octopus, who was curled up against the window, looking like it was sleeping in preparation for world domination. We saw one at the National Zoo during her feeding time, but because she was pregnant, she was as squished into the corner of her tank as far as possible from the window. This one was being much more photogenic, with his tentacles splayed out against the glass. Some of my favorite birds - the puffins - were also kept at the Aquarium, cavorting about and swimming.

Then, there was the rainforest. I hope that one day, I can visit a real Amazonian rainforest (or even an Indonesian one....or Madagascarian...), but for now, I'll have to settle for constructed, indoor ones. Still, the ones that I've been to so far – in the National Botanic Garden (all plants), the National Zoo and now the National Aquarium – have all been exciting and awe-inspiring. In the National Zoo, we saw monkeys and in this one, I saw beautiful parrots up fantastically close. And a couple of nifty bats, albeit further away.

Thankfully, Mama Shea and Melissa were very patient with me. As I knew that we had a 2 o'clock lunch date, and I had seen all there was to see, I wrapped it up. Of course, we met Jackie at a seafood restaurant. Why do we always want to eat fish after seeing them? But as I chose lobster mac and cheese, I didn't feel bad. Lobsters will eat each other if they are allowed to; they're basically giant water cockroaches. Melissa got the same thing, and we were both disappointed, although Melissa far more than I was. Melissa doesn't like seafood, and we could tell she was trying so hard to find something she would like. But it just wasn't a good payoff. And honestly, I can say as a lover of both lobster and mac-and-cheese, it didn't do either particularly well. The lobster was rather fishy, and the mac-and-cheese was just off.

After lunch, we walked around the pier just a bit, and then drove back home to meet Chris. That night, he prepared a lovely dinner for us of lamb, as Melissa loves lamb. I don't even like lamb, and I thought it was great. It was just simply delicious. That is the sign of a true chef – the ability to make you love dishes with ingredients you don't like. And Chris has made meals for me that have done this several times.

Monday

Monday was my atonement for forgetting my camera on Saturday night.

We went into DC in the late morning, with the purpose of taking lots of photos of the pre-inauguration excitement and preparations. Melissa was so disappointed that we couldn't take any photos on Saturday that we promised her we'd take photos on Monday. But when I tried to take some photos, my camera wasn't working. I soon realized that when I changed out my memory card, I never put a new one back in. This resulted in a mad search throughout the city for a store that would sell camera memory cards. As we were along Pennsylvania Avenue, which has very few stores, this was both aimless and extremely frustrating for me (especially because I had to go to the bathroom). We would start in one direction, then go in another, and all the while, having my suggestions going completely ignored. Finally, we managed to find a CVS, where I could purchase a new card for about 30 dollars. We also stopped by the National Portrait Gallery for the restrooms. Everyone was happy.

With that emergency resolved, we set off to be tourists. Tourists on the level of being nearly Japanese in our love for the camera. Melissa really, really loves having and being in and taking photos. As a slightly more conservative photo-taker – a hold-over from when my camera could only store 70 photos, not 700 – it was tough for me to adjust. Plus, posing for photos has always been really hard for me. I'm a lot, lot better at it now than I ever used to be – I actually smile now! - but it's still not my default mode. But Melissa forced me to be. If I didn't take a lot of photos, she was going to take possession of my camera to take the photos herself. So along with my artistic photos of the Capitol and architecture, we also ended up with a lot of “Hey, look at us, we're in Washington DC!” photos. They actually ended up being really cute. We walked from Chinatown, towards the Mall, through a square with a zillion port-a-potties, past the National Archives, up Pennsylvania Avenue, and to the Capital. Along the way, we bought Obama gear – including two different pins that I managed to lose, one that day and one on inauguration day – and gawked at everything. It was nice to get photographs of us in front of the Capital with it all decorated, because there was no way we were getting anywhere that close the next day.

The general goodwill and enthusiasm continued, and was even stronger this day than it was during the days before. Everyone seemed so excited about the event, in a rather non-political way. The city – the country – knew the inauguration was historical in a good, important way, and was proud of it. Despite everything going on with the economy, people were hopeful. For a city known for cynicism and manipulation, kindness and friendliness were the currency of the day.

After wandering around in the cold for long enough, we hopped back on the Metro and went home. We could have attended the “Concert of a Lifetime” down on the other end of the Mall, but we decided one day sitting in the cold for hours on end was enough for one weekend. So we watched it on HBO instead. Much warmer, and it's not like the Lincoln Memorial has great acoustics anyway. And watching Malia Obama take five million photos like any normal 10 year old was both funny and very cute.

As we were getting up at 3:45 in the morning, we went to bed very early, about 9 PM. But before I did so, I made sure everything was in place for the next day, especially my camera memory card.

Adventures in DC Part III - Canvassing for the Team

2009-01-09T16:52:53Z

About a month and half before the election, the importance of it all struck me. I had never been involved with electoral politics – I never registered with a party in New York, and only did so in Maryland after I wasn't able to participate in the Democratic primary debacle. But despite my previous reluctance, I came to the realization that I should really Do Something in This Election. Considering my politics, it was obviously going to be for Obama. What I should do, I wasn't sure. But I signed up on Obama's site and waited. And when Gerri at my environmental group mentioned she was canvassing, I asked her for information too.

So through one of those sources – I'm not sure which one – I found myself standing outside of the Waterfront Metro station on three consecutive Sunday mornings in October. I had become a canvasser.

The first day was nerve-wracking. After meeting at the Metro station, we all piled into cars to drive 45 minutes to Manassas, Virginia. I drove with Eric, who was one of the main DC organizers, and Tim, his roommate. Arriving at the Manassas Obama headquarters, a cute little house covered in Obama signs and overflowing with volunteers, we listened to a short orientation. (Later on, we passed the McCain office, which was a boring storefront that no one was ever at. It was sort of pathetic.) The Manassas organizers walked us through our canvassing sheet, which involved asking people who they were voting for, saying thanks if it was McCain, giving them voting information if it was Obama, and offering policy information if they were still undecided. At this point in the election, we weren't trying to convince anyone to switch sides, so there weren't supposed to be any hard-core Republicans on our list. But as it was possible they slipped through, so we had to know what to do.

From there, we headed out to the suburbs. Our neighborhood for that day was a well-to-do development, with pretty, mostly-identical larger houses. It reminded me very much of home, actually. As I was quite nervous, I paired up with Eric, and did the first several houses with him. It was then that I realized the very long lists they gave us weren't as intimidating as they looked – most people weren't home. After about 5 or 6 houses, Eric told me to go off on my own, assuring me that I would be fine.

And I was. Although every time I rang the doorbell, I was half wishing someone was home to convince and I was half terrified of someone answering, it was pretty okay. Most people were polite, even the McCain supporters I happened upon by mistake. The number of polite/indifferent people was about evenly split between supporters of the two candidates. The only truly rude person I encountered over all 3 days of canvassing was one lady who announced to me that “I'm not voting!” and just about slammed the door in my face. I was rather surprised and confused at that one. But it was nothing like the angriness recounted to me by some canvassers that had worked on the campaign for several months. Instead, I had several very memorable positive encounters.

The first one was in the housing development on the first day. At first, it was obvious that the woman who answered the door didn't want to talk to me. She told me, in a slightly snippy way, that her husband (who was the one I was asking about) wasn't telling anyone who he was voting for. Like many other people I had spoken to, I smiled, thanked her, and wished her a good day. But just as I was starting to walk down her front stairs and she was about to close the door, she called out to me. “Why do you support him?” I turned around, and said, “He cares about and has good positions on two issues I care deeply about – climate change and poverty. I like his experience as a community organizer, because it meant he knows what it's like on the ground. A lot of politicians don't have that experience.” Still skeptical, but now definitely listening, she questioned, “Well, have you done any volunteer work, like in a soup kitchen, or given money to charities?” Of course, loving any chance given to talk about Maine, my eyes lit up and I started yakking away. I think she got more of a response than she expected. After listening a while about the glories of H.O.M.E., as well as my time in New York City, she said, “That's great that people like you and me do these things in our communities. But the President can't do anything about that.” Having put quite a bit of thought into these issues when I decided to canvass, I responded, “Of course, no politician can do the work on the ground. But they can create the framework that makes that work easier to do or have more impact. And that is very important. And I think Obama will create the best framework.” To this point, she nodded, and a look of understanding crossed her face. She smiled, far more friendly than before, and said, “Thanks. I hope you continue your community work.” I thanked her for listening, and wished her a good day. Although I know I didn't convince her – I'm sure she was a McCain supporter, or perhaps even indifferent – I do think that I bridged some gap. Whereas she was cold to me at first – just another spoiled liberal – we walked away with a greater mutual appreciation for each other. She knew that rather than depending on the government do everything, that I did care about my community and put time and effort into it. That we wanted many of the same things for our communities, although we may disagree on how they should get done. And I think in the long term, that understanding will be more worthwhile than five minutes of rattling off Obama's policy positions would be.

My second memorable experience was my second day of canvassing, with a lady who who wanted to support Obama – he had even been her senator when she lived in Illinois – but wasn't quite convinced. She said, “I like his ideas, but what has he done? I liked Jimmy Carter's ideas too.” Point taken. So I explained some of the bills he had passed, including an anti-nuclear proliferation one and an ethics reform one. I said that I couldn't remember them all off of the top of my head, but that if she checked out Obama's website, they were listed there. She listened patiently, accepted my literature, thanked me, and closed the door. Although not as feel-good as my other encounter, I liked that she wanted to know more about him before voting, instead of relying on slogans. She may not have had the time to look into it yet – I know I've waited until election day to look up the candidates – but democracy was important to her. Important enough to spend a few minutes of her day listening to a canvasser when she could have said, “No thank you,” and continued on. And I appreciated that. I know not everyone has the time to volunteer, but I do believe that everyone should make the time to inform themselves before voting.

Also, on that second day, I ran into a McCain canvasser. Awkward. She was a middle-aged, pleasant-looking, probably suburban, lady also holding a clipboard. As we had a few overlaps – people who had said they were undecided, I suppose – she pointed out what houses she had visited where people weren't home. After a brief-information sharing session, she said, “It's good that we're both doing our part for our country.” I nodded in agreement, wished her a good day, and walked in the opposite direction so I wouldn't have to run into her again. She was plenty nice, but it was just weird.

On my third day, I visited an apartment complex that was significantly less expensive than the wealthy housing development or the nice duplex communities that I visited on my first two ventures out. They were plain brick buildings, with the apartment doors opening onto the chilly air. My first several apartments belonged to elderly ladies, one of whom was quite friendly and voting for Obama already, another who declared she wasn't voting. But it was further on that I reached a lady who surprised me. She was a rather overweight, working-class, middle-aged woman, who looked like she was frequently very busy. She told me in an almost-lecturing way, “I'm an Obama supporter, even though I don't agree with him on everything.” I nodded, and then was pleasantly surprised to hear her say, “I'm a Republican, and I've always voted Republican, but I'm voting for him this time.” Smiling, I replied, “So is my mother-in-law! She said she'd rather vote for a real liberal than a fake conservative.” She nodded in agreement and said, “Yeah, he convinced me when I heard him say on some radio show that 'Not only do we have to clean up our cities, but people in them have to take responsibility for their neighborhoods.' I liked that he's telling people they have to take responsibility.” I said that I liked that about him too, and asked if she needed any information on voting. She laughed, and said, “No! I've been a poll judge for years, I know all about voting already!” Thrilled that she was already an active participant in democracy, I said, “That's great! I'm going to be a pollwatcher. It's so important that everything goes well and is organized on Election Day.” We talked a little while about our training and what we would be doing in our respective jobs. Eventually – as I didn't want to cut her off – I said that I had to continue on and left. But I was so glad to talk to her. First, that despite her party affiliation, she was willing to consider a candidate that shared many of her values and had good ideas, and secondly, that she was so dedicated to the idea of democracy. Being a poll judge requires a lot of training, and is kind of a pain. Especially this particular Election Day, with voter turnout expected to be exceptionally high.

The last memorable experience was later that same day, in that same complex. I knocked on the door – hardly anyone there had doorbells – and a short, Eastern European woman answered the door. I asked her who she was voting for, and she said, in a rather strong accent, “Oh, Obama. I didn't vote in the last election, and I really wished I had.” I offered information on where and when to vote, and she looked quite concerned. She said, “How do you vote? I've never done it before.” Then, seeming flustered that she hadn't asked already, she asked, “Do you want to come in? You must be tired. Is there anything I can get you?” Not wanting to turn down her very gracious offer, I came inside, but declined anything, even when she asked multiple times if I wanted anything to drink. Sitting on her couch, in her nicely-decorated apartment, I explained, “Most places use a touchscreen, where you touch the name of the candidate you want to vote for. I don't know exactly how your polling place does it, but they will explain it to you there.” She asked a few more questions, and I left her with information on her polling place, and a number to call if she wanted more assistance. And she was so grateful for this information that I felt incredibly honored to give it to her. She certainly treated me as an honored guest. Here she was, presumably an immigrant, so excited to vote in her adopted country. Again, it was democracy in action.

When I canvassed, I expected to find fulfillment in being part of the political, democratic process. To share policy ideas and information on how to vote. I figured that even if everyone slammed their doors in my faces, at least I tried. Unlike Bush's election and the Iraq War, I wouldn't regret not putting in my time and effort. But I never considered the possibility of encountering others (outside of my fellow canvassers) participating in this grand tradition with such interest and enthusiasm. From the very beginning – learning to vote – to the engaged citizen, to the protector of the very right to vote itself, I met people who not only cared about the future of our country, but put time and thought into their participation in that future. And being part of that bigger whole – seeing those people around me, even those I didn't agree with – was encouraging. As a result, regardless of how those particular citizens voted, my efforts were far from in vain. Because I think that I encouraged them too.

Although my personal insight grew each time I went out, the true weight of it all didn't hit me until Election Day itself. Lying on our couch, watching the returns come in, I cheered loudly when Virginia went blue. And finding out that many, many of those votes came from Manassas – far more Democratic votes than any other previous election – inspired a wide smile. Because the “Yes we can!” slogan turned into “Yes we did!” And it made me think that maybe this democracy thing actually does work.

Adventures in DC Part II (B?): Rockers, Hippies, and Activists

2009-01-06T03:02:18Z

The third and fourth celebrity interactions I had were completely intentional, ones that I had planned for several months. Unfortunately, they both fell during the last week of one of the busiest months I've had in a very long time. But that only reinforced their impact on me. It was Election Week, and we had tickets to two of the most political people I'm fans of, each in their unique way – Henry Rollins and Arlo Guthrie. I had been waiting to see both for a very long time, kept missing them when they were in town, and was not going to skip out just because I was a little tired.

We saw Henry Rollins the day before the election, although he didn't spend much time on it. The most “relevant” part of his talk was his explanation of how Sarah Palin had enough time to have five kids and be mayor, and then governor of Alaska. It was fantastically rude, but very funny. (“'Mommy, are our pancakes ready?' 'It'll be a minute, honey,' accompanied by appropriate hip-grinding action from Rollins. 'Mommy, why are these pancakes shaped funny?'”) Most of his act wasn't as obscene though – he left out the Sheryl Crow bit this time around. Besides the Sarah Palin bit, he talked about his reaction to the debates and the movie W, but then moved on to more personal stories, which I found far more entertaining anyway. Unfortunately, I think the political discussion actually squeezed out what sounded like a hilarious story – Thanksgiving with William Shatner. He briefly mentioned it and as a result, I spent the whole night waiting for him to come back to it, ending up disappointed. But his descriptions of his experiences in the movie business (especially his tendency to accept parts without asking for scripts and the potential for negative consequences – GoatF****er Number 9: No Goat Left Behind) and his travels were very good. In particular, I loved his story about traveling to Pakistan as an American, which he did just because the U.S. government warned travelers not to go there. The guard at the hotel gate tried his hardest not to let Rollins out, but when you're confronted by a built (albeit short) dude with a crew cut and a lot of tattoos who politely asks just to roam the city, what are you going to do? I also found Rollins' goal of just going up to people all over the world, sticking his hand out, and saying, “Hi, I'm Henry! What's your name? I'm glad to meet you!” delightful, especially because he delivered those lines with the sincerity of a sprightly 10-year-old. Despite his reputation as an angry ranter, I found him to be overwhelmingly optimistic. So much so that in the dark, I wrote down one of his quotes to post on my Facebook profile - “I want a blue, green Mardi Gras fun ball, orbiting through space.” Even in the middle of the political turmoil in Pakistan – Benazir Butto was assassinated in the middle of his visit – he still got out on the streets and talked to people, just to hear what they had to say. It was fascinating, because it's rare that someone travels – especially to the countries he visits – with the only intent to meet and listen to people. His experience mirrored mine in Ireland - people want to tell you their story, and rarely consider your affiliation, so long as you are willing to listen with an open mind. For all of his bluster, I think that's what separates Rollins from a stand-up comic – he embraces people in all of their glorious flawedness. He tells stories that say something about people, regardless of their humor content. His Shatner stories are funny not because Rollins is making fun of him, but because he genuinely likes the guy. Walking away from the show, I felt quite good about life.

Although much more on the hippy-dippy side end of things, the Arlo Guthrie concert left me with much of the same feeling. I was particularly looking forward to this concert because Arlo's music is a family institution for me. His Greatest Hits tape was a fixture in Dad's car and we listened to Alice's Restaurant every Thanksgiving while driving to New Jersey. Even when we forgot the tape, we always managed to find it playing on the New York City radio station at noon. This year, as we both lacked the tape and were too far from the City, we hurriedly downloaded it onto the iPod for our drive to Aunt Patty and Uncle Brian's house.

Stepping on stage, Arlo didn't look much different than he did on the cover of Alice's Restaurant – long hair, wiry body, but grayer and more weathered. The Archtypical Hippie himself. He began with a song I actually recognized - In My Darkest Hour. Not long after, he began telling stories, but they weren't necessarily about the meaning of the songs. Often, they were about how the songs affected him or others. For example, he recounted visiting Leadbelly's grave in New Orleans while doing a tour to benefit Hurricane Katrina survivors. He found the hard-living musician's grave surrounded by a fence, and remarked, “They've still got him in jail!” And so he opened the gate, stepped inside with his fellow musicians, and played a few songs in the presence of the legend.

Another story involved the Motorcycle Song (the Significance of the Pickle), a very stupid (but funny) song that varies in length from 1 to 7 minutes depending on the version. Sadly, he played the short version, but dedicated it to the protagonist of an absolutely ridiculous story about a guy who was cleaning his motorcycle in his living room. Arlo said he appreciated the story because he has rarely has an opportunity to ride his motorcycle, and loved when his wife brought it inside for him during the winter. So while this other guy is cleaning his cycle, the gas goes off and the cycle drives through the wall and into the street, with the guy on it. He returns to the house after being treated at the hospital, and goes to the bathroom, only to discover the danger of dumping gasoline-soaked rags in the toilet, as his wife did. Back to the hospital again – for ass-burns this time. Ouch. If anyone deserved such a dumb but good song dedicated to him, it was this guy.

Quite a few of the stories revolved around Arlo's father, folk legend Woodie Guthrie. The best part of the concert came during the end of the show, when he talked about recording his father's unrecorded songs. Near the end of his life, Woodie Guthrie checked himself into a mental health institution and never checked out. But even when he stopped being a professional musician, he continued to write lyrics, sometimes on tiny slips of paper. At some point, Arlo and his sister (also a professional musician) discovered these pieces of songs and began to write music for them. They released the first collection of this music this year, hoping to share his writing to the world. Arlo sang a couple of these (as well as recorded ones like This Land is Your Land – fantastic), but the most moving part of the night occurred during the encore. It was a simple song, with only 2 verses and a chorus. The theme of it was sharing the peace in our hearts with one another – embracing that peace and passing it on. The words were like a child's song, expressing a hopeful innocence. Arlo started off the song, and then taught it to the audience. Him singing, us repeating, until we were all singing, in a gloriously hippie love-fest Kumbaya moment. Despite my sometimes negative attitude, I am a true peace-and-love gal at heart, and that whole moment struck me right there. Everything seemed lighter, more beautiful, walking home.

The last “celebrity” encounter I had was also connected to my inner activist, but in a much more obvious manner. This time, I was actually at a political event - a climate change rally on Capitol Hill. Apropos to the subject, weather was definitely a pressing concern – it was so freaking cold! As I approached the rally, the roped down windmills were close to being blown over by the heavy wind. There was a huge quilt by 350.org (one of the organizing groups, working to promote the idea of limiting CO2 to 350 ppm in the atmosphere) and it would have been nice to wrap myself up in it. Brrr. Thankfully, there was a large enough group that the gathering blocked much of the wind.

A couple of local activists spoke, including the head of the Chesapeake Climate Action Network. And then Bill McKibbon was introduced. “Bill McKibbon – I didn't know he was going to be here! Cool!” I thought. I haven't read his most famous book – The End of Nature – but I did read The Age of Missing Information for my Environmental Communication class. A great book, it chronicled what he learned from 48 hours spent camping in the Adirondacks compared to 48 hours of every TV show shown during that time on a cable package. Cool idea, and insightfully pulled off. I also have a bit of a regional affinity – I think he lives in upstate New York. Although his speech was relatively short – under 10 minutes – he certainly got the crowd fired up. He talked a lot about alternative energy, and harnessing the power of the public to take advantage of the great opportunity we have with the next administration. “Now is the time to show them we care!” he said. As the speeches ran into each other in my mind, I don't remember many specifics, but I recall being really psyched up to make change. The energy in his speech, and the excitement he ignited in the crowd was so encouraging. As an activist, it's so easy to become negative and cynical. The problems are so big and the challenges so difficult and the solutions so dramatic that they seem impossible. But that's why I so value people like McKibbon. He points out problems, but then inspires people to act.

I think that's the key to being a great communicator – like all of the famous people I met or listened to in my time in DC so far. And that, ultimately, is what I want to be. I want my writing to not only point out problems but lead the way to solutions. To engage people and move them to action. I don't know in what form I will do that, but I look to Bill McKibbon and others for that continuing encouragement that it is possible.

Although the people I've seen have been famous (some more than others), each encounter I had with them was so much more than celebrity-spotting. All of them had an emotional impact on me because of the role they've played in my own life. In the same light, I look forward to my next anticipated spotting – the inauguration. Where I, with an estimated three million other people will welcome Barack Obama, who has inspired many, including myself.

Adventures in DC, Part II - Writers and Artists

2009-01-04T21:21:01Z

One of the fascinating things about living in a big city is that there is a plethora of famous people passing through. While living here, I've managed to either see or meet several of them. Bizarrely, contrary to expectation in this city, none of them have been politicians. While most of them I planned on seeing, a couple were completely coincidental!

The first, and one of the most anticipated, was Neil Gaiman. We went to the National Book Festival, a annual event on the Mall established by former librarian Laura Bush. Along with lots of book exhibits, like a life-sized Magic School Bus (which I would have toured if I had time), the festival features talks by some of the most prominent and well-known authors in every genre imaginable. Neil Gaiman was speaking in the Young Adult category, but they also had Salman Rushdie, Brad Meltzer, Laura Bush herself, Daniel Pinkerton, and Jan Brett among the dozens of speakers. Quite a lineup! I had wanted to see Jan Brett speak, but we arrived in the middle of her talk, and the children's area had security galore for Laura Bush's earlier speech. Instead, realizing that I would like to buy Gaiman's Graveyard Book for him to sign – although we had brought 1602 as well – I sprinted to the book tent, near the other end of the Mall. I dodged people and leaped over puddles, attempting to avoid the muddiest patches from the rain earlier that day. Reaching the tent, I grabbed a copy of the Graveyard Book – available there before it was released to stores – as well as Jan Brett's new book for Mom's classroom and got in the long, winding line. Chris caught up to me, and after listening to Brad Meltzer speak, wanted to buy his new book as well. Lots of books! By the time I reached the checkout, it was only two minutes before Neil Gaiman's speech was to begin. So began the sprint all the way back to the Young Adult tent, where I started.

Huffing and puffing, Chris and I reached it just in time to grab a space near the back. I had to stand on my tiptoes at times, but I was able to see the stage for the most part. In his lilting, but softened, British accent (he's lived in America a long time), Gaiman talked about his recent travels to China, his creative process, and how he came up with the idea for the Graveyard Book. The best story he told was about how he was visiting an obscure archaeological site in China, the only tourist there, and there was a vendor selling all sorts of ridiculous junk. Thinking that Gaiman wasn't going to buy the junk, the vendor pulled out a small box. Although he spoke little English, he indicated that this was the most prized and valuable of the goods he was selling. And so he opened it to show Gaiman – a human elbow. It most likely was something he scrounged from the archaeological dig, and was obviously not supposed to have. Of course, Gaiman turned it down, but he wondered, what was the history of that bone? How did the man end up with it, and what would bring you the point where you were selling human remains to tourists? The fact that his work is driven by these sort of questions, and result in such fantastical and yet human answers is why I love his writing. After a bit, he read a chapter from the Graveyard Book, where the main character, Bod, asks his friend (who happens to be a dead poet) for advice. The poet goes on and on, giving absurdly florid, useless advice. It was a very good passage to read, because it didn't require much explanation, didn't give much away, and was very funny. He finished the presentation with a question and answer session. I actually came up with a good question about the difficulties of switching between artistic forms (like novels/comics/movies), but despite my jumping up and down, didn't get called on.

Just as he finished, Chris and I sprinted back to the other end of the Mall to get in line for the signing. We knew that loads of people had probably been in line for at least an hour or so, but so much as I wanted Gaiman's autograph, I wanted to see him read more. As it turned out, we were the last ones in the first signing line. They cut off each line after 200 people, and there ended up being four lines in all! I knew he always makes an effort to sign each and every person's book – like the Manics, one of the reasons I like him so much is his deep appreciation for his fans – so I felt very, very sorry for him. Especially because through his blog, I knew he had broke his thumb only a few days earlier. As we stood, and stood, we (mostly I) talked to the people around us. In front of us were two interesting pairs of people. Two were middle-aged guys, one of whom was getting the book for his daughter, who adored Neil Gaiman. Sadly, he knew nothing about him. The other pair were two college students, one of whom was actually a published fantasy author. They were both huge Gaiman fans and the author one had actually hung out with him at a convention. They were both very nice, but the author guy seemed a little batty. He reminded me a little of Matt Kent, actually. Telling lots of crazy stories, some of which have to be true and others not are, but it's impossible to tell which are which. He said he had gotten absolutely no sleep in the last several days, and wandered away at one point to find a bar. For all of his wild and crazy attitude, one thing really cracked his “cooler than thou” bubble for me. He described how he was going to get soooo drunk for his birthday, and was going to go to Union Jack's in Bethesda. Except I know that bar – a goofy, inaccurate ripoff of a British pub – is incredibly not cool. Behind us, there stood a Book Festival volunteer marking the end of the line. She was around our age, and worked as a contractor for the National Security Administration compiling news documents about potential security threats. Bizarrely, while discussing our jobs, the guy next to us engaged us in a very ranty conversation about how nobody respects the government and public services and everyone thinks we do a crappy job, and how if they knew about young people like us maybe it would change their mind, yadda, yadda, yadda. Playing a bit of devil's advocate, I tried to defend the attitudes of the general public, but eventually gave up and just let him rant. After that weird little interlude, I talked to the volunteer again and found out that she also lived in Parkside! I got her e-mail, and keep meaning to e-mail her. I really am going to, because she was pretty cool.

Finally, after two hours of waiting in line, we got to Neil Gaiman's little booth. Chris and I approached, I with the Graveyard Book, he with 1602, to get signed. In my head, I went over and over what I was going to say to him. I didn't want it to be like when I met John Cleese, and couldn't say anything intelligent at all. He made some comment about my name, and I stuttered an answer and that was it. This time, I was determined to make my five seconds worthwhile. At the table, Gaiman's assistant stuck a sticky note on the book indicating who to make it out to, and then we were talking to Neil himself! He was exactly how I imagined him to be – happy to be talking to us, although a little tired from signing. He said he was happy to meet us, and I told him that I used the scripts in the back of 1602 to teach myself how to write my graphic novel. I figured it was something unique to say, and he would be happy to hear that it benefited other writers. He was, and said he was glad it could be of help. Chris didn't really say anything, unfortunately. As Gaiman talked to us, he sketched in our books – a gravestone in mine, and a very swirly signature in Chris's. We smiled, said thank you again, and stepped out of the way. As it turned out, fantasy author boy returned from the bar in time, and gave Gaiman a copy of his book “for Maddie” (Gaiman's daughter). His cool exterior melted away as soon as he saw Gaiman, and he was thrilled that Gaiman remembered him.

Our second celebrity encounter was entirely unplanned. At 2 PM on September 30, the Odyssey Day alternative fueled vehicles event, which I planned most of, had just ended. The entire time, from 7 AM until 2 PM, I had been running around like an idiot, trying to keep everything moving and everyone happy. Because I had worked so hard leading up to and on the day (even skipping lunch when everyone else went out!), Linda told me to take the rest of the day off! Then, she told Chris to take me out and “make sure she has a good time.” As I was starving, we went to the closest restaurant we could think of, Vie de France. Over lunch, Chris told me what he had done all day while I was running the show – hanging out at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. Lucky bastard. Although he didn't want to go back that day, he thought I might want to see a huge mural outside the museum. Schoolchildren around the world created them, and they were being displayed to celebrate the opening of a new ocean hall. As that sounded cool to me, we took a detour on our way back to the Metro Stop.

Reading the introductory panel for the mural, I realized its significance. The entire thing was Wyland's100th mural! Wyland is an artist, who has dedicated himself to painting giant – often life-size – murals of whales and other marine life. To communicate his conservation message to as large of an audience as possible, he paints them on the sides of large buildings around the world. In my travels around the U.S., I've seen Wyland paintings in Alaska, California, Maine, and Florida. As I've loved marine mammals since I was little, I naturally became a fan. I even have a coffee table book of his paintings. Although there are other artists who do similar work, I always liked his focus on conservation and public education. So when I saw this set of murals was the culmination of his life-long project, it piqued my interest even more.

The mural – actually a set of connected panels – was huge, running down much of the main section of the Mall. Wyland had painted the backgrounds and large creatures on each canvas. Then, the students filled the open water with any fish or marine creature they could imagine. I even saw Spongebob and friends! But there was a sincerity to them that you don't usually see in group projects done by older kids. They very much reminded me of the huge mural of marine life we did at Karigon to decorate the cafeteria. I have this distinct visual memory of sitting at the cafeteria tables that constituted our art room, with the materials up on the stage. Working so hard to get that whale just right. Singing along with the Billy Joel tape River of Dreams with Lynzie and Tom. It's one of my best – and clearest - memories of elementary school, in fact.

Finally, we came to the end of the mural – and made a fantastic discovery. There, standing on a ladder in front of the very last panel, on camera, Wyland was signing his name in the top-left corner of the painting! He mostly looked as I expected him to – like an older, obviously laid-back but still passionate hippie, with paint-splattered coveralls. Of course. What other kind of person would go around painting whales on buildings? From what we could tell, he was finishing the very last piece of the mural on camera for a Smithsonian television/video special. We, along with only a few other people, stood and watched him sign the piece. A few minutes later, he climbed off of the ladder and came to mingle. A little boy had something for him to sign, but there appeared to be few other fans. So I just stepped up to him and said, “Thank you for your work. You've been a great inspiration.” He nodded, said thanks, and then said something that baffled me briefly. I can't recall his words, but I realized he thought I was part of the Smithsonian crew! And at that moment, I deeply wished I was. Despite not having that professional connection, I was very glad to just be able to say thanks. Much like with Neil Gaiman, and last year with the Manic Street Preachers, I found just saying thank you in person to be a very powerful thing. I know they must hear it constantly, but I know if I were them, I would be so happy that my work had a positive impact on someone's life. Because in communication, that's what it's all about. Talking means nothing is nobody listens, or worse still, if they listen and are unaffected. I wanted Wyland to know that he had inspired and influenced me. His paintings reinforced my belief in conservation, and more importantly, they illustrated the importance of art and communication in the environmental movement. Which directly influenced my own career path. I only hope that one day, my writing can have the effect on people that his painting has. He's shown me that you have to think big – really big.

---- Because this post is so long, I'm going to post the second part shortly, so I don't completely clog up people's friends lists.

A season of festivities...

2009-01-01T17:59:46Z

Happy New Years everyone!

We had a very relaxed New Years Eve this year, especially compared to last year. Around 8:30, we met Josh, Greg A (and his date, May), Drew, and Dave at Suzie's, a little bar on Lark Street in Albany. We often go there because it's uncrowded, but we were quite surprised when we saw how very uncrowded it was - we were almost the only people there! After several drinks, lots of talking, and one very long game of darts, we moved over to Cafe Hollywood at 11 PM. Despite the fact that Hollywood is always packed, we were able to get a table downstairs. We think the 6 degree weather (with the wind chill significantly lower!) kept people away. I know every time we were outside, I was wondering why the hell we were there in-between body-shaking shivers. At midnight, the bar passed around little cups of champagne, and then gave our table a bottle to finish because there were so few people there. It was awful stuff. Shortly after midnight, Fitchett showed up at the bar. He - amazingly - arrived in Albany Airport at 11:50 and drove to Lark to be with us. Very classy. As we were hungry and nothing was going on at Hollywood, we ate some hot, greasy pizza at Dinos, and headed over to the Gregs' house. After sitting around for a while, watching TV and talking, who should show up but Greg B and Christine? (Greg B does live there, so not that surprising, but happy coincidence.) Then, we headed home. A lovely, laid-back evening in all.

In other holiday news, we had a very good Christmas and a weird Thanksgiving. We went to Aunt Linda and Uncle Rick's house for Thanksgiving, where we always went when I was a kid. But over the years, the attendance has dwindled to the point where it was just my parents, my aunt and uncle, Chris and myself. Then my uncle wouldn't come sit down at the table, because he was watching the National Anthem on TV for some bizarre reason. So all of the food was a little cold. And then their neighbors came over and in the middle of what I thought was a conversation about my job, this exchange occurred:
Me: Well, we will eventually run out of oil, so it is good to have some alternatives on hand.
Neighbor: More oil has been appearing though, so the earth must be producing more of it.
Chris: Sometimes oil seeps from cracks into wells that appear dry, so it looks like there's more oil there, even though more hasn't been produced.
Neighbor: Yes, but we've already pumped out more oil than the earth should have been able to produce over time.
Me: Over the course of millions of years, there's been so much organic matter, that there's been enough to produce that oil, even though it seems like a tremendous amount.
Neighbor: Well, that depends on how old you believe the earth is. And if you believe in carbon dating.
(Chris and I and my parents stare at the neighbors with a befuddled look on our faces.)
Chris: Well - (cut off by my punching him under the table and mouthing 'Shut up!')
Me (with an overly cheery smile): Different people do believe different things. How was your holiday?
It was the most bizarre transition I think I have ever experienced in a conversation. Normally, I would have jumped right in to a lively discussion, but not on Thanksgiving night with my aunt and uncle's neighbors. Mind you, I knew my aunt and uncle (mind-bogglingly) don't believe in evolution but I never expected that conversation to go there.

Christmas was much better though. We had an Italian extravaganza for Christmas Eve dinner at the Sheas', with their friends and my parents. We opened Christmas pajamas there, then went over to my parents, where we slept over. The next morning, we opened presents at my parents' house and then ate delicious cream-cheese stuffed french toast. We then went over to the Sheas', opened presents, and welcomed my parents to join us for the Christmas feast. Lots of food, presents, and holiday cheer. Followed by playing the Wii, as my parents gave it to Chris for Christmas. Sadly, my mom had the lowest Wii Sports "Age" among us - 59. All of us were pretty bad, but watching Mama Shea "box" was truly a site to behold.

This holiday just reminded me how much I love that Chris's and my parents (thank you Jess for correcting me on this - I actually looked back at your comment for the correct grammar!) get along so well. So many people have in-laws that don't like each other or just don't want to share. But we had a fantastic time. And everyone loved their presents.

As I failed to post my traditional Christmas scripture entry, I will instead post a hopeful New Year's link. This is an entry by Slacktivist, one of my favorite bloggers, about something that should be a resolution on everyone's list: http://slacktivist.typepad.com/slacktivist/2008/12/clean-shoes.html.

I hope all of my friends have a great start to 2009!

Adventures in DC Part I - Visitors and Explorations

2008-12-04T04:05:18Z

Chris and I have lived here for almost six months so far, and found that DC can be pretty exciting. Not day to day, of course. A job is a job, and mine is not edge-of-your-seat adventure. That’s okay. But DC is a big city, and I’d never lived in a big city before this. And big cities do have their advantages.

One of the advantages is that people like to come visit you. Now, I’m sure our parents would still come visit us even if we lived in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest. But I doubt those visits would be as often or nearly as interesting.

The first visit we experienced was from my parents, who came for July 4. As they had never seen our place before – the Sheas helped us move down only a few days earlier – just seeing it was their main motivation. But we did go to the legendary July 4th extravaganza as presented by our nation’s capital. As we knew it was supposed to be crazy-crowded, we travelled into DC early in the afternoon, far before the fireworks. Thankfully, the Smithsonian was holding a huge annual event on the Mall – the Folklore Festival. The Festival is a celebration of different “folk” cultures, although their interpretation of “folk” is pretty broad. This year, it ranged from Bhutan (sure), Texas (um, okay), and NASA (what?). But all three of the exhibits were enjoyable, well-done, and very educational (yeah, I’m a huge nerd, I know).

But so much as we wanted to tour the exhibits, we also wanted to have a spot to keep our blanket. So we switched off, with Chris and I leaving first. We started at the Bhutan exhibit, which featured an actual Bhutanese temple that they bestowed upon the U.S. as a sign of friendship. It had started raining lightly at that point, but we stood in line anyway because it just looked that cool. And it was! It was small - probably the size of a double-wide trailer - but the inside was intricately painted. The walls each told a story, with pictures colored in vivid red, gold, and blue. The style was similar to Indian art, with lots of swirls, elaborate backgrounds, and fantastic-looking gods. There was a monk in the temple there to answer questions, so of course, I asked him what the stories were about. I think he said that one of them was about the founding of Bhutan and all were traditional stories. It was wonderful listening to him in his lilting accent, sharing these sacred texts with me. I don't remember the details now, but do remember the explanation illuminating the paintings. Like the tour guide I would be in another life, I then told Chris about each of the stories, pointing out the progression. As I did so, one of the tourists asked me if I was with the exhibit, and befuddled, I said, "No? I found out from talking to the monk over there." He was so quiet and calm that people just didn't notice him.

Within the Bhutan exhibit, we also saw some beautiful sand mandalas - like the art projects you'd make in elementary school, but incredibly elaborate. In the same craft area, there were some Bhutanese girls demonstrating how they made potpourri out of dried herbs that grow only in their area of the world. The herbs were displayed in bowls, and people gathered around to sniff them. A couple of teenage girls were next to me, probably the same age as the Bhutanese girls. While the Bhutanese girls went about their work in a quiet, almost shy way, the American girls brashly talked about how some of the ingredients smelled "gross." Although I had some contempt for the American girls at the time, I wonder how they'd be if their roles were switched. Perhaps if they were just hanging out, the Bhutanese girls would be just as ridiculous as the American ones.

We went back to the blanket, allowing my parents to walk around a bit. In our next venture out, we walked around the NASA exhibit, which was showcasing a demonstration of a grappling device used on the Mars rover. It didn't seem all that impressive to me for some reason. Much cooler was a student-created prototype of a moon buggy/bicycle, which they later showed off on a rugged test course. A model of a potential living area for other planets was pretty imagination-inspiring as well. It looked related to a bouncy-bounce, but the white blow-up room was actually designed to be living space for two people. Being inside it for a few minutes was fine - especially since it protected from the rain - but I could never imagine living in such a small space! Listening to the guide talk about some of the struggles they've had designing it was pretty enlightening too, especially because he was so passionate.

At some point, we were all back at the blanket, and it started raining much harder. We abandoned our spot, after so much effort to save it, and tried to find food and shelter. Since we had no idea what was near the Mall, we went to the Texas food booth and found a bit of bench space under a tent. Thankfully, the heavy rain slowed while we were eating. Once we were finished gobbling down our food, we walked up to the Capitol to see if there was any chance of getting into the July 4 Concert. No - absolutely not. As the line was ridiculously long, we wandered through a bizarre religious fair - who knew Hare Krishnas were still around, and so well organized? We finally settled with our blanket on a patch of grass far from our original spot, and annoyingly close to a church youth group playing soccer.

After many, many hours, we finally got to see the fireworks. Honestly, I was a little disappointed. First, they were so built up that anything short of knock-you-backwards explosions would be a let-down. Secondly, we were really, really far away. They weren't even that loud where we were. And third, I don't know that they were all that impressive. I think the ones in Albany are probably just as good, and despite the madhouse that is the Empire State Plaza, not nearly so crowded . Of course, I'm spoiled because the ones in Clifton Park used to be awesome for just a town display. (Stupid new development.) But I was glad to see them, and glad that we came. Despite the weather, it was a great day.

The rest of the weekend wasn't nearly as eventful. The first day, we brought my parents to see the monuments. My mom insisted on finding the giant statue of Einstein, which we had happened to see on my very first trip to Washington, when I was in 4th grade. As it turns out, it's right across the street from the Vietnam Memorial, in this little hidden garden. Although the garden was very different from how I remembered it, Einstein was exactly the same. Huge, bronze and friendly-looking. Actually being able to understand the significance of some of the inscriptions – they each related to one of his major theories – made the experience even more fulfilling. The last day of their trip was the least exciting, as we spent most of it shopping for a couch.

The next person to visit was Drew, who has been using our relocations as a guide for his vacation destinations – last time, he visited us in Oxford. Unfortunately, both times I was unable to spend much time with him. Last time, it was right around my exams, and this year, he was here during the week, when I had to work. Conveniently, Chris didn't have a job yet, and he preferred to show Drew around than apply for jobs. They did the Grand Washington Tour of the monuments, the Smithsonian museums, and even the International Spy Museum (which I was very jealous of). One day, I met them for lunch at the Museum of Natural History - yay, dinosaurs! - and then we had dinner together at Bertucci's near George Washington University. Another night we went out to dinner at Union Jack's, a completely ridiculous "British" pub in Bethesda that is so fake it's painful. It made me long for the Turf Tavern and King's Arms. I wish I had more time to spend with Drew when he was here, but it was great to see him. He thinks he might return for the inauguration, bringing along Dave this time. If they do come, it should be particularly interesting, as Melissa and Mama Shea are also visiting then.

In fact, our next visitor was Melissa. Unlike Drew, she had visited D.C. a number of times before, visiting her ex-boyfriend who went to Georgetown. Luckily by her visit, I also had a little bit of vacation built up, so I was able to take half of a day off. We met for lunch at this nifty cafe near the National Gallery that Linda showed me when I went out with her to lunch. The cafe itself has okay but pricey gourmet food, but is surrounded by a beautiful sculpture garden. It has a fantastic fountain with benches around it, and these giant, quirky modern-art sculptures. There's an original Parisian art-deco Metro sign, a giant typewriter eraser, a flat optical-illusion house that slowly rotates, and a bunch of hanging metal boxes that reminded me of the golden Mario boxes. From there, we went to the National Gallery, upon my recommendation. Touring the Impressionist gallery reminded me of both the Musee d'Orsay in Paris (Monet, Degas) and the Hudson River Valley (the Hudson River School artists). The first time I was at the National Gallery I learned something I never knew about Degas paintings, that totally changed my view of them. As it turns out, the ballet dancers in his paintings were not well-respected artists. They were merely the "light entertainment" before the opera. As a result, many of them found other "employment," mostly as the companions of the wealthy men who frequented the opera. So much for innocent, cute ballerinas! But my favorite painting in the gallery is a Mary Cassatt painting of a little girl sprawled out on a chair, totally uncaring how she looks, but looking extremely cute. After taking in the Impressionists' smudged, glorious colors, we moved on to a temporary exhibit by a modern artist. Chris and I had been through it previously in our first trip as well, but Melissa wanted to check it out, so in we went. The artist made huge sculptures, mainly out of wood and rope. The first time, the only thing that struck me was that one of the sculptures reminded me of a giant version of the cage at the end of the game Mousetrap. The second time around, I actually think I grasped the meaning of some of the sculptures a bit more, and was less likely to dismiss them as weird for the sake of weirdness. Having the exhibit guide, with the artist's own explanations, helped quite a bit too. I still ended up spending half my time trying to figure out what description lined up with which sculpture. The last exhibit we went to was "Treasures of Afghanistan." As it turns out, near the beginning of the Taliban's reign, Afghan archaeologists hid a huge number of priceless, ancient artifacts. For the first time in decades, they had been brought out to the public and displayed for a short time only. Besides the artifacts themselves, the story - like something out of Indiana Jones - was captivating. Scholars fighting against the forces of ignorance and extremism, protecting ancient secrets and knowledge! The pieces themselves, which told the story of several eras of Afghanistan, were also fascinating, especially as I've seen artifacts from the same time, but different cultures. The most memorable was jewelry dug up from a specific set of excavations. One showed the gold - including that from a dress - laid out in a glass case, as they would have been laid out on the woman herself they excavated. You could imagine her lying there, bedecked in her finest clothes, ready to proceed to the underworld. Another displayed the carved headpiece and coins that accompanied one man to the grave, along with three women who went with him. Although we didn't get much of a chance to see more in the other building of the National Gallery, I do want to return there. While we were walking from there, Melissa actually told us about a piece of original art she received. One of her friends is an artist, and gave her a piece for her birthday. I thought that was incredibly cool.

From there, we went to the National Botanical Garden, a huge greenhouse filled with plants from around the world. The middle houses a convincing jungle, with towering trees and a catwalk. Around the jungle, there are sections representing different biomes and plant types - desert, medicinal, Hawaii, ferns, etc. Outside the garden itself, we walked around the native and local plant garden, offering me the opportunity to talk about my job and cellusoic biofuels. Melissa seemed somewhat interested, but I tried to keep it brief for everyone's sake. As we were walking around, she also noted the fact that whenever she visits D.C., they are always cleaning out the pool outside the Capital, making it look horribly ugly and bare.

That night, Chris made some of the best eggplant Parmesan I have ever had in my life, and I am an eggplant parm connoisseur. I order it at practically every Italian restaurant I eat at. And it wasn't just me - Melissa thought it was crazy-good too. I think Chris's homemade sauce makes a big difference.

The last night Melissa was here, we went to a Nationals baseball game with her college friend Jackie, who now is a teacher in Baltimore. Despite the fact that the Nationals are the worst team in the history of baseball, and I really don't like baseball, it was fun. Walking around the totally new stadium (which the Nationals refuse to pay rent on), we saw a kid singing karaoke to “Mr. Brightside,” people throwing baseballs in throwing booths, lots of bar patrons on their way to being heartily drunk, and giant, squishy versions of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abe Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt. The Presidents are the Nationals mascots, and always run a “race” before each game. No matter what, Teddy always loses. That day was free t-shirt day, so we each received shirts that proclaimed “Run, Teddy, Run!” Since Teddy was mobbed, I had Chris take my picture with Giant Abe. It was goofy, but they were so cute! The game itself was fairly uneventful, but the first couple of innings were entertaining. It seems that my attention span lasts about half as long as any one sports event, whether a football or baseball game. Having Melissa and Jackie there made it more fun as well. They were having a grand old time, drinking beer and eating hot dogs.

The last trip was a reprise trip from my parents. As I thought my mom would enjoy both locations, we made another trip to both the Botanical Garden and National Gallery. But the highlight of the trip was the International Spy Museum. After listening to Drew rave about it, I was prepared to either be disappointed or in nerd delight. Even after waiting in line for 20 minutes, I was excited when we stepped out of the elevator. Then, when they told us to memorize our “secret identities,” I thrilled at committing my “new” name, birthplace, destination, and purpose of travel to memory. In the next room, there was a computerized quiz where they asked you for the information, and then asked additional questions that required a bit more thought. For example, if they asked you “How are you travelling?” and you said by rented car, they would ask you where you were renting the car. They gave you choices, but if you waited too long to choose or gave an answer that sounded wrong, the customs person became more suspicious of you! It was really engaging. Then, at the very end of the museum, they asked you slightly different questions about your identity yet again, providing a nice conclusion. I did well on both of them, but mom did miserably on the last one because somehow she managed to skip the first computer quiz. Besides the secret identity, there were loads of other interactive activities. There was an area where you could crawl through an air vent and listen to the people in the room below. If you made too much noise, an alarm went off! (Sadly, the people I was with were super-loud.) Similarly, there were a lot of “spy skill” games based on the computer, such as picking out what person was in disguise and spotting what areas might be drop spots. Despite the focus on play, the museum was surprisingly informative. There was a lot of information, especially about the history of spying. Who knew that Julia Child was part of the agency that preceded the CIA? The founding fathers had a lot of spying going on, and recruited a lot of famous writers to skillfully draw information out of the new country's friends and enemies alike. Interestingly, many of the spies – especially those during the Cold War – were just fed-up bureaucrats who wanted money for their information. One couple were not just double, but actually triple agents! The crazy thing about the museum was that it didn't seem that big, but as soon as you turned a corner or exited a room, there was another exhibit. And another. And another. Not surprisingly, as I read everything in every exhibit, everyone else finished far ahead of me. But I finally caught up to them and we got dinner at the microbrewery across the street.

Although I stress out about it and they don't always come at the most convenient time for me, I do enjoy it greatly when people visit. I love playing tour guide, I love sharing the places I enjoy, I love living somewhere neat enough for people to want to visit, although I know they mostly come to see us. So, if you are friends with me, I invite you to come visit! Just let me know ahead of time – it could be a little awkward otherwise.

Hope and change and love, all courtesy of public transit

2008-11-07T04:22:59Z

While coming home from work today, I got on the last car of the subway. I heard people singing, and turning around, I saw three black kids - probably in their late teens or early 20s - at the back of the train getting their groove on. They were rapping, knocking on the window, dancing, and tapping their feet, all in perfect time. And they were melodically singing, "Who'd you vote for? O - O - Obama; I voted for O-O-O-Obama." Then, still using "Obama" as a chant, they'd switch up the tempo and rhythm. It was such a pure expression of joy that all I just smiled and smiled. It was truly awesome.

So when I walked out the door, I said, "Hey, you guys are good!" They smiled and waved, and went back to their freestyling.

Sometimes, I love living in a city.

My new boss has won....and I helped!

2008-11-05T04:08:43Z

I voted today!

And now, my civic duty (along with all of that canvassing in Virginia - winning by 11% in Prince William's County!) has paid off. I just felt things were going right as I ate my Imagine World Peace free ice cream cone on the way to pollwatching. It is a beautiful, glorious night.

Congratulations Future President Obama!

All of our actions take their hue from the complexion of the heart, as landscapes their variety from

2008-11-02T00:52:20Z

Washington D.C. is not a very friendly city. It's not quite as bad as New York, but it does share the phenomena that everyone looks like they have somewhere Very Important to be. Certainly More Important Than You. As a result, no one ever seems to be smiling except for the tourists. In fact, the two nicest people I see walking from the Metro stop to my building are the guy handing out Express newspapers (the abbreviated version of the Washington Post) and the homeless minister sitting on a raised bench-thing next to the sidewalk.

The Express guy always says, "Just keep on smiling!" with the rest of the greeting appropriate for the week (for Monday, "You're gonna have a great week!" and for Friday, "Last day till the weekend!"). Even in the rain, when the people handing out the Express at the Grosvenor station are hiding under the station's roof and understandably looking miserable, he's standing outside the Smithsonian station, grinning away. Curiously, the newspapers are also never wet.

In a lot of ways, the homeless minister is similar to many DC homeless guys, but his personality sets him apart. He sits on a mess of newspapers, with a beat-up suitcase next to him, filled with who-knows-what. He always has a mug of hot coffee and a cardboard sign that says "Veteran, please help." But the thing that makes him stand out from the others is that he's relentlessly positive. Most of the homeless people look pathetic - helpless and a little creepy. You're never sure the sort of reaction you are going to get from them. But he is proactive in an incredibly hopeful way. No matter if you give him money or not, he always says, "Good morning! Isn't it a lovely day?" If he's talked to you before, he adds a "Thank you, sister!", "God bless!", or "I'll pray for you!" Once, he handed me this little slip of paper talking about the 15th year of some sort of ministry. I honestly had no idea what it meant, but was glad that it seemed like he had some purpose in life.

With both men, cynics would think their attitudes were put on. That they expressed themselves in that way because they were trying to get something from the streaming crowd of pedestrians. But I can tell that their friendliness is genuine. While insincere friendliness creeps me out, my natural reaction to both of them has always been a smile.

As a result, I've developed a curious, lovely relationship with both them. For the lift they bring to my morning - I am not a morning person - I feel I owe them something in exchange. So in the morning, I always make sure to take a paper from the Express guy and wish him a happy morning back. I'm not sure if he's paid by the number of papers handed out or not, but I figure I can show some appreciation for his efforts. So many people pass by him, seemingly unaffected, that I figure some emotional support is better than nothing. For the homeless guy, I offer to buy him something for breakfast about once a week. At first, I wanted to bring him something for breakfast, and couldn't decide on what would be good. It seems a little weird to just walk up to someone and offer them an apple, you know? Then, I realized that I should just ask him what he wanted. After all, there are two different food carts near my building, and there was certainly something there he would want. And, not surprisingly, he did. So I've bought him sugar-free cookies, diet sodas, and chips at different times. Once, when I was on my way to the farmer's market down the block, I even bought him back a cucumber! In the process, I've found out that he has diabetes and his preferred vegetables are tomatoes and cucumbers. I think it's more than I know about some of my co-workers. He's been gone most days lately - probably because of the cold - and I do miss him a bit.

Each of us has different things that help us get through our day. While most people ignore them, these two men shine a little more light onto my day, and I thank God (and them!) for that small blessing in this sometimes cold city.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home...

2008-08-08T03:00:07Z

So Chris and I are finally, completely moved in. We still don't have a couch, but we've ordered one. Next up is a desk, which Chris is in the process of assembling right now on our living room floor. Then a bedroom set, but that's not an emergency situation. But it took a long time to get to this point.

As I mentioned previously, this whole Washington D.C. job came up very quickly. The Presidential Management Fellowship process took much longer than I would have preferred, but once the Department of Energy had my information, they moved quickly. They called me, did a phone interview, and invited me down to D.C. I was going to Maryland anyway for the Wild Goose Chase Bicycle Ride with my mom (another story in and of itself...), so we planned to be in the area for another night. Although the interview wasn't the walk in the park that I expected - it sounded more like a "let's show you around the office" than "let's ask you loads of questions with two other people in the room" - I did well. At the end of it, they told me that I was their number one candidate. Shortly after, they officially offered me the job, and Chris and I began to plan our move.

We came to DC to look for an apartment the first weekend after Chris left his job. Unfortunately, it was already into June. We planned on looking in three places - Bethesda, MD, Arlington, VA, and Alexandria, VA. We didn't want to look in D.C. because of its bad reputation and our complete and utter lack of knowledge about the city. It would be different if we knew what neighborhoods were safe, or at least knew someone who did. But everyone we knew lived in Virginia or Bethesda. Unfortunately, in doing our research, we also discovered that everything in Arlington that looked half-decent (at least according to the renters on ApartmentRatings.com) was way, way out of our price range. So that idea was ditched. That left us with Bethesda and Alexandria. Bethesda I was only interested in because Karen and Graham (the house-sitting people) knew a real estate agent there. People said it was a nice area - very expensive, but nice - but it didn't intrigue me. Fun, vibrant Old Town Alexandria sounded much more appealing. So we gathered information on a bunch of apartment complexes to visit, made some appointments and were on our way.

Unfortunately, we had to fly down, despite my green guilt. Alas. After arriving, our first apartment was with the Bethesda realtor, Eleanor. Only a few minutes into the appointment, I knew I liked her. She was straight-talking - sometimes a little much, in fact - funny and knew what we wanted. She pointed out the variety of restaurants, yuppie (any ethnic cuisine on the planet) and non-yuppie (the greasy spoon all-night diner) alike. And the very first apartment she showed us was perfect. Mostly, at least.

It was 1000 square feet, one of the most spacious we looked at. It had a completely renovated kitchen - granite countertops, gas stove, the works. Chris was in his element. The bedroom and living room were both very large, and it had a walk-in closet. There was even a balcony! Best of all, it was only $1500 including utilities! (I know that is absurdly expensive, but everything there was. It was actually within our price range, whereas comparable apartments were certainly not.) The only issue was that it was in the Promenade, a rather ritzy high-rise. The lobby looked like an expensive hotel, with stiff upholstered chairs and ornate chandliers. The apartment charged you a move-in deposit of several hundred dollars, just in case you smashed their floor-length mirrors with your furniture. And all of the residents we saw in the lobby appeared to be above the age of 60. But the high-rise lifestyle did have its perks. It included a beautiful gym with indoor pool, an outdoor pool, a convenience store, a travel agent, and a hair salon (!). We decided to look at other apartments as well, but were pretty sure that it couldn't get any better than this.

And, unfortunately, it really didn't. She brought us to a couple more places, but one was nice but much more expensive, and the rest didn't meet our standards. For the most part, the apartments themselves weren't bad, but the kitchens were awful. The Promenade and the next complex we looked at were both built in the 1960s, and it was clear that some of the kitchens hadn't been updated since then. One even had an oven built into the cabinets! Chris said that we'd be lucky if we could fit a chicken in it, much less a Thanksgiving turkey. Obviously, people eat out a lot in DC.

Despite our excellent luck with the first apartment, we didn't want to commit to it before carrying out the rest of our appointments. I still found Bethesda's downtown highrises lacking charm, and hoped that Alexandria had more character. Well, it did, but at a price. That morning, we had an appointment with another real estate agent who was not nearly as enthusiastic or helpful as Eleanor. In fact, he told us that he wasn't doing this to help us, but as a favor to the condo owners. He even went so far as to strongly suggest that we make this speedy if we weren't serious, because he wasn't getting paid much for this! Thanks a lot, sir. The stuff he showed us was pretty underwhelming anyway. There was a decent-looking garden-style condo, but it was the same price without utilities as the beautiful Promenade apartment. And his big pitch on that one was that it was near a strip mall with "everything a small town would have in it." But, you know, still a strip mall.

Leaving him and his thorough lack of enthusiasm, we drove to downtown Alexandria, upon which I laid all my hopes for a metropolitian lifestyle. After grabbing a quick bite to eat and a smoothie to ward off the oppressive heat, we visited a complex for which I had high hopes. After all, it was in Old Town Alexandria and it was actually affordable! What could be better? We were greeted by a little old lady, who was terribly nice. She showed us a good sized apartment, that was pretty decent except for one thing - of course, the kitchen. It wasn't that old, but it was tiny. There was nowhere to move, much less actual counterspace. And the entire complex was a little worn-out looking, honestly. So, sadly, I bid goodbye to that option. Next up was my last Alexandria possibility, advertised as a brownstone walkup. At least from the outside, it looked like it had character. The inside had character, but no space. The kitchen somehow was even smaller than the last one, and the living room was teeny. I don't think you could fit both a couch and another chair in it, much less a desk. The bedroom appeared to be a good size, but it was hard to tell with it cluttered with the current resident's huge bed and mess of clothes. It might have been good for the current just-out-of-school bachelor, but it wasn't suitable for us at all.

So, disappointed with the city's offerings, we walked down its main street before our last appointment, back in Bethesda. And I finally understood what people meant when they compared Old Town Alexandria to downtown Saratoga. Driving around Old Town, we couldn't get a good sense of it. The buildings were historic, either brownstones or old colonial (really colonial) buildings, but a lot of them weren't in great shape. It wasn't automatically charming like I thought it would be. But the main shopping street, King Street, piled on the charm. Lots of local restaurants, little boutiquey shops, and a shockingly expensive movie theater. After walking up and down the street, I convinced Chris to pop into A Thousand Villages, a shop that specializes in selling fair-trade goods.

But just as we just about to walk back to the car, it started pouring. And when I say pouring, I mean the sky was falling from its lovely place above us straight onto our heads in the form of rain. We could hardly see across the street. As we were standing in the doorway, befuddled, the helpful shopgirl said, "There's the bus, you can take that!" Enthused at the idea of avoiding the crazy baseball-sized raindrops, we sprinted to the bus. Just crossing the sidewalk, we still managed to get quite wet. After fussing with our dollar bills, we sat down. A minute or two passed. And then we realized that the bus had long since passed our car. Shit. That seems to be a common word in our travel vocabulary, quite honestly. Thinking about the issue, we realized that the bus probably stopped at the Metro station. So we asked the couple in front of us if the bus made a loop, and turned around at the Metro station. They said yes. Feeling fairly confident, we figured that if we just stayed on the bus for a few more minutes, we would end up passing the car again. At that point, we certainly didn't want to get out any earlier than necessary. The thunder and lightning had joined in on the party in the sky. A bolt of lightning even hit a transformer as we drove by, causing it to burst into a shower of sparks. The bus pulled into the Metro station, stopped, pulled around the parking lot - and continued to go in the same direction. Shit! That word again. That's when we really started to get desperate. We had no idea what to do. Panicking slightly, I suggested that we get off at the next stop, and wait for a bus to take us the opposite direction. Partly because I was getting wild-eyed and partly because he didn't have any other ideas, Chris agreed, and we got out. We had absolutely no idea where we were, other than knowing that we were very far away from our car.

Looking at the bus station sign, we realized the next bus wasn't for another 40 minutes. Really getting wacko now, out of a combination of frustration and desperation, I insisted that we just start walking. The rain is done now, right? What harm could it do? We could just catch the bus at another bus stop further down, right? Chris attempted to talk some sense into me, but it was useless. I was walking, whether he was or not. Anything to regain a sense of control, anything to do something. So we walked. And walked. And walked. And then it started raining again. And thundering again. And we had no idea what to do, except yell at each other. And we had no idea where the hell we were other than lost, lost, lost.

Then, our guardian angel appeared. We have truly benefitted from the kindness of strangers more times than I thought was ever possible. But last time we had been picked up in Ireland, land of the friendly and ridiculously hospitable. Alexandria, VA would be last place I would expect it. But here was a car pulling over, with the driver waving, inviting our wet, sorry selves into his dry, warm car. He was a young/middle-aged, professional-type. It was clear that he had young children, as there was a car seat next to me and toys scattered all over the backset. But what struck me most was something I try to hold myself above noticing - his race. He was black. I wondered what would have happened if the situation was reversed - if it was a white guy, would he have picked up 2 arguing black kids? And of course, we were in Virginia. What about 40 or even 30 years ago? Would a black man have been too scared to pick up two white kids, afraid they might attack him? Even today, race is still a huge issue, as cable news never ceases to remind us in their presidential race coverage. The whole thing just reminded me about how far we've come, and yet how much further we have to go, knowing that we probably would have been prejudiced against or scared him if the circumstances were different. Regardless of the past or present, we were both terribly, terribly grateful for his simple act of kindness.

After thanking him profusely, we ran from our guardian angel's car to our own. It was raining again, and we had a moment of heart-stopping panic when we tried to open the door and it didn't work. Quickly, we realized it wasn't our car. Of course. Finally finding the rental car, I called the people we were supposed to meet for our last appointment. It was 3:58 and our appointment was at 4:00. It was about an hour's drive away. Thankfully, she accepted my explanation that we were lost - really lost - and would be there in about an hour.

Arriving there after some frustrating driving (all driving in the DC area is frustrating), we found the place and nearly sprinted to the front door. Trying to look respectable and pleasant, we met the wife of the couple who owned the condo. She led us up a flight and a half of stairs, and showed us around. It was a nice enough place, a good price with utilities included, and best of all, was only a short walk to the Metro. We smiled, asked our questions, and ended our quest.

That night, we called Eleanor and told her that we had actually decided on the very first appointment. She checked with the owner....and there was just one problem. Another couple had also expressed interest. But they hadn't yet turned in their paperwork. So the next morning, we met with Eleanor in that extravagant lobby and hurriedly signed all of the paperwork, confident in our decision. But just in case, we called that very last apartment we visited in Bethesda, having it fresh in our mind. We wanted to have a backup, after all. Unfortunately, the owner there told us that she too had another person interested in it, so we had to make up our minds quickly.

Shortly after, our minds were made up for us. As we killed time walking around Washington DC, Eleanor reported back to us. The other interested couple had not only turned in their paperwork and security deposit, but had even back-paid two weeks worth of rent! Over $700, just to get the apartment. We knew that we couldn't top that. Besides, even if we did, who was to say that it wouldn't just become a very expensive game of chicken? So, slightly resigned, we called the last owner back to tell them that we were going to take their apartment. We promised to get all of the paperwork and the security deposit to them as soon as we got home.

So that's how we ended up with our apartment. Although I was whiny about losing the other one for several days afterwards, we really like this one. It's a nice size, has a pretty good kitchen (gas stove!), and a good shape. We're right next to the pool, and our street is beautifully tree-lined. Also, the fact that I can walk to the Metro is a really fabulous thing. I think I would have gotten sick of waiting for the shuttle very quickly. My walk is even through a (very tiny) nature preserve. And we're down the street from a bicycle trail that I'm now taking once a week to work.

I don't know what our life would have been like in the Promenade, but there's no doubt it would be different. Whether it would be worst or better? I really don't know. But what I do know is that we're happy here. And now, as soon as Chris finishes gluing and nailing the many, many, many pieces of our "requires assembly" desk together, we'll have our first piece of new furniture.

In the meantime, here are photos of our apartment, pre-desk...

Our lovely kitchen, the setting for the creation of many terrific meals already. There are benefits to Chris not having a job yet.

Isn't our shot glass collection classy?

Our new neighbors gave us our TV stand, which was really nice of them. They were going to donate their futon too, but apparently one of their relatives wanted it. Oddly, they were moving, but just across the hall. I think the guy in the couple lived across the hall from us, and is now moving in with his girlfriend, so they bought the condo next to us together (which is much bigger than ours).

Beware of the dragon.

"Many men do not understand that the need for fellowship is really as deep as the need for food."

2008-06-27T05:37:29Z

Being appreciated is wonderful. I’ve felt appreciated a lot lately.

About a week and a half ago, I had my last day at the DEC. They had a lovely picnic at the Corning Preserve as a going-away party. Although they generally have some kind of Division summer gathering each year, the idea that they were at least partially doing it for me was heart-warming. Especially because people brought such good food. And few things show love as well as good, homemade food. (Chris’ eggplant salad was a big hit in particular.) Then, a great deal of the party consisted of people telling me how much they enjoyed working with me and would miss me. To top it all off, my editor Dave gave a funny, complimentary speech comparing him and myself. (“Shannon and I have many things in common … much to her dismay. As I’m sure you all know, we share an alma mater. Shannon graduated summa cum laude. I … graduated. Shannon really likes to drink tea. I really like to … drink. Shannon went to graduate school at Oxford. I was born in Oxford, Ohio. Extraordinary, isn’t it?” Etc. etc.) He then presented me with a pile of presents – a box of vanilla tea (I was always wandering by his desk with it), and several books. Perfect, perfect, perfect. It made me almost want to cry in gratefulness for having the opportunity to work with these people.

Since then, Chris and I have spent much of our time packing. Now, Chris is not great at packing. He tends to lack the focus needed for such an ambitious project. But he sees what I do and does truly appreciate it. He’s been telling me it that for the past two weeks straight. Even when I get frustrated with him for his lack of focus, his admiration and gratitude for my hard work makes me smile.

Similarly, I spoke to Magnano on the phone a few days ago. He’s been suffering the agonies of a long-distance relationship, which I certainly empathize with. At the end of the conversation, he said that just talking to me helped him feel better.

Then, tonight, I attended a meeting for the Albany Bicycle Coalition. I’m writing an article for Metroland on bicycle commuting and so attended the local advocacy group’s monthly gathering. And like many meetings I attend, I stuck around afterwards talking to people. One of the member’s husband’s finally came to meet her there, and she introduced me to him. After several minutes of conversation between him and myself, she said to him and me, “Isn’t she wonderful? You’re so much fun to talk to!” Just that one comment made me feel so good that I smiled the whole way home, despite not having eaten dinner and having the person at Friendly’s spill an ice cream sundae on my foot.

I think I’ve been so deeply affected by these comments because I tend to internalize them more than other people. I also tend to take negative comments to heart more than other people. I wouldn’t say I’m that “sensitive” – I tend to be confused by typical “girl” behavior – but I take personal comments very seriously. I have since I was a little kid. As a kid, the unfortunate thing was that reacting to negative comments just attracted more negativity, since bullies love making fun of kids who are visibly hurt.

Somewhere along the way, I internalized that negativity. I came to interpret light teasing or even neutral comments as judgmental and purposefully hurtful. It’s to the point where I even tend to defend my actions to imaginary critics.

In addition, another element further complicated this issue. Most of the positive comments about me revolved around my intellect. These two strange factors interacted to make me nervous about appearing dumb in some way, and yet resentful that people only know me for my studious habits. (That wasn’t imagining things – I was elected “Most Studious” senior year of high school, even if it wasn’t necessarily true.)

As a result, when someone appreciates me for all of me – not just my smarts or work ethic – and tells me that, I find it incredibly satisfying. I know that my family and friends love me, but it’s simple to let that fact get away from me. Especially because it’s shockingly easy to convince myself that they just love me because they have to, or that they’re somehow strangely prejudiced.

So to receive compliments on all sides – from work, Chris, Magnano, and nearly a complete stranger – has really bolstered my confidence in the past few days. It’s funny, because I didn’t even realize it until now. Looking back on all of these makes me think that perhaps God has opened my eyes to these for a specific reason. I think He’s drawn my attention to events that I find easy to dismiss because I need this strength right now. Preparing for the move to Washington D.C. was initially nerve wracking. I was really stressed-out at first – it all seemed to happen so quickly. But the last two weeks, I’ve been surprisingly calm. Things have just fallen into place mentally and emotionally. It’s still tough to leave our friends and start over once again, but I do believe that Chris and I are supposed to be down there for some reason or another. So I think my receptiveness to this emotional outpouring will give me the confidence and strength I need to approach this new challenge with a sense of adventure, rather than fear. And that's something I definitely appreciate.

"Good takes the gold. Evil gets the silver at the most." - Websnark

2008-05-17T21:13:07Z

Or... Expectations, Characterizations, Icons and Superheroes.

As a full-blown nerd, I spend a lot of time thinking about things that other people never think about in their entire lives. This is especially true of comics. As I am writing a comic and read a lot of webcomics, I think pretty in-depth about their construction and storytelling. But usually, I think very little about superheroes, as I tend not to read those books (Watchmen and Dark Knight Returns nonwithstanding). However, after watching Iron Man a few weekends ago, I had a rather impassioned argument with Drew about superhero comics and their advantages or lack thereof. Unfortunately, it was 3 AM and so the conversation degenerated into us yelling the same sentences at each other over and over again by the end.

The next morning, I actually had a clear head and was able to think much more logically about the conversation. I realized that we were both making very different points, which didn't necessarily contradict each other. The problem was that we were using the same vocabulary to describe our two different points and so misunderstanding the other person's argument. Considering both of the sides, I came up with a thesis about storytelling in comic books that I think deftly summarizes both of our points: Superhero comic books create wonderful icons, but poor characters. The problem that arose in our argument was that we were conflating those two very different ideas.

To me, icons are simpler than characters. Icons represent something that can be summarized in only a few words or phrases, whether it is responsibility (Spiderman), vengence (Batman, Punisher), overcoming prejudice (X-Men), or pure good (Superman). They have only a few defining characteristics, but those are always constants. Peter Parker will always be a sarcastic nerd. Superman will never kill someone in cold blood. Wolverine is angry and impulsive. As a result of this combination of representation and simple characteristics, it is easy to identify with an icon. Everyone understands the things they stand for, even if we will never have our parents killed or be a mutant. Weirdly, icons' universal appeal also means that everyone can then cast their own aspirations and dreams on them. As a result, icons become something bigger than a character alone. They become embedded in people's own perceptions of themselves and society's perception of itself. Icons are inherantly immortal - even if the character dies off, they will live on in people's memories. And icons don't even have to be fictional for this to be true. After all, Uncle Sam was a real person, and the idea of Uncle Sam certainly didn't disappear with his death.

However, icons simply lack the one thing that defines a character: a complex "inner life." Characters, like real people, have their personality and choices influenced by everything that has ever happened to them. They have fears, dreams, and conflicts, even when those are not explicitly expressed. As a result, their life history is essential to their being. If that background is changed - or they find out it is different than they believed - their entire character changes. This is why amnesia is so frightening to people - losing your memories erases who you are. (Similarly, it is why the slow discovery of Cloud's true history in FFXII is so affecting. Cloud definitely changes when he finds out he's not who he thought he was.) You become someone else without your history. Correspondingly, characters evolve and progress as a story does. Everything that occurs in a story influences how they act later. That is why sometimes writers say that their characters are the ones writing the story, not them. I've definitely had times when I've written something and then gone back and changed it because "Tabitha wouldn't do that!" It is also why stories usually suck that have flat, overly-simplistic characters. Because of this complexity and mortality, death deeply affects characters. Even in the rare circumstances where there is a chance of them coming back from death, it irrevokably affects them. They become someone else through near-dying or death. Although extreme, Gandalf's appearance after dying is a perfect example of this. Oddly, Gandalf actually becomes more of an icon after resurrection. All of his quirks are gone, replaced by the Unquestionable Good. (Also, Tolkein really liked icons and iconography.)

Drew actually reinforced this contrast in my head with an e-mail he sent me shortly after our conversation. In it, he compared superheroes to sports teams. Specifically, he said, "Over time though, much as there are new and old Packer fans, there are new and old Spider-man fans. And that is where the emotional connection with the character exists. ... Much as you associate your favorite teams with other events in your life, you do the same with your favorite heroes. And when the team is doing poorly, you hope that it gets better. That said, you always want to see what happens next, good and bad. Overhauls don't always work out. ... But it's how the character (team) stays relevant and viable." What really struck me was how much he saw a superhero as a symbol, rather than a person. That's a perspective that I would never have never previously thought of when thinking about a character in a novel or movie. I do associate certain books and movies with periods in my life, but mainly because of the deep emotional connection I felt with that character. I felt that book spoke something to me, at that time and place. That character mattered to be because of Who They Were. I cared about that character at an almost spiritual level, as if I was having a relationship with a real person. (Not that people don't do that with superheroes, but not in the context that Drew is talking about). Rather, Drew is seeing them as an entire football team. Football teams don't have inner lives, even if the people within them do. They have storylines, certainly, but their motivations are simplistic and easy-to-grasp (namely, to win), not complex in the same way as an individual's would be. And to a fan, the inner lives' of the players don't matter, because that's not the point of the football team. I'm sure Packers fans hope that Brent Favre has a nice life, but do they really care about his inner struggles? Not particularly. (Unless they result in entertaining behavior, but that's more about the spectacle of athletes than the fan's relationship with a team.) It's just a totally different perspective - not necessarily better or worse.

Now, if you like characters more than icons, the inherant structure of the superhero comic book industry means that they can never have good characterization. For one, the most popular comic books have been going on for 60 years. I think it is near impossible, if not actually impossible, to have a character grow and evolve in a way that makes both emotional and narrative sense for 60 years. Much less at the rapid pacing that superhero comic books have. If you actually followed a character in real-time, year by year, maybe it could work. It could show their entire life, from their childhood into retirement. But right now, years worth of events happen each real-time year and our good heroes aren't even pushing 40! (Or in the case of Spiderman, were recently reverted back to the ripe old age of 19!) As a result, superheroes keep going over the same ground and same dilemmas, and same conflicts over and over and over again. It is true that people often deal with the same problems year in and year out, but never exactly in the same way. Whereas it seems like superheros problems have never changed over time or really resolved themselves. There's no moving forward emotionally, no apparent change in "inner life."

This problem is further compounded by the number of writers and artists that work on each series. If too many cooks spoil the broth, too many writers make for bad characters. Again, having multiple writers might have the potential to be okay if they knew the previous work inside-out, or collaborated with the previous writers to guarantee some consistency. This I think is why television shows with multiple writers can work, such as The Wire. There's no question that whoever wrote the season one finale (which is excellent, by the way), even though it was his first episode, consulted the creator of the characters. You can tell from the dialogue that he had an innate sense of the tone and the feel and inner life of those characters. Plus, on TV, there are actors that make a character's expressions and tone of voice consistent, even when the writing may not be. However, most writers of superhero comics have the direct opposite approach when they write. They are not interested in continuing the creator or another person's version of the character. Instead, they want to make their individual mark on the character, make them who they want them to be, no matter what has come before. Which is understandable. I know with my characters, I hear their voices in my head, express their emotions on my face, and make their gestures with my hands as I write them. But when many, many, many different people have different views of the exact same character, it actually results in many different characters who all just happen to share a name and look. In the end, it's impossible to make any emotional sense of what has happened. So for a new writer, why not just make them do things out of character as long as they don't violate that core principle that they symbolize?

And that's not even speaking of retcons, which stands for retroactive continuity. For those of you who aren't comic book nerds, this is when a writer completely changes something in the characters' past to whatever they want. (There is an excellent essay on the varied kinds of retconning and their effectiveness or lack thereof at Websnark.) In some cases, it (almost) makes sense. For example, in the Ironman movie, they changed that Tony Stark was captured in Afghanistan rather than Vietnam. Okay. Since the movie was set in the current time period, this makes perfect sense. Besides, they are telling the story from the beginning in movies, so they can build upon that background from now on. In contrast, most of the time retconning in comic books is being done to a character's current backstory, changing something that already happened to them. What I hate, hate, hate about this is that a character's backstory and history is everything they have. Everything that has happened to them affects who they are and shapes their world and mental/emotional landscape in a specific way. By changing that backstory, it should change the emotional landscape of the individual. Sometimes providing a new perspective on an existing backstory can work - it can make a character whose actions didn't make sense or wasn't sympathetic, now make more sense or be more sympathetic. But most of the time, it's a major change that's done strictly because the writer wants to bring back an old girlfriend (he really was still in love!), didn't like that their favorite character had been killed off three years earlier (they were really being held in cryogenisis), or whatever illogical, poorly-thought-out plot wankiness they wish to engage in. For example, in the aforementioned retcon with Spiderman, the writer decided that Peter Parker and Mary Jane's marriage never occurred and that Spiderman was going to be 19 again - because he wanted him to be a swinging single! What?!? (Again, Websnark takes the cake for having an excellent discussion of this storyline. Interestingly, one of the commenters makes the same superhero/sports team analogy.)

Now, you might ask why this creative laziness makes me so angry. It's just comics, right? But as a writer, I believe that characters and readers deserve better. Even though my characters really only exist in my head (and other people's once they read my comic), they deserve to be able to act out their lives in the ways that make sense to who they are. As a result, they have an emotional weight to them, which is what readers deserve for the time put into their reading of the book. (As for the 'it's just comics' argument....it's an art form, not just a genre, thankyouverymuch.) And this is why I simply can't read superhero comics continually. Sure, I read individual storylines or individual books. I believe characterization can and does occur in individual chunks. For example, Batman in Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns is unquestionably a character who changes and evolves throughout the story. Neil Gaiman's versions of the Marvel characters in 1602are also characters. And both are very good stories. But in the long run, the characterization is just too all-over-the-place for me to really engage with a superhero over the course of many, many issues and years. When I read, I need to feel that relational connection, that in-your-head feeling that you just can't get with an icon.

Fortunately, this is just my personal quirk. Because icons are important, and perhaps even essential, in our society. There's a reason superheros are so incredibly popular, and not just because they beat up bad guys. We need mythical heroes. We always have. The Greek gods are the prime example of mythical heroes - they each stood for something, had a simplicity to them that most of the people in the stories didn't. Later on, in American history, came George Washington and Davy Crocket. Real people, yes, but people whose actual inner lives and doubts get lost in childhood stories and simplistic historical retellings. And this is where I initially didn't get what Drew was talking about. I didn't understand why he was insistent on saying, "You cannot kill Superman! You just can't!" I thought he meant that the comic book industry would fall without superheroes, which seemed silly to me. But in reality, that part of it was only part of the much bigger point he was making. He was saying that these characters matter in our society. They are our heroes and our villans and the stuff that culture is made of. They are what generations bond over. As he said, a Dad may pass on a Spiderman comic book to his son, regardless of what has happened to the character in the past. They have a role that connects real-life people together, that we can look to as a barometer of culture, and that allows us some kind of strange common language.

Thankfully, these days I have the luxury of interacting with these superheroes, as both icons and sometimes characters, without having to follow them forever and ever. They have become so entrenched in our society that you don't have to read them monthly to know about them, to be familiar with their adventures and exploits. I'll stick with my characters and storytelling in the long run, but it's nice to know those icons are there. And I'll continue to welcome their superpowered presence on my bookshelf when good writers choose to tell their characters' tales.

"Before eating, always take a little time to thank the food." - Native American proverb

2008-05-03T19:38:04Z

I have become a foodie. I blame Chris. At least partly.

I've always enjoyed food - sometimes too much. This may come as a surprise to someone who knows my size, but has never eaten with me. I eat a lot. I eat sometimes as much as my dad, who is 6'3'' and 200 pounds. And this isn't something new. When I was younger, my mom said I had a "hollow leg." I would often say to her, "I'm hungry!" to which she would respond, "No you aren't, you just think you're hungry." Which was an easy assumption to make, as I would often protest my hunger only an hour or two after significant meals. But I wasn't imagining it - I was truly hungry. Unlike some people with quick metabolisms (looks at husband jealously), I was never skinny, just hungry more often than an average girl of my age. To make up for it, I've been an avid exerciser for much of my life. When I haven't exercised regularly in some form, I have gained weight, which has further reinforced its necessity for me, if I don't feel like being hungry all of the time.

Because of this back-and-forth, food has been slightly problematic for me as an adult. For most of my teenage life, I didn't care about my weight. The only time I really struggled with it was an attempt to stay below 127 to make the lightweight boat for crew team. And that wasn't so much about weight as athletics. I didn't care about my weight because I knew with all of the exercise I got, I was going to be in pretty good shape no matter what. The first time I started caring much at all about what I put in my mouth was my freshman year of college. But even that was a pretty low level of interest. I liked my morning muffins and Cornell's terrific food, and going any further diet-wise than limiting myself to one dessert a day seemed impossible.

Self-realization on my relationship with food didn't really kick in until the summer after my sophomore year. I had just quit Alpha Zeta, where I had lived for a year. To understate the situation, it wasn't a good year - socially, mentally, and even physically. The food was terrible. I didn't sign up for a meal plan, because we lived far away from the main dining halls, and wasn't that what we were paying the frat cook for? That was a bad plan for several reasons. First, because I believe in eating breakfast, and the only breakfast available was cereal with out-of-date milk or giant muffins. I went with the muffins. Lunch was just as bad, resulting in a lot of peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches. In terms of dinner? The frat cook was terrible. Truly awful. The food was mostly edible, but never good. Plus, much of the food he made was "homecooking" standards that I don't like - meatloaf and other such beef-based dishes. So I ended up eating a lot of pasta or dessert. Lastly, and perhaps worst for morale of all, was that we had to make our own food on weekends. At that point, I had no confidence in my skills as a cook. Plus, it didn't help that all of our food was in bulk, individual ingredients were impossible to find, and the kitchen was quite disgusting. As a result, I ate out a lot, mooched off of other people's fried food, and consumed far more EZ Mac than one individual should consume in a lifetime. The food only contributed to my sense of learned hopelessness and anxiety. Unsurprisingly, I gained about 5-7 pounds that year.

Upon leaving AZ, I worked on taking control of my life. Pledging and living at AZ had wrestled away all of the self-respect I had worked so hard to gain over the years. It also demolished any healthy mental or physical habits I once had. I felt a need to prove to them - and more importantly, myself - that I was a different person than they believed. A more fun, more laid-back, prettier, healthier individual. So I went on a diet. Bad idea, no? But in reality, the diet itself wasn't a bad one to pick, if one had to pick a diet. It mainly involved eating a lot more vegetables than I was used to and a lot fewer empty carbs (namely, pasta). In addition, I went back to doing some strength exercises, which I had abandoned long ago. Between the two approaches, I lost over 10 pounds and felt a hell of a lot better. Changing what I put in my body made an incredible difference in my attitude and outlook. It wasn't an easy summer, but it was a hopeful one, a vast improvement over the year I had just been through.

For the rest of college, I maintained an uneasy peace with food. I tried to stay healthy by frequently eating stir fry and salads and not visiting the dessert table too often. I discovered the great pleasure of a wonderfully-done Gardenburger. (Which probably got most of its taste from the meat fat it fried in, but still.) But I missed eating whatever I wanted. My diet felt a bit boring, quite honestly.

At the same time, Chris's own unique relationship with food was shifting. As a kid, Chris was a painfully slow eater. In high school, he frequently didn't finish his lunch by the end of lunch time. I was constantly stealing his fries because it seemed like a waste to throw them out, even if they were rather disgusting. (And of course, because I was hungry. I really wasn't underfed, I swear.) As I got to know his family, Chris's slow eating was given a broader context. On one hand, Chris's mom eats very fast. Growing up, her strict Irish family didn't even talk until all of the food was cleared from the plates. On the other hand, Chris's dad is extremely picky and takes his time, eating each individual type of food separately. He is not a man who eats stews, needless to say. So Chris's behavior fell somewhere in the strange middle. And yet, somewhere along the line, Chris became a more adventurous eater. Perhaps he always was one, and never had the chance to express it because of the limits his dad's eating imposed on the family.

And then Chris and I, somewhere along the way, developed a collective relationship with food. Although we didn't know it then, I think this began all the way back with me stealing his fries in high school. He didn't like it, but I did it anyway. I think this reinforced two consistent themes in our relationship - a high level of comfort/emotional intimacy and me being a little pushy. Although the second theme isn't a good habit to be in, that fry-stealing was worth it to help establish the first (along with the many other ways that happened). Beyond the involuntary lunch-sharing, the major food and life landmark of that first year together was our anniversary. For our one year anniversary, Chris offered to make me dinner. His offer surprised me, as I had no idea he could cook. I accepted it, of course. I figured even if it wasn't particularly good, it was certainly a sweet gesture. Fortunately for both of us, the meal was pretty good. I remember it all vividly, even now. First course, french onion soup, main course, chicken kiev with potato wedges, and for dessert, an Alice's Chocolate Cake that I made. Me in a simple black dress, him in a button down shirt and tie. Sitting at a small table in his parents' living room, with flowers decorating it. The AC turned way up to accomodate for the fire in the fireplace next to us. Vaguely ridiculous, but at the time, it seemed terribly romantic. Heartbreaking romantic, as we saw this as the last hurrah for our relationship. That was when we planned on breaking up after high school. And so, it seemed like it would be both our first homemade, formal meal together and our last. Like many things we assumed at the time, that was thankfully wrong.

The next major milestone in our joint relationship with food came when I gave Chris a Christmas present than was way more insightful than I realized at the time. (And I thought I was being pretty insightful!) I knew Chris really liked watching the show Good Eats on Food Network, and was interested in cooking. This was about 2 anniversary meals after the first one, both of which had been progressively more complex. I thought, "Ah ha! Why don't I get him a cookbook?" So I bought him the Good Eats cookbook, along with a set of measuring spoons. Partly inspired by my encouragement, Chris began to cook a little more. Along the way, he got a job at Applebees and went from busboy to cook. At some point in time, his family members got the idea in their heads that "Hey, Chris likes to cook!" and barraged him with cookbooks. None of which he's ever used. He's not a cookbook kind of guy, unfortunately. But all of this support, combined with the skills he gained at Applebees, heightened his confidence in his cooking. His anniversary dishes began to border on gourmet, with the best of them being an incredible stuffed lobster (which he did actually use a recipe for).

The third major milestone occurred in moving to England. Along with learning a number of other things, we finally learned to cook for ourselves. In Maine, we cooked, but it was mainly limited to pasta. In Ballston Spa, we occassionally cooked, but we mooched off our parents a lot. In England, we were forced to cook, because the dining hall was expensive, and eating out even more so. And we couldn't rely on packaged food, because it was absolutely terrible. You had to add so many of your own spices to the jarred tomato sauce that it was silly not to make it from scratch. So I ended up cooking all of my own lunches and Chris cooked dinner.

But more importantly, this was also the point at which Chris moved from being a "cook" to a "chef." I put those in quotes because Chris's official position still is line cook, but the difference in attitude between the two reveals a universe about food. Previously, in America, Chris had worked at Applebees for three years. He had moved from fry cook to being the most senior person there who wasn't a kitchen manager (which I'm sure they would have offered if he stayed). He worked all of the stations and regularly trained new people. But he had reached a point at which there was nothing else to learn. In order to produce the same product time after time, chain restaurants rely on a huge amount of frozen and precooked food. The cooks follow strict recipes and are neither encouraged nor have any desire to be creative. A surprising number of things are microwaved. After three years, Chris had picked up all of the knowledge that the Applebees kitchen had to offer. In contrast, Chris found a job with an independant restaurant in England. Even though it was a cafe that only served breakfast and lunch, it was rooted in a very different philosophy. They used a lot of fresh food, and had daily specials. The owner came from a fine dining background - he was a consultant at one point for one of the most expensive restaurants in Oxford. The chef, Luke, was classically trained. And to top it off, Luke himself was actually French. At first, Chris struggled because the owner was a neurotic perfectionist who never really explained his expectations. But once Luke returned from his sick-leave, everything fell into place. Luke and Chris got along very well, as they appreciated each others' dry humor and laid-back personalities. Luke taught Chris an incredible number of techniques and tricks. He also gave Chris quite a bit of responsibility and flexibility, something he would have never had at Applebees. Chris even ran the kitchen on Luke's days off, sometimes making the specials on his own. Although Chris was originally hired to be a "sandwich bitch" (his words), Luke gave him the opportunity to do much more.

While both of our cooking was improving, I became much more interested in the idea of sustainable eating. The idea of eating locally was just picking up steam as a movement, and it really excited me. We had been part of a vegetable box scheme in Ballston Spa through the natural foods store, and signed up for the one through the college as soon as we arrived in Oxford. Unfortunately, we eventually canceled it because of the abnormal vegetables we got, combined with their very inflated prices. But we did learn that this scheme had the potential to work, and that we were capable of making edible food out of some very unusual ingredients. At the same time, I started leaning more towards vegetarian food. I still ate meat, but Linacre always had a very good vegetarian option (and often meat options that I actively disliked), so I usually ate it no more than 2 or 3 times a week. There were probably some weeks that I went completely veggie. On top of all of this, we discussed food issues quite a bit in class, within the context of labels (organic, fair trade) and world economic systems, so it was on my mind a tremendous amount.

Since we've been home, the gourmet and the sustainable eating influences have converged. This confluence was helped along by the coincidence of reading three different books on food in a short period of time. The first one was called The Soul of a Chef, which Chris's boss gave him for Christmas. It follows three chefs at different points in their careers, and just made me hungry reading it. The last section is on Thomas Keller, probably the most acclaimed chef in America. The praise heaped on Keller and people's reactions to his food made me willing to try anything he made, even cow's brains. But the one thing that particularly struck me about Keller was not just his passion for cooking, but the respect that he had for his ingredients. When he made rabbit, he killed and skinned the rabbits himself. Not that we should all have to butcher our own meat, but I think that our society's attitude towards eating meat would be vastly different (and more compassionate) if we had that level of respect. And that even goes for non-sentient things. If we had the same level of respect for the land where our food grows and the people who grow it, it would certainly be a step in the right direction towards a sustainable food system. Then, the book's main message - that making good food is essential to who we are as people - was definitely reinforced upon reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. It's about how Americans see and process and eat our food, and how our current system is ridiculously dysfunctional. Really, most of the book is about that idea of respect for our food and ourselves that I had barely gleaned from the other one, but writ large. Despite, and because of, the research-heavy nature, the book is very good, and very entertaining. This book made me think not only about the process of cooking food, but everything it goes through to get to your stove. The second book, which I read in-between the two, was similar to Pollan's book, but less fact-heavy and more personal. It's called Plenty, and is about a couple who decide to only eat food produced within 100 miles of their house for a year. It has some statistics, but is mainly about their personal relationship with food and each other. On top of all of this reading, I wrote an article on local eating for the Conservationist, for which I did a lot of research. (It also gave me an excuse to read Plenty at work.)

All of this reading and research continued to make me rethink my personal relationship with food. (Hence, this entry.) As a result, I'm trying to move towards a lifestyle of eating that is environmentally and personally satisfying. For example, we have continued to buy locally, and found out that hey, not all of the food from local markets has to look funny! In fact, sometimes it's much, much better than what you buy at the supermarket. (Eggs have better yolks, tomatoes are better tasting, veggies are fresher.) I've even found some amount of joy in cooking, something I used to dread doing. I've actually made dishes that I was extremely pleased with, which I never expected to happen. (Of course, now I expect it to happen every time, which is unrealistic, but...it's me, the perfectionist.) Chris has continued to make some truly amazing meals.

And so, I'm a foodie. Not in terms of being pretentious, but as one who loves great food. As a result, I think, for one of the first times in my life, I've worked out how to be happy with what I'm eating in all ways - in terms of environmental sustainability, health and taste. Although I still do occasionally eat what Pollan calls "non-food" (mmm, Peeps dipped in chocolate), I am (generally) happy with what I eat. And although finding food is no longer the focus of our days like it was for the hunters/gatherers, the fact that I can thank God for my food and truly mean it makes me grateful indeed.

Alleluia!

2008-03-23T23:57:36Z

I've been reading a lot about Wendell Barry, farmer/writer extraordinare in Michael Pollen's The Omnivore's Dilemma. And then Slacktivistjust posted a link to a lovely poem by Wendell Barry that's perfect for Easter. Since he didn't post the poem himself, I'm afraid I'm going to have to. Enjoy!

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.</p>

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

And as John seems to be the go-to Gospel for Easter, here is my favorite part...

John 20:10-18 (NIV)

Then the disciples went back to their homes, but Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus' body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot. They asked her, "Woman, why are you crying?" "They have taken my Lord away," she said, "and I don't know where they have put him." At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus. "Woman," he said, "why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" Thinking he was the gardener, she said, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him." Jesus said to her, "Mary." She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, "Rabboni!" (which means Teacher). Jesus said, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet returned to the Father.Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am returning to my Fatherand your Father, to my God and your God.' " Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: "I have seen the Lord!"

May I be like Mary, shouting for joy at the goodness of God's love. Practicing resurrection indeed.

Happy Easter to all!

I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps...

2008-02-26T04:31:18Z

This past Wednesday, Chris and I went on a trip to New York City. Now, I've been to New York before, but this trip was exceptionally odd.<

To begin with, the reason for going was a little strange. I went to take a civil service exam to qualify for a special honors program through the federal government. It's supposed to be this prestigious program. In fact, to even qualify to take the exam, you have to have a graduate degree and have your university recommend you. Unfortunately, the running of this program seems to epitomize everything wrong with federal bureaucracy. The website is incomprehensible. The entry time only gave you a month to turn in the forms once they went up. Because they were originally supposed to go up in September, I checked the website in a number of countries as we travelled around Europe. As it turned out, the forms didn't actually go up until November! November! You expect us to get our stuff in within a month, and you put it up a month and a half later? What the hell, really. Then, once I got the exam announcement, guess when it is? On a Wednesday at noon in New York City. Thank you federal government for assuming that everyone lives in New York. And that we wouldn't rather stay the weekend since we have to take the entire day off anyway. How convenient.

I would have gone down by myself if necessary, but thankfully, Chris managed to switch with someone to have the day off. We originally planned to drive down to Poughkeepsie and take the train in, but there was a horrible ice storm predicted for the night before and that morning. My parents basically pleaded me to take the train from Albany instead. As it turned out, the train from Poughkeepsie is way more expensive than it used to be. Plus, my parents sweetened the deal by offering to pay the difference between the two train tickets.
Because of the need to get up so early, I wanted to go to bed early. I planned on printing out the study guide - which I didn't find out until the day before because it was buried at the bottom of the alert e-mail - and study on the train. But the housesitting situation got the best of my efforts. We thought we would be able to attach the laptop to our printer and print out the study guide using our hosts' printer. But our computer couldn't connect without the printer driver, which despite being an engineer (rocket scientist, specifically), Graham failed to leave us. We attempted to download it from the Internet, but that didn't work. So I decided to stick it out and stayed up late to review. Do you think, that of all people, I would not study for a test if I had materials? Stupidly, I didn't realize until around midnight that I could print stuff out by downloading it onto Graham and Karen's Mac that is attached to the printer. [sound of hand connecting to forehead]

The next morning, Chris and I woke up very early (at 5:54 am) and drove to the Renselelear train station. Thank God we decided not to drive down. It took us over an hour to get to Renesselear alone. And, on the drive there, we had to skid into the next lane on Balltown Road to avoid hitting the car in front of us. I also fell on my ass in the train station parking lot. It was that icy.

Thankfully, the train was on time and everything went well. We got off at Penn Station, took the subway, and found the federal building where the test was being held rather quickly. Chris left to go meet Melissa for lunch and I went into the building. The security guards were okay at first, but then got a little snotty when myself and the other girl who came in with me asked about the test. They gave us this "why do you want to know look?" and then told us "It's in Room 215, but you'll have to wait in the cafe on the 10th floor." Then the one guard turned to the other and asked, "Why are people coming so early?" I'm not the most prompt person in the world by any stretch of the imagination, but this was a government exam. You show up with plenty of time, and we were less than an hour early. I don't know why they seemed angry about it.

Following the guard's advice, this girl and I went up to the cafe as suggested. I was glad there was somewhere to eat, because I picked up a sandwich in Penn Station on the way there. We sat at the same table and had a surprisingly lengthy conversation, considering my usual awkwardness in similar situations. We talked about the test, which she knew quite a bit a more about than I did. She actually knew someone who had taken it before and got picked for a position. She also agreed that the positions seemed a bit lame in terms of both status and pay for something that was supposed to be such a big deal. She said that she already made almost that much at her current job and didn't particularly want to move down to Washington. I said that I certainly didn't make that much money, but that moving would be a pain in the ass and that living expenses were far higher there. But the strangest thing she told me was that they used to have a role-playing "live action" section! It was an Apprentice-style problem-solving activity, where you had to prove your "leadership skillz." You've got to be kidding me. Thankfully, they did away with it a couple years ago.

After 45 minutes of talking, we both headed downstairs to the testing room. Oddly, I don't think I ever found out her name. The testingroom was like many other testing rooms I've been in, with rows of desks set up neatly and young people sitting quietly. The one person ahead of me looked a little out of place there. He was a middle-aged Hispanic man in slightly-crumpled professional-looking clothes in a room of young, white people in jeans and t-shirts.

The test began with a very bored looking exam proctor introducing the five million things the government wanted us to know before beginning. Sheesh. You'd think if we were such bright students and national leaders that we could read at least some of the directions ourselves. The first part of the exam was on critical thinking. Before reading the study guide, I thought it would involve writing essays arguing a point or what one would do in response to a specific situation. But no, the government didn't want to test us on anything so practical as actual writing or thinking skills! Instead, the section was on logic. Logic. Something I haven't done since I was in ninth grade math. Which would be great if I had taken the LSTAT for law school, as logic games are a huge aspect of that exam. But you know, not everyone who works in government is a lawyer. When I was studying for the exam the night before, this section gave me a lot of trouble. I'd think that I had a problem worked out, and then realized that I was completely wrong when I looked at the answers. And the worst part was that the exam wasn't logic in any "logical" sense. For the most part, it followed the rules of logic we learned in math, but occassionally, unpredictably didn't resemble them in any sense. For example, they had sections on "if...then," "only if," and "if and only if" - but we only learned "if...then" and "if and only if" in class. And quite honestly, their explanation of how the three differed only heightened my confusion. Thankfully, the exam went a little better than reviewing with the practice booklet. I drew a lot of weird-ass pictures that vaguely resembled Venn diagrams and probably only made sense to me. I felt like I had a good handle on all of the questions, but quite honestly, I couldn't tell you how many of them were actually right or wrong. I just didn't have the sense of confidence in my answers like I usually do in exams.

Of course, it only got worse from there. The second part of the exam was a personality assessment! A personality assessment! The last time I took one of those, it was for the Borders application and asked questions like, "What would you do if you discovered a co-worker stealing?" It was completely ridiculous. For one, I sounded like an ass in the beginning part of the section. It asked questions like, "How would your supervisor rate your ... writing ability, productivity, ability to have projects done on time, reading speed (?!), etc.?" For which I answered "superior" on pretty much all of them. Because I know Dave thinks this - he's told me! The only ones I think I said "average" on were "how well you get along with people" and "how well you receive criticism." It was odd, because you didn't want to sound ridiculously full of yourself by answering superior, but at the same time, they want "superior" people so you really shouldn't be overly humble. I couldn't figure out what the hell they were looking for. The most ridiculous question was, "How often did you go to social events - like dances, getting together with small groups of friends, etc. - in high school?" WTF? Who cares how social I was in high school? Especially because they were testing people who had graduated from grad school, which is certainly a nerdier group than the average population. Ridiculous. At least I know I answered "correctly" on all of the questions asking about why you want to work in government, for which I basically wrote "Because I want to serve the public" on all of them.

The third section was on writing, which would obviously be my strongest suit. Unfortunately, instead of actually having people, you know, write, they asked stupid multiple-choice questions. There were a lot of "which statement is the best written?" questions that made me want to yell "They're all terrible! I could rewrite them all better!" I don't think the proctors would have appreciated that though.

It was simulantously the most annoying and the most confusing test I've ever taken. I've certainly taken more difficult tests, but I knew what I was getting into with them. I think I had taken more eye-rollingly stupid tests in college, but at least they weren't three hours long. I took the entire time, but only because I didn't want to sacrifice accuracy for the sake of impatience.

Once I finally finished the test, I was terribly relieved. I called Chris - but he wasn't picking up his phone! Arrgh! As it turned out, Chris and Melissa were in the subway and he didn't have any reception. It was particularly awkward because it was still raining outside and I had to stand in the lobby. Once I finally got a hold of him, I followed his vaguely confusing directions to meet up with him and Melissa. After a couple of turns, I found them standing across the street, smiling and waving at me! It was a lovely sight after such a frustrating few hours.

We hung out at Melissa's apartment for a little while, which is in Greenwich Village. Chris had become soaked roaming around the city, so he had to take off his soaking wet jeans. Melissa lent him sweatpants and her roommate's boyfriend's socks while Chris's jeans dried on their radiator. We planned on going to South Street Seaport, but then realized that we wouldn't have a lot of time to eat dinner by the time we shopped and had to get to the train station. Since Melissa lives in the Village, which is a tourist attraction in and of itself, we just decided to hang around there. We went to a terrific little bookshop with the name, "Unoppressive Non-Imperialist Bargain Books." Totally my sort of bookstore. And they didn't just have self-righteous political tomes, but a lot of great used and overstocked books. As a terrific birthday present, Melissa offered to buy me several books! Of course, I took forever and a half to pick them out. They had two different great-looking books on Monty Python! I ended up not buying either of them, but instead getting "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" (which I've wanted for forever), a pop-history of Paris, a Chuck Klosterman book (his stuff just looks interesting in general), and a really neat print of Gustav Klimt's The Kiss on canvas (one dollar!).

Then, we wandered for a while, and ended up in a pseudo-British pub called The Slaughtered Lamb. It wasn't nearly so spooky as the name suggests, although we missed the room with the werewolves behind glass. However, we did spot "The Dungeon," their basement where they open for weekends and parties. Being a Wednesday afternoon, the place was pretty chill. One nice detail was that they did have flags from British beers hanging up around the place, which was a pleasant reminder of our recent home. We sipped our drinks - mine was originally messed up, but they did replace it - in front of a lovely, warm fire offsetting the very London-y weather outside.

After finishing our drinks, we headed back to Melissa's apartment for dinner. Although she wasn't making us dinner. Instead, we were eating in the Ethiopian restaurant immediately below her apartment. She had wanted to go there for quite a while, just for the hell of it, and we promised her we would. I was actually quite excited about it. When else would I have a chance to try Ethiopian food?

Walking past the tarot reader that's another tenant under Melissa's roof, we descended the stairs that lead to the restaurant. The restaurant itself was small and narrow, not much larger than Melissa's apartment. There were a few tables on each side, with a bar at the end. African-looking, richly colored art, along with rope lights decorated the walls. The entire place had a warm, earthy feel to it. We sat down and received menus from our server, who seemed mostly indifferent to us. I perused the menu, reading each item a couple different times, as if I could make better sense of them the second or third time around. I finally settled on the least-spicy sounding vegetarian dish, while Melissa and Chris chose lamb and beef respectively. We figured we could share them all. The server took our menus back with the same lack of interest as she had originally. At the beginning, we were almost the only patrons. There was one girl in knee-high striped socks there, who was reading a book. When another group came in and sat at the table on the other side of the wall from her, she kept looking up at them in this very annoyed manner. I didn't find them particularly annoying, but she appeared disturbed by their presence and eventually left without ever seeming to order anything.

Our server eventually showed up with our food, carrying a huge silverplatter. She placed a gigantic pancakeish-thing on it, and then spooned various types of glop onto it. The vegetarian stuff was the most gooey, while the meat dishes had a bit more solidity to them. Then she put down a plate of smaller pancakes in front of me. Then she left us, with only the pancakes and goo. We looked at the pancakes and the silver platter and then all looked at each other, all thinking the same thing, "How are we supposed to eat this?" Melissa said, "Aren't we supposed to have utensils?" I was about to call over our server when it dawned on us, that no, we weren't supposed to have utentils. The utensils were the pancakes and our very own hands. We didn't even have plates to eat over! It was definitely surreal. The lack of utensils freaked Melissa out a bit. I liked the food a lot, although I was the most enthusiastic. Melissa distinctly didn't like it, and Chris thought it was "okay." We were all glad to have done it though – it was worth knowing that we had tried, even though no one else wanted to repeat the experience except for me.

From there, we moved on to a restaurant more Melissa's style – BB Sandwich Bar. Although BB's is infamous for their cheesesteaks, Melissa was looking for something sweeter. She is extremely fond of Tonni's cupcakes, ranging from vanilla to red velvet, which is sold in the same little bitty shop. Chris and I got one cupcake each, while Melissa had one to eat and one to save at home. While eating, I pointed out to Melissa that the same thing she had such an issue with earlier - eating with her hands - didn't seem to be a problem at all now. She shrugged, and said, "Yeah, that's true." It's all in the context, I suppose.

We headed back to the subway afterwards, then back home via Penn Station. I mainly slept, while Chris started "When Androids Dream." Around midnight, we finally arrived back home, visions of a surreal New York remaining in our memories in our suburban home.

Still crazy after all these years...

2008-02-25T04:41:01Z

I'm a quarter-century old. It's very strange indeed. As Mom said this morning, "A hundred years ago, you'd be middle-aged."

I had a terrific birthday weekend. First rockclimbing with my mom and pizza with my parents, then out on the town! Thanks to everyone who came out to my "party" last night to roam the wilds of Lark Street with me. It was terrific to have (most) of my friends around me, and many more people came than I expected. It was so great just to stand around and talk to people, my favorite thing to do in the world. And I finally got my birthday margarita at Bombers! I've been waiting years to get that damn drink.

It was probably the best birthday I've had since my junior year of high school, when we had the kareoke party. That party was particularly memorable because it was the first thing Chris went to since he got out of the hospital after his lung collapsed. Little did I know that I would still be so excited about his presence more than eight years later! I had the same feeling when he showed up yesterday at Susy's after work. Some birthday presents never get old. Even if he was up at 9 this morning - after less than 5 hours of sleep after driving my rather intoxicated self home - to bake my birthday cake.

All in all, yesterday and today were two very sweet days, and not just because of Chris's homemade chocolate frosting.

Fifteen Things I've Done that You Probably Haven't

2008-02-02T02:51:01Z

The "Ten Things I've done that you probably haven't" is an old meme, but it's one of the few that actually interest me. I saw it at John Scalzi's (SF author) blog, The Whatever, and it got me thinking. I've done a lot of cool shit! And not just because of travel, but also because my choice to participate in some weird things. Some of these are described elsewhere on the Livejournal, but not all of them. I had trouble whittling it down to ten, so there's 15. So here's my list:

1) Gotten stuck for 3 hours on a glacier in Alaska while waiting for a new airplane to pick us up.
2) Mistakenly herded sheep while hitchhiking in Ireland.
3) Eating a “spacecake” in Amsterdam - and failing to get high. After numerous warnings to eat it slowly because of its strength.
4) Been served shrimp cocktail in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
5) Watching my parents renewing their vows in a Blue-Hawaii themed Elvis wedding in Vegas with two separate Elvises, one of them under 5 ft high.
6) Lived in a house in incredibly rural Maine for three weeks that was originally infested with spiders, lacked running water, and was surrounded by poison ivy.
7) Stayed up until dawn every day for a week straight to film a goofy movie about zombies and vampires that I starred in and had written the script for.
8) Got paid $500 for only watching one hour of TV per week for six months (when I was in sixth grade).
9) Ran around campus and through classrooms dressed up as Sue from Ms. Pac-Man with the other ghosts and Pac-Man.
10) Have interviewed Bill Nye. He carries a copy of the periodic table in his wallet!
11) Seen the only remaining head of a dodo complete with skin. It’s stored in the back storage area of the Oxford Museum of Natural History.
12) Bicycled 92 miles in one day while only planning to ride 50 (AIDS Ride for Life).
13) Walked around downtown Oxford dressed in a sheet with a logo on it and worshiping random corporate stores – McDonalds, Starbucks, etc.
14) Writing “like a buffalo thunder, with a smell of sugar” and other lyrics from Dirty Epic in chalk on the sidewalk as people walk by and give you some very strange looks.
15) Drank five-euro champagne under the Eiffel Tower in a raging thunderstorm.

Unlike most of my other blog entries, this one is a lot more fun with a bit of audience participation. Feel free to answer it in your blog or in the comments. So what have you done that I probably haven't?

Family Storytelling: Part III

2008-01-11T01:28:24Z

The final part of my family's stories...

Mom and Dad college stories: Although my parents grew up relatively near each other in New Jersey, they didn’t meet until attending junior college together. As they attended college in the 1970s, first in New Jersey, then in Florida, they came out of the experience with a number of colorful stories. I didn’t know certain details of them until recently (ahem, hem), but that was only icing on the cake.

Originally, my parents were strictly friends. Best friends, in fact. Mom was still good friends with Maureen, but Mom and Dad had a comfortableness around each other unlike anyone else. This was especially odd because my Dad was extremely shy at the time. Now, some of my friends joke that they’ve never heard him speak, but that could have been a legitimate statement at that time. He hardly said anything, and never ever spoke to girls. Except my Mom. Not surprisingly, he was completely in love with her. But like all sitcom-ish situations, my Mom was clueless. Completely and utterly clueless, not that fake clueless that you pretend to get out of awkward situations. He was just her best friend. Besides, as she would tell you, she was dating this guy at the time quite seriously. They were even engaged. So, like any good friend-who-is-a-boy, my father listened to her whenever she bitched about her fiancée. And from the sound of it, he wasn’t exactly a peach. Nan and Pop seriously disliked her fiancée, and repeatedly suggested that she date Dad instead. Finally, Mom wised up. She said she could imagine being like Lisa in that episode where she imagines marrying Ralph – “Kids, I’m watching mah stories!” She broke up with her fiancée just before the wedding. Although my grandparents lost some money, I think they were quite relieved. Then, she finished junior college and decided that, “Hey, Richard and his friends are at University of Florida, it looks nice, why don’t I go to college there?” So she did. Without ever stepping foot on campus before her first class. But it didn’t matter because Dad was there along with his friends, it had a good program, and that’s all she needed. Eventually, at some point in Florida, Dad got drunk one night. This in and of itself wasn’t that unusual – they did live near the Anhaeiser-Busch plant. But this night, Dad kissed Mom for the first time. And she realized that her best friend had been more than her best friend all along, and the rest is history.

Besides their get-together story, Mom and Dad had loads of other college stories. My parents went to college in Tampa, FL and lived in an apartment with a balcony that looked out over a courtyard. One fall, they were celebrating my dad’s birthday with some friends out on the balcony. As they sang happy birthday to him, they heard another group on a different balcony across the courtyard join in harmony. It turned out to be the Outlaws! The Outlaws were a semi-successful 1970s group that formed in Tampa. They ended up having two songs that still occasionally get played on the radio – “There Goes Another Love Song,” and “Green Grass and High Tides.” So although they weren’t superstars, my dad still remembers the occasion fondly.

In addition, my parents had some very colorful characters as friends. For example, one of their best friends, Billy, lived on the apartment complex’s lawn on a lawnchair for about a year. Thankfully, it was Florida, so this wasn’t the worst thing ever. But it wasn’t until I was older that I realized that Billy had been more than just odd as a student/young adult. Similarly, they had a friend who would take on any challenge to eat anything. This happened to include, on one occasion, dog food. On a different occasion when camping, they stripped this guy naked and threw him out of the tent! As my Dad hardly ever said anything, I doubt this was his idea, thankfully.

Camping trips never seemed uneventful with my father’s friends. One time they went canoing, and – somehow - they went over a waterfall! How do you not notice a waterfall? They were probably drunk at the time.

As earlier suggested, drinking was a big part of my parents’ college lives. My dad’s friends had one favorite drinking game that they created themselves. It was called “Teeth.” It involved throwing a beer cap at each other. When you threw it at someone, if you didn’t say anything, they had to catch it. However, if you said, “Teeth!” they had to bounce it off of their teeth. If they didn’t do the right task, or dropped the cap, they had to take a drink. As they continued drinking, hilarity ensued. Although previous to her college career, Mom also talked about how her and her friend Maureen would sneak across the border into New York so they could drink. At the time, the drinking age in NJ was 21, but only 18 in NY. They would hang out at skeezy bars down at the docks. That never sounded appealing to me, quite honestly.

In the case of the story about my parents getting together, it really served to reinforce the idea that my parents were meant to be together. Not that they just fell into each other’s arms, but that their relationship was based on a conscious choice. They made decisions to be together and worked on it. It also taught me and later reinforced how essential friendship is to a romantic relationship. My parents were best friends first in their relationship. It wasn’t based on a knight-in-shining-armor love, but on a cultivated mutual respect and affection. I think this is really one of the main reasons they’ve always had such a strong relationship and why I put such an emphasis on it from the beginning of my relationship with Chris. And of course, Dad winning out over jerky-bad-boy-fiancé showed that nice guys (truly nice but shy, not “Nice Guys”) can get the girl, and will be way better boyfriends and husbands than the alternative.

However, many of these stories served the purpose of entertainment mixed with warnings. As in, “We were jerkasses, do something better with your time in college than we did.” Although I think this applied most strongly to incidents like the canoeing mishap, it was a general theme of many of my parents’ college stories. They acknowledged to me that they drank a lot, and that they had exposure to that atmosphere. They even admitted having fun doing it. But they also weighed that with the idea that they didn’t approve of me doing it, and that really, there were better things that one could do with one’s time. Mom has said many a time that she wished she took more advantage of the many opportunities available at college. And honestly, from my freshman and sophomore years in college, I can verify that there are many things more fun than hanging out with obnoxious people when they are drunk. (Unobnoxious people can be another story.) In some ways, I think that even without the “afterschool message,” my parents’ telling these stories actually made drinking less attractive to me. It wasn’t mysterious or fascinating to me. It was something they did and were willing to talk about it, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. And quite honestly, who wants to be more like their parents on something like that?

Mom’s school stories: My mom, for those who don’t know her, is an elementary school teacher. From as early as I can remember, she has told me stories of her experiences in schools.

Some of her earliest school stories were about her teaching in Florida, in some very rural school districts. One day, while she was attempting to teach language skills via animal identification, she held up a picture of an opossum. One kid said, “We had that for dinner last night!” Mom was rather surprised, to say the least.

After moving back up to the north, Mom took a position at a facility for children who were very mentally disturbed. She worked there because many of them were also mentally retarded and required serious language help. The story of one child in particular always stuck with me. He was the child of circus people, who locked him in a cage for hours and days on end with the animals. As he was only a child while he was in the school facility, he must have been very young when this happened. As a result of this abuse, he behaved like an animal, one who never had positive contact with people. He didn’t communicate, was violent, and didn’t know how to express emotion. He was – and my mom never uses this term lightly – unsavable. He was just pushed too far over the edge from a very young age. He was incapable of showing – much less understanding – love. Although he probably had the worst history, there were other children who had also been horrifically abused. There were also some that the teachers knew it wasn’t a question of if, but when, they would be going to jail.

Thankfully, working at this school wasn’t all gloom and doom. In fact, because the students were so out-of-the-mainstream, Mom and her friend Karen had a lot of flexibility. Young and idealistic as they were, the two of them thought it was a good idea to bring their class on field trips. They brought them to the many, many places these kids never had an opportunity to go to before. They even brought them on short hikes! When they passed by the cliffs near Thatcher Park, one kid pointed out the window and asked, “Who made those?” He had never seen anything so big or dramatic that wasn’t man-made.

After she became pregnant with me, Mom switched jobs, and eventually ended up in her current job at her current school district. Although it is a normal school district, it’s also a public school in an urban area. So she faced some of the same problems she faced at her previous jobs. This time it was different though, because I was around. And I was always welcome at her school. I spent many days in her classroom, part of her groups at first, and then growing to help and guide the children. Eventually I graduated to teaching them myself, as a substitute aide and teacher.

All along the way, I heard stories of her children, who were never biological, never my brothers and sisters, but her children nonetheless. She told me about the broken families, where the children lived with their mother and her rotating line-up of boyfriends. She told me about families where the parents, whether single or not, worked terribly hard and yet still had difficulty providing the necessities for their children. She told me about the foster children, bounced from home to home, never quite knowing where they would end up. She told me about the children whose only meals for the day were at school, because breakfast and lunch were free. The children who dreaded summer break because they didn’t have anywhere to go during the day, anything to eat in the house.

As it turns out, somewhere along the line, Mom realized that she most loved the most difficult children. Probably because she knew they needed the most love. She loves her students as her children to the point of almost making it real at times – she seriously considered adopting one of the foster children she taught. (It fell through for a number of reasons.)

Hearing my Mom’s school stories always reinforced how extremely lucky and blessed I am in life. I often heard these stories at dinnertime, while I was eating in my house, with my two parents on either side of me. The contrast between my situation and theirs was clearly evident, even from a young age. Not only was my family economically stable/well-off, but also emotionally nurturing and supportive. My parents always emphasized both sides of that coin. Also, these stories raised the awareness in me that not everyone was as well off as I was. Unlike some other kids in our comfortable suburb, I had a strong awareness that most of the world was not like this. I knew that even though I lived comfortably, less than 20 miles away were people living in desperate situations. Perhaps most importantly, I knew that children, who did nothing to cause their poverty, were living in these situations.

Besides just knowing about the existence of poverty, Mom’s school stories instilled in me the value and need to help others who were less fortunate. I think she felt this responsibility partly because of her recognition that others, including family and friends, had supported her family when they were poor. But this responsibility was more than just a payback, it was a task to be embraced and enjoyed. She always framed it as a commitment, a welcomed duty, not a burden. Her passion and belief in her job always shined through in these stories, even on the toughest days when she looks forward to retirement.

My passion for social justice derives from a combination of these stories and my time spent at Mom’s school. Because I knew that no matter what these children’s parents did or did not do, the kids did not deserve to live in poverty. They did not deserve to live that life. As adults, with the potential to have influence, we had to take care of them in whatever ways we could. For my mom, it was teaching. For me, it is advocacy and campaigning – changing the systems themselves.

So those are my family’s stories. There are many others, of course. There’s loads of stories my mom tells about me as a child, from my babysitter dressing me up as a clown when I was asleep, to me managing to put anything in my mouth that I could imagine was food. There’s ones about my aunts and uncles that didn’t directly involve my parents, like Aunt Patty breaking both her arms one summer and meeting Bruce Springsteen at a party another summer. Most recently, there’s Shea stories, involving Chris’s parents and extended family. But I chose these because they are the ones that have affected me the most, shaped my view of the world.

Eventually, Chris and I will have our own family stories. We have some of our own stories now, that we tell our family and friends. But I feel that these stories don’t quite solidify as truly “family stories” until we pass them on to our own children. Although not for some years, I do foresee a time when we will be able to pass them on. When that time comes, I hope that when we do tell our children our family stories, that they are just as vivid and insightful as when our families shared their stories with us.

Finally!!!

2008-01-08T18:23:36Z

Eeeeee! I have a job, I have a job! [does a dance]

That is all.

Happy New Year!

2008-01-02T04:51:24Z

Happy New Year to all of my friends! May you have a joyful year overflowing with hope and love. A year lacking worry and full of grace.

2008 is here!

A few thoughts on the future:

"Change is the process by which the future invades our lives, and it is important to look at it closely, not merely from the grand perspectives of history, but also from the vantage point of the living, breathing individuals who experience it."
-Alvin Toffler, Future Shock

"When you wonder about the mystery of yourself, look to Christ, who gives you the meaning of life. When you wonder what it means to be a mature person, look to Christ, who is the fulfillness of humanity. And when you wonder about your role in the future of the world … look to Christ."
- Pope John Paul II

"The best way to predict the future is to invent it."
- Alan Kay

"I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority."
-E.B. (Elwyn Brooks) White, Essays of E.B. White, 1977

Family Storytelling: Part II

2007-12-31T00:50:46Z

The (Mis)Adventures of Nan: When I was in elementary school, I had to write yet another book about a family story. Since I had already recounted Grandma’s tale several times, I decided to focus on Mom’s mother, Nan. Although I knew there were a lot of stories about her, I had no idea how many until I started talking to her and Mom about it.

Nan was a precocious, curious child who was unafraid of trouble. She was known for her naughtiness, even going so far as to steal bow off of graves to use as hair ribbons! She also had no fear, of heights or consequences. At some point, she decided that she would try flying with the help of an umbrella. As Mary Poppins wouldn’t come out in the movies until 1964, I have no idea where she got this idea. However, one day she jumped from the roof of their garage armed with only a brolly. Thankfully, she had only a few scrapes to show for it.

As Nan grew up, she lost little of her idealism or naivety. She first met my grandfather on a city bus, standing near him and noting how handsome he looked. He saw her as well that day, and had a similar reaction. Coincidently (or perhaps through fate), she re-met that young man only a few days later at a USO (I think) dance. They danced together, still liked each other, and the rest is history. Common to the time, they were both young when they married, with Nan having just graduated from high school. Nan was so naïve that the first time they went to a restaurant, she pointed to the hors d'oeuvres on the menu and asked, “What are these horsey doovers?”

Although Pop (my grandfather) adored Nan, he also loved to tease her. Early in their marriage, he requested that she make one of his favorite dishes for him, split-pea soup. Knowing her lack of kitchen skills, he told her that she had to wake up very early so she could split each pea individually. Thankfully, Nan stopped by Great-Grandma’s house for assistance before setting off to the store. After scolding her for her silliness, Great-Grandma quickly set her straight on the actual task of making the soup.

Even after having children, Nan and her friends loved joking with one another. When Mom was a young child, she lived in a small planned town in New Jersey called Winfield. They lived in a duplex, connected to the other side by a door in the basement. At this time, Pop was working the night shift, and so was sleeping upstairs. One Halloween, as Nan was giving out candy to the Trick-or-Treaters, masked bandits ran up the basement stairs, stole the bowl of candy out of her hands and dashed out the door! Nan, having no idea what just happened, started screaming her head off, yelling, “Thieves, thieves!”. Pop woke up in a hurry and sprinted out the front door, clothed in only his undershirt and boxers. He caught up to the masked intruders and tackled one on the grass. Under him, he heard muffled cries of, “Lloyd, it’s us, Lloyd!” Once he removed the masks, he realized he had tackled “Aunt” Joan, a close friend of the family who lived in the adjoining house. The other thief was, of course, her husband, “Uncle” Jimmy. I’m sure they had quite a laugh afterwards, but I’m sure they never expected to be tackled with such force when planning the prank.

These stories provided a lot to me, in a very different way than the stories of my other relatives. Most of these stories were more light-hearted and funny than the others, if nothing else. They really demonstrated the sense of humor my family had, especially my Mom’s side. But they also showed me that even my grandmother was a young girl once, who did naughty, silly things. I wasn’t encouraged to do these things, but I knew that the adults weren’t always adults. Lots of parents remind their kids that they were once kids too, but they are never believable without stories. These tales provided the evidence, the truth to the assertion that perhaps they did understand childhood and all of its trials and fun. It also showed me that even back then, little girls weren’t always afraid to get dirty. Along with Laura Ingells Wilder and Anne of Green Gables, Nan provided an example of girlhood that wasn’t prim and proper, but adventurous and fun.

These stories also provided a counter-balance to the high standards set in the immigrant stories. They didn’t lower these standards, but they provided a bit more wiggle room. The split-pea and Halloween stories especially demonstrated to me that everyone screws up sometimes, but that when that happens, you just get back on your feet and laugh about it. Although the mistake may have already been made, you can still do your best to fix it and move on. And they showed that adults didn’t start off knowing everything they do now. Recalling the split-pea story and Nan’s current culinary skills gives me a bit more hope for myself as a decent cook.

Stories of Mom growing up: Along with Nan, Mom has told me many stories over the years about her own childhood. One of these stories were included in the original version of The (Mis)Adventures of Nan, but it was really more about Mom and Aunt Linda.

Although not whole stories, background on my mother’s upbringing always provided the context them. Part of this background came through family artifacts. For one of my grandparents’ anniversaries, Mom compiled their old fashioned family movies into a VHS tape. Through those old films, I was able to see their family Christmases over and over and over again. The films were stereotypical 1950s Christmas home movies, excepting the Santa Claus arriving in a helicopter bit (especially knowing that that Santa was going to stop at my Mom’s house for a beer after arriving). However, although Mom and Aunt Linda grew up with a semi-middle-class lifestyle, it wasn’t due to their family inherently having a lot of money. Whenever I heard about their presents or being spoiled, it was quickly followed by the explanation that Pop worked his butt off to provide for his family. He constantly had at least 2 jobs, and sometimes three. Now there’s a note of sadness in her description (Pop died a few years ago), but there was always a deep admiration in her tone. But knowing the sacrifices her parents made to bring Mom and Aunt Linda (and later, Uncle Rob) the lifestyle they did also made them seem even brattier as children at times.

The brattiest thing they ever did occurred when Mom and Aunt Linda were fairly young. There was a television in their shared bedroom, and they were watching it one day. Suddenly, they ran downstairs, screaming, “Mommy, Mommy, the TV’s on fire, the TV’s on fire!” Of course, Nan rushed upstairs in panic. When she reached it, she immediately saw that the TV was not on fire. To which Mom and Aunt Linda said, “April Fools!” Except that it wasn’t April Fools Day. It wasn’t even April. Nan was seriously displeased, needless to say. Even though it was Mom’s idea, Aunt Linda got punished because as the older sister, “she should have known better.”

The other prominent story from their childhood occurred during Mom’s thirteenth birthday party. At the party, someone suggested having a séance, a fairly typical girl birthday party idea. So they turned off the lights, sat in a circle and someone asked if spirits would come. Except that the whole thing was much scarier than they realized. Just when everyone’s nerves were about shot, one girl said, “God, if you’re there, give us a sign!” And there was a sharp rap on the window! Followed by two more! The girls started screaming and sprang up in terror. Although Mom was frightened at first, she quickly cleared her head and knew exactly who was responsible. Linda! Linda is two years older than Mom, and was constantly trying to get revenge for years of being blamed whenever Mom did something wrong (such as the TV incident). When they started the séance, Linda had previously gone upstairs and Mom’s best friend Maureen, because they were “bored.” Uncle Rob, who was only 3 at the time, went up there with them. Of course, Linda claimed to have no idea what happened and certainly was not involved in such trickery. Maureen denied the charges as well. Until little toddler Rob emerged from the bedroom, dragging several curtain rods taped together. Which were the perfect device for hanging out the bedroom window and tapping the window below. I’m not sure that Aunt Linda ever confessed, but there was no question whose idea that was.

From listening to stories of my mom’s childhood, I had a bit more perspective into a specific time and my mom’s personality. Knowing about Pop’s jobs, I understood why she had such a strong work ethic and wanted to instill this in me. I felt proud hearing about Pop’s hard work and knowing that I came from that tradition. Also, I knew that I was fortunate in comparison to my parents’ childhood lifestyles, because although my grandparents provided well, they still didn’t grow up with many of the luxuries I was used to. My father didn’t go out to dinner at a regular restaurant until he was 18 or so. And like Nan’s stories, Mom’s childhood shenanigans just showed that she was an oblivious and naughty child at one point too. Plus, these stories are just plain entertaining, especially when Mom and Aunt Linda tell them together.