Last night, after a very random series of events, I happened to meet a recovering alcoholic who is 35 years sober (I'll call her "Sarah" for simplicty's sake).
I used to think that it was unfair that a person was labeled an alcoholic for life even if they only drank heavily or abused alcohol for a year (or a few years, in this woman's case), but now I see that it's not a matter of fairness; the lifelong label "alcoholic" is a matter of honesty and an abandonment of wishful thinking. If you were ever an alcoholic, you still are; the only difference is that recovering alcoholics are alcoholics without booze. Add booze to the mix and it becomes abundantly clear why they still wear that badge.
One of my friends asked Sarah "Do you ever miss it? Is it hard?"
"You know," she said, "no, it isn't. Every once in awhile I walk into a restaurant and think to myself, 'Boy, it would be nice to have a glass of wine with my meal like everyone else.' But I never had a glass of wine, I had 10."
That's when she said, "I lived by the motto: Poor me...Pour me a drink." And it dawned on me that every alcoholic I know lives by the same motto. Sarah recited, verbatim, some of the things my very own friends have said to me, when she told me the excuses she used to make - most notoriously "if you had my life, you'd drink too." She was the first person to remind me that she had money, two beautiful children, and a loving husband and family.
Sarah believes she has a disease. She believes that she inherited the genes for alcoholism from some of her numerous alcoholic relatives. She said "My husband used to say to me, 'Why are you doing this?' That's not how it works. You wouldn't ask a cancer patient why they have cancer."
This is where we disagree. Yes, alcoholism is a disease, but not like cancer. Most cancer patients have absolutely no choice in their disease (the exception would be people who develop cancer after making repeated bad lifestyle choices - smoking, drinking - but even then, genetics play a role). Alcoholics, on the other hand, know - and I don't care what anyone says - they know, at some point or another that they have a drinking problem - that the alcohol controls them and they depend on the alcohol. Most alcoholics realize this long (years and years) before they get help. It is unfair and deceptive to lump alcoholics and cancer patients together.
Let me put it this way, if a cancer patient took a pill everyday, and the doctors said "this pill you are taking is causing your cancer. If you stopped taking this pill, you'd get better," then you bet your ass people would ask cancer patients "why are you doing this?" too.
A couple of weeks ago I went into the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine. As I was checking out, I noticed the man behind me setting a bottle of cheap bourbon on the counter- plastic, gallon-size, bottom-of-the-barrel, couldn't have cost more than $11. He had the shakes. His face was bloated and his skin was pocked, wrinkled, and scarred. His nose was bulbous and red. He wore dirty khaki pants and a red plaid shirt. He looked 70, but I'd guess he was probably closer to 50. He had a look of pain on his face as he pushed his bottle to the cashier. She smiled at him nonchalantly as she read his total and bagged his bottle.
I thought to myself "how can you live with yourself?" and I wasn't thinking about the man, I was thinking about the cashier.
It's illegal for doctors to give an obvious drug addict pills, so why is it legal for a clerk in a liquor store to sell an alcoholic booze? I know there are obvious answers here, but if you think about it, it's really not that different. A doctor would refuse to prescribe medication based on the patient's behavior and demeanor - I guess he could run a tox screen, but I doubt that happens in these situations. Doctors make a judgement call based on experience. Why is it that supplying an addict with their drug of choice is illegal in most situations, but commonplace in others?
I'm not condemning that clerk, or any clerk, nor am I condemning the tens of thousands of bartenders who knowingly and unknowingly pour drinks for alcoholics each year. I am pointing out that we live in a society riddled with not only addiction, but hypocrisy.
I know prohibition is a bad idea. I know prohibition will never work. But come on, the U.S. is so tough on drugs based on this notion that they are bad for the people who take them, and bad for the people who are affected by the people who take them. What about alcohol?
Throughout my years, and the comings and goings of various friends of mine, I have always known people who were touched by alcoholism, whether personally or in their immediate family. I've also known numerous people related to, or affected by other types of drug abuse (my freshman year of college the girl who lived across the hall from me dropped out after developing a heroin addiction).
That number would be exponentially larger if I counted non-nuclear family members and friends. The times when we've talked about it, the conversations were almost always preceeded by tears and painful memories or recountings of interactions with their drunk loved one. Alcoholics cause the people around them infinite pain. They harm and harden good and loving people. They ruin the lives of their families and friends. And they don't care.
Most alcoholics will insist that they do care, but alcoholics are constant liars. Sarah repeated the old adage, "How can you tell if an alcohlic is lying? Her lips are moving." And that's the truth. She admitted, and who knows how long it took her to admit this, that when she was drinking she didn't care about anything. She didn't care about her husband or her children. She admitted she didn't care about her children. I imagine that's the case for most alcoholics. Many arguments end with the impassioned cry "You wouldn't do this if you cared about me!" to the addict. Make some minor modifications and that statement becomes the question and the answer: You do this, and you don't care about me.
Once you come to this realization, dealing with the addict becomes easier, but not any less hard (and I realize this statement is a contradiction, but if you've had any experience with an addict, you know what I mean).
I asked Sarah how she finally decided to seek help, and she told me that her sister came to visit (her family lived across the country) right after she (Sarah) had been prescribed valium for her "nerves" (she used air quotes when she recounted this). Later that day, after Sarah drank some vodka (she doesn't know how much) and took a valium, her sister found her in a coma. Sarah said that she wasn't trying to kill herself, but at that point she really didn't care if she died.
After that, her sister told her parents and her husband and they all got together to try to help her. When she was faced with losing her children, she finally pulled herself together enough to go to rehab. She explained that it wasn't so much the thought of losing her kids that motivated her, but the thought of what people would say about her if she lost her kids. I guess when love isn't enough, societal judgement is.
Not too long ago, I was riding in the car with someone (I don't remember who) who said "I don't think I could be friends with someone who uses cocaine." I laughed immediately and said "You are friends with people who use cocaine, and you don't know it." She eyed me suspiciously.
"No, not me."
"Who?"
"I don't know, but I guarentee you know at least one person who uses cocaine either recreationally or abusively. You probably know lots of them."
The same is true with alcoholics, except multiply that number by 10. Or more realistically, 50.
I know this sounds dire, but this will never get better until people start recognizing the reality of the situation. If you see someone with a problem, don't ignore it. Say something. Say something to that person, or their parents, or their friends, or their spouse. Admitting there is a problem really is the first step.
I think about how different Sarah's life could have been if her sister had visited a year or two earlier. She might not have cerosis. She might not have osteoporosis. She might not have lost her marriage of 8 years (and her relationship with her husband of 16 years). I'm glad she told me her story, and in honor of her courage and her efforts to right those wrongs she committed so many years ago, but still haunt her, I promise that I will not keep quiet any longer.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Things That Make Me Happy
1) The sound my dog makes when she eats cereal I've dropped on the floor
2) My first sip of green tea when it's a little too hot, but not too hot to drink.
3) Waking up in the middle of the night and being COLD. I'm always hot when I sleep, so being cold when I sleep is the greatest.
4) Cherry vanilla soy cream (especially the chunks of cherry).
5) Riding my bicycle on any summer day, and especially any summer night.
6) Being thirsty and remembering that I carry my Nalgene everywhere with me.
7) Walking through Schenley Park late at night (and especially going to my secret place in the park).
8) Going to the outdoor movies in Schenley during the summer (even crappy movies are great when you're lying on a picnic blanket and eating a Scooter Crunch).
9) When the police chopper flies overhead during the movies and the lights startle everyone and you catch a glimpse of faces that are otherwise invisible in the darkness
10) Being surprised with dinner when I get home frome work
11) Being reminded that my old friends still think about me
12) Great Lake Swimmers
13) Peepers (they're really summer frogs, but I call them peepers).
14) The tradition of making homemade sangria every summer, and then having an excuse to invite my close friends over to share it with me (usually for several weekends in a row).
15) The homamade apple cider tradition that we started this year.
16) Dicsovering that allspice comes from a berry! (courtesy of the cider recipe)
17) Hearing my Grandaddy's voice
18) Remembering the way my grandpa laughed when he watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
19) Getting enough sleep
20) Picnics - even if they're only with canned tuna and pieces of cheese.
21) Swinging on the swingset at Anderson playground
22) Getting at least 8 hours of sleep
23) Running a good 3 miles and having the energy to run more
24) Christmas lights (especially those on the Ronald McDonald houses).
25) Laying on a blanket on the beach and falling asleep in the sun.
26) Forcing my fellow vacationers to turn off the central air in the beach house and taking it back old school by opening up all of the windows and turning on all of the ceiling fans.
27) Salad with homemade ginger dressing
28) Salad with Greek dressing (especially from Ali Baba and Aladdin's)
29) Any fresh salad!
30) To be continued (refer to #19).
2) My first sip of green tea when it's a little too hot, but not too hot to drink.
3) Waking up in the middle of the night and being COLD. I'm always hot when I sleep, so being cold when I sleep is the greatest.
4) Cherry vanilla soy cream (especially the chunks of cherry).
5) Riding my bicycle on any summer day, and especially any summer night.
6) Being thirsty and remembering that I carry my Nalgene everywhere with me.
7) Walking through Schenley Park late at night (and especially going to my secret place in the park).
8) Going to the outdoor movies in Schenley during the summer (even crappy movies are great when you're lying on a picnic blanket and eating a Scooter Crunch).
9) When the police chopper flies overhead during the movies and the lights startle everyone and you catch a glimpse of faces that are otherwise invisible in the darkness
10) Being surprised with dinner when I get home frome work
11) Being reminded that my old friends still think about me
12) Great Lake Swimmers
13) Peepers (they're really summer frogs, but I call them peepers).
14) The tradition of making homemade sangria every summer, and then having an excuse to invite my close friends over to share it with me (usually for several weekends in a row).
15) The homamade apple cider tradition that we started this year.
16) Dicsovering that allspice comes from a berry! (courtesy of the cider recipe)
17) Hearing my Grandaddy's voice
18) Remembering the way my grandpa laughed when he watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
19) Getting enough sleep
20) Picnics - even if they're only with canned tuna and pieces of cheese.
21) Swinging on the swingset at Anderson playground
22) Getting at least 8 hours of sleep
23) Running a good 3 miles and having the energy to run more
24) Christmas lights (especially those on the Ronald McDonald houses).
25) Laying on a blanket on the beach and falling asleep in the sun.
26) Forcing my fellow vacationers to turn off the central air in the beach house and taking it back old school by opening up all of the windows and turning on all of the ceiling fans.
27) Salad with homemade ginger dressing
28) Salad with Greek dressing (especially from Ali Baba and Aladdin's)
29) Any fresh salad!
30) To be continued (refer to #19).
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
List of Pet Peeves/Annoyances
About nine months ago, I started a list of things that annoy me, while visiting family with my Dad. I only added five things to the list, but a few weeks ago I guess you could say I was in the "annoyance zone" because they came quickly, like channel 11 news anchors to a fire. Any fire. The results were surprising, and more poetic than I would have anticipated. Here goes nothing:
Pet Peeves/Annoyances
* - If you are in absolute shock right now, read my blog "Public Service Announcement"
**-It may sound like I'm being defensive, and maybe I am, but I have these friends who moved from this boho city, to another boho city, and think it's fantastic simply because it's different - (and I bet this happens everywhere). Baltimore kills me - Oh you moved to a formerly industrial city, trying to forge a new image, with a famous hospital, a surprisingly vibrant arts community, and a football team that sometimes struggles, and sometimes kicks ass? CRAZY. Next thing you know you're gonna tell me that it has an ivy-caliber university (that isn't an ivy) and some amazing aquarium, or zoo!
-In another vein, I've encountered people who can't seem to consider themselves successful as human beings unless they have lived in, or near, New York City. I feel sorry for them. I think you appreciate New York the most when you want to be there, not when you are afraid to be somewhere else.
Pet Peeves/Annoyances
1) Sassy speed limit signs i.e. those in Montgomery Village. (At the time, I drew a picture of the signs in my notebook - the Arabic numerals look as though they were written by a carefree, self-assured architect signing a check. They are like italics, but only if "italics" could drink apple-tinis and then criticize your outfit.
2) Saying "heidgth" or "heigth" instead of "height"
3) Houses with brick front and vinyl siding - who are you fooling? (And no, this isn't a result of snobbery. Houses with all vinyl or wooden siding look fine, it's the literal facade of brick that kills me.)
4) When people say "foward" instead of "forward"
5) The way my dad says "wah wah wah" like a baby, when I'm complaining about something.
6)Super passive-aggressive conversations that culminate with the phrase "can you repeat the question?"
7)Eudora
8) Trying to do anything logical or practical in Excel. Not gonna happen.
9) "Lil" - in any place, or any context; at any time, and before, or after, any word or phrase.
10)People who whole-heartedly (and often passionately) believe that freedom of speech only applies to thing they like to hear, want to hear, or agree with.
11)People who think "Hair of the Dog," by Nazareth is "Son of a Bitch," by AC/DC.*
12) People who assume Pittsburgh can't possibly be cool because they grew up there/nearby.
13) People who assume that people who stay in Pittsburgh do so out of some short-coming, failure, or fear - and not out of choice.**
14) Getting an earache from sitting in a smokey bar too long.
15) The (proposed?) smoking ban. It's a slippery slope. If the government is truly concerned about the harmful effects of smoking, they ought to ban cigarettes. Until that day comes, I'd encourage you to wonder who is lobbying for these freedom-reducing measures (and they are, crazy as that sounds), and wonder if isn't some powerhouse health care provider, interested in decreasing the amount they have to spend on health care coverage for smokers...
16) Non-profits that turned half of one billion dollars in profit last year.
17) Take a minute to think about that.
18) People who walk on the dunes and wonder why their $8 million cottage washed away in "hurricane nickelback" last year.
19) People who walk on the dunes (period).
20) Nickelback.
21) That bald ADA who made a snide comment about my job when I was summoned as a juror in a murder case.
22) Getting a 76 cent travel stipend added onto my $9 jury pay, when the city government knows very well that it costs $1.75 to ride the bus to the courthouse, and $1.75 to ride the bus home from the courthouse (and at least - and I am being so generous here - $5 to if you decide to drive, and then park downtown).
23) Having a chat with a guy who likely shot someone in the face, so he can assess my character.
24) Realizing I don't actually believe people are innocent until proven guilty.
25) Knowing people assume what my political affiliations are, based on some of my favorite books (1, 2, 3, label me!).
26) Having my political affiliation changed on my voter registration because some db begged me to sign a phony petition because I was his "last signature" and if I signed he could "go home."
27) That smug girl who said I should have known better.
28) Knowing I should have known better.
29) Anyone who has ever stolen anything from their mother.
30) Cutting my fingers when I'm eating whole crabs and then getting old bay seasoning in the little cuts.
31) Cold wind blowing up my skirt.
32) Pantyhose. Ugh.
33) Second-hand smoke in my hair. (And see, I still don't support the smoking ban!)
34) Young politicians with major responsibilities that fell into their lap, who seriously abuse their new-found power. But I'm not mentioning any names or anything.
35) Julia Roberts
36) The fact that Julia Roberts named her twins Phinnaeus and Hazel
37) The fact that I know that.
38) Dave Grohl
39) Ergo, the Foo Fighters
40) Also, the bass player from the Goo Goo Dolls
41) People who make both Cs soft in words that start with a double C - ie "a-sess-ory" instead of "ack-sess-ory."
42) Colbie Caillat. What kind of self-respecting adult uses the phrases "silly place," "crinkle my nose," and "bubbly face," in a song that isn't written for children?
43) The fact that, in June, I called DPW, my state representative, and the mayor's 311 help line, about a SINK HOLE in front of my house. And today, December 11th, a guy from a sewerage company came to my house and told me he was trying to establish the cause of said sink hole, and could I please flush some dye down my toilet (and remember to flush twice).
44) People who don't use their turn signals
45) People who honestly believe that using their turn signals will "give away [their] next move." (I'm talking to you, paternal nuclear family member who shall remain nameless.)
46) People who complain too much
47) When my dog headbutts me in the shnoz.
-More to come someday, I'm sure.
2) Saying "heidgth" or "heigth" instead of "height"
3) Houses with brick front and vinyl siding - who are you fooling? (And no, this isn't a result of snobbery. Houses with all vinyl or wooden siding look fine, it's the literal facade of brick that kills me.)
4) When people say "foward" instead of "forward"
5) The way my dad says "wah wah wah" like a baby, when I'm complaining about something.
6)Super passive-aggressive conversations that culminate with the phrase "can you repeat the question?"
7)Eudora
8) Trying to do anything logical or practical in Excel. Not gonna happen.
9) "Lil" - in any place, or any context; at any time, and before, or after, any word or phrase.
10)People who whole-heartedly (and often passionately) believe that freedom of speech only applies to thing they like to hear, want to hear, or agree with.
11)People who think "Hair of the Dog," by Nazareth is "Son of a Bitch," by AC/DC.*
12) People who assume Pittsburgh can't possibly be cool because they grew up there/nearby.
13) People who assume that people who stay in Pittsburgh do so out of some short-coming, failure, or fear - and not out of choice.**
14) Getting an earache from sitting in a smokey bar too long.
15) The (proposed?) smoking ban. It's a slippery slope. If the government is truly concerned about the harmful effects of smoking, they ought to ban cigarettes. Until that day comes, I'd encourage you to wonder who is lobbying for these freedom-reducing measures (and they are, crazy as that sounds), and wonder if isn't some powerhouse health care provider, interested in decreasing the amount they have to spend on health care coverage for smokers...
16) Non-profits that turned half of one billion dollars in profit last year.
17) Take a minute to think about that.
18) People who walk on the dunes and wonder why their $8 million cottage washed away in "hurricane nickelback" last year.
19) People who walk on the dunes (period).
20) Nickelback.
21) That bald ADA who made a snide comment about my job when I was summoned as a juror in a murder case.
22) Getting a 76 cent travel stipend added onto my $9 jury pay, when the city government knows very well that it costs $1.75 to ride the bus to the courthouse, and $1.75 to ride the bus home from the courthouse (and at least - and I am being so generous here - $5 to if you decide to drive, and then park downtown).
23) Having a chat with a guy who likely shot someone in the face, so he can assess my character.
24) Realizing I don't actually believe people are innocent until proven guilty.
25) Knowing people assume what my political affiliations are, based on some of my favorite books (1, 2, 3, label me!).
26) Having my political affiliation changed on my voter registration because some db begged me to sign a phony petition because I was his "last signature" and if I signed he could "go home."
27) That smug girl who said I should have known better.
28) Knowing I should have known better.
29) Anyone who has ever stolen anything from their mother.
30) Cutting my fingers when I'm eating whole crabs and then getting old bay seasoning in the little cuts.
31) Cold wind blowing up my skirt.
32) Pantyhose. Ugh.
33) Second-hand smoke in my hair. (And see, I still don't support the smoking ban!)
34) Young politicians with major responsibilities that fell into their lap, who seriously abuse their new-found power. But I'm not mentioning any names or anything.
35) Julia Roberts
36) The fact that Julia Roberts named her twins Phinnaeus and Hazel
37) The fact that I know that.
38) Dave Grohl
39) Ergo, the Foo Fighters
40) Also, the bass player from the Goo Goo Dolls
41) People who make both Cs soft in words that start with a double C - ie "a-sess-ory" instead of "ack-sess-ory."
42) Colbie Caillat. What kind of self-respecting adult uses the phrases "silly place," "crinkle my nose," and "bubbly face," in a song that isn't written for children?
43) The fact that, in June, I called DPW, my state representative, and the mayor's 311 help line, about a SINK HOLE in front of my house. And today, December 11th, a guy from a sewerage company came to my house and told me he was trying to establish the cause of said sink hole, and could I please flush some dye down my toilet (and remember to flush twice).
44) People who don't use their turn signals
45) People who honestly believe that using their turn signals will "give away [their] next move." (I'm talking to you, paternal nuclear family member who shall remain nameless.)
46) People who complain too much
47) When my dog headbutts me in the shnoz.
-More to come someday, I'm sure.
* - If you are in absolute shock right now, read my blog "Public Service Announcement"
**-It may sound like I'm being defensive, and maybe I am, but I have these friends who moved from this boho city, to another boho city, and think it's fantastic simply because it's different - (and I bet this happens everywhere). Baltimore kills me - Oh you moved to a formerly industrial city, trying to forge a new image, with a famous hospital, a surprisingly vibrant arts community, and a football team that sometimes struggles, and sometimes kicks ass? CRAZY. Next thing you know you're gonna tell me that it has an ivy-caliber university (that isn't an ivy) and some amazing aquarium, or zoo!
-In another vein, I've encountered people who can't seem to consider themselves successful as human beings unless they have lived in, or near, New York City. I feel sorry for them. I think you appreciate New York the most when you want to be there, not when you are afraid to be somewhere else.
Friday, December 7, 2007
I'm trying to be heroic in an age of modernity*
This morning, while waiting to transfer to my second morning bus during a gusty snowfall, my friend from Elderberry Junction (the woman in my very first blog post) sidled into the bus shelter next to me. I haven't seen her in awhile, so I smiled at her and she smiled at me, and we waited for our bus in the blustery cold, occasionally glancing at one another, or at the sun that was just beginning to peak over the horizon. When the bus finally came, I dutifully ensured that she boarded just in front of me, so that I could support her if she needed a hand.
I feel a responsibility for her such that, if she knew, I know she would be offended. Despite this, when she clutched the standing bar at the front of the bus, rather than taking a very close vacant seat I said, "Don't you want to sit down?"
She hesitantly stepped forward (with me one step behind her), and before she began her second step, her feet went out from under her. It happened quickly and slowly at the same time. It was fast enough that I was startled and frightened, but slow enough that I had a chance to think and brace myself (despite the fact that I was wearing knee-high stiletto boots**) so that I could catch her without falling over myself.
The floor was so wet that even though I caught her, and stopped her from further falling, her feet kept sliding, so both of us were inching closer and closer to being parallel with the (very wet and dirty) floor. Two girls in nearby seats immediately lunged forward to help, and one of them said "you're okay" a few times in the most reassuring, yet pitiless voice I've ever heard. She had the tone so many doctors strive for, but can never deliver.
As the three of us finally righted ourselves, I felt proud of humanity at large. I see people do so many disgusting and heartless things sometimes that I've really come to appreciate it when strangers go beyond simply being civil to one another.
As the woman finished her trek to her seat she mumbled "that's why I didn't want to sit down in the first place" and I felt guilty and responsible. I felt like she was saying it to me. It's equally possible that it was just something to say after experiencing something embarassing (I think of how many times I've tripped and mumbled "stupid shoes" just in case anyone was within earshot), but it's just as possible that it really was directed to me and she was mad that I coaxed her into sitting.
Oh well. Maybe next time she won't sit, but for this time, I'm happy I caught her.
* this is a lyric from Bloc Party's song "Song for Clay: Disappear Here"
** No, I'm not a prostitute.
I feel a responsibility for her such that, if she knew, I know she would be offended. Despite this, when she clutched the standing bar at the front of the bus, rather than taking a very close vacant seat I said, "Don't you want to sit down?"
She hesitantly stepped forward (with me one step behind her), and before she began her second step, her feet went out from under her. It happened quickly and slowly at the same time. It was fast enough that I was startled and frightened, but slow enough that I had a chance to think and brace myself (despite the fact that I was wearing knee-high stiletto boots**) so that I could catch her without falling over myself.
The floor was so wet that even though I caught her, and stopped her from further falling, her feet kept sliding, so both of us were inching closer and closer to being parallel with the (very wet and dirty) floor. Two girls in nearby seats immediately lunged forward to help, and one of them said "you're okay" a few times in the most reassuring, yet pitiless voice I've ever heard. She had the tone so many doctors strive for, but can never deliver.
As the three of us finally righted ourselves, I felt proud of humanity at large. I see people do so many disgusting and heartless things sometimes that I've really come to appreciate it when strangers go beyond simply being civil to one another.
As the woman finished her trek to her seat she mumbled "that's why I didn't want to sit down in the first place" and I felt guilty and responsible. I felt like she was saying it to me. It's equally possible that it was just something to say after experiencing something embarassing (I think of how many times I've tripped and mumbled "stupid shoes" just in case anyone was within earshot), but it's just as possible that it really was directed to me and she was mad that I coaxed her into sitting.
Oh well. Maybe next time she won't sit, but for this time, I'm happy I caught her.
* this is a lyric from Bloc Party's song "Song for Clay: Disappear Here"
** No, I'm not a prostitute.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
You Can Choose Your Afterlife
Eric Gamalinda wrote a poem called "You Can Choose Your Afterlife," in his 1999 book, Zero Gravity. It is one of my very favorite books, and perhaps one of the most complete collections of poetry I have ever encountered*. In this poem, the speaker addresses a friend, real or created, who decided to take his own life:
---------------------------
"You Can Choose Your Afterlife"**
according to the strange customs
of the T'boli
who believe we are not judged
by good or evil
but by the kind of death
we meet: to die by the sword
is to enter the kingdom
where everything
even the sound of water
is red They welcome you there
with the tintinnabulation
of copper bells
and the lamentation
of bamboo violins
and all night long
a wounded sun hovers
over your place of business
And those who drown
return to the navel of the sea
(that's what they call it)
where they become subjects
of Fon Muhin, god
of all creatures
who breathe water And those
who die of sickness
go to Mogul
where they receive everything
they've always desired
but are not free of suffering
And those who kill themselves
go to a place exactly like earth
but where everything sways
even in sleep
Arne you didn't tell us
why you wanted
to go
we can only imagine you
in a world where
you can't keep a cup
of coffee still
and people keep changing
the rules for soccer
because the ball
keeps rolling away
You won't miss us
everything moves in the same
direction You were always
one step ahead
---------------------------
I think about this poem a lot, particularly the line in which the speaker first addresses his friend, Arne; "Arne, you didn't tell us/ why you wanted/ to go"
The speaker is so obviously at peace with the lack of closure in this situation. He doesn't know why Arne took his own life, but he's not going to spend the rest of his life trying to figure it out. I have spent many hours wondering about questions I'll never be able to answer. I haven't made peace with many of them, but it's an ongoing quest.
We, humans, have the desire to know why. Why did it happen? Why did they do it? We'll never know. But that's not the point of this poem.
This is a poem about empowerment. In death, in which most of us imagine that we have no choice, Gamalinda is positing that maybe, in some ways, we do have a choice.
The answer to the riddle of Arne's suicide is hidden in these stanzas, but the answer is something that pertains to much more than suicide, or death. This isn't a poem about death. This is a poem about choice. If you have can choose your afterlife, then your possibilities in life are endless.
You can choose anything.
*I have a system of grading poetry; it's somewhat elementary and childish, but it works very well for me. I put a star on poems I like, a check next to poems I have read (let's call them neutral), and a "re." on poems I don't understand the first time through; this way, when I re-read a book, I know which to give special attention ("re."), which to give another shot (check), and which are already favorites (star). This means that, to me, the mark of a truly "good" collection (in a very generic sense, and barring any poet's collected works) is the ratio of stars to the total number of poems. By this reasoning, any ratio of 1:2 or higher is "good." I starred 26 of the 34 poems in this book on the first reading (and if I were to re-do my marks now, I'd star them all).
**Eric Gamalinda, I fully acknowledge that I have absolutely no permission to reprint any of your work in part, or in whole. However, I must warn you that if you contact me asking me to remove your work, you are going to subject yourself to a barrage of questions filled with breathless adulation, and a standing invitation to every one of my birthday parties.
---------------------------
"You Can Choose Your Afterlife"**
according to the strange customs
of the T'boli
who believe we are not judged
by good or evil
but by the kind of death
we meet: to die by the sword
is to enter the kingdom
where everything
even the sound of water
is red They welcome you there
with the tintinnabulation
of copper bells
and the lamentation
of bamboo violins
and all night long
a wounded sun hovers
over your place of business
And those who drown
return to the navel of the sea
(that's what they call it)
where they become subjects
of Fon Muhin, god
of all creatures
who breathe water And those
who die of sickness
go to Mogul
where they receive everything
they've always desired
but are not free of suffering
And those who kill themselves
go to a place exactly like earth
but where everything sways
even in sleep
Arne you didn't tell us
why you wanted
to go
we can only imagine you
in a world where
you can't keep a cup
of coffee still
and people keep changing
the rules for soccer
because the ball
keeps rolling away
You won't miss us
everything moves in the same
direction You were always
one step ahead
---------------------------
I think about this poem a lot, particularly the line in which the speaker first addresses his friend, Arne; "Arne, you didn't tell us/ why you wanted/ to go"
The speaker is so obviously at peace with the lack of closure in this situation. He doesn't know why Arne took his own life, but he's not going to spend the rest of his life trying to figure it out. I have spent many hours wondering about questions I'll never be able to answer. I haven't made peace with many of them, but it's an ongoing quest.
We, humans, have the desire to know why. Why did it happen? Why did they do it? We'll never know. But that's not the point of this poem.
This is a poem about empowerment. In death, in which most of us imagine that we have no choice, Gamalinda is positing that maybe, in some ways, we do have a choice.
The answer to the riddle of Arne's suicide is hidden in these stanzas, but the answer is something that pertains to much more than suicide, or death. This isn't a poem about death. This is a poem about choice. If you have can choose your afterlife, then your possibilities in life are endless.
You can choose anything.
*I have a system of grading poetry; it's somewhat elementary and childish, but it works very well for me. I put a star on poems I like, a check next to poems I have read (let's call them neutral), and a "re." on poems I don't understand the first time through; this way, when I re-read a book, I know which to give special attention ("re."), which to give another shot (check), and which are already favorites (star). This means that, to me, the mark of a truly "good" collection (in a very generic sense, and barring any poet's collected works) is the ratio of stars to the total number of poems. By this reasoning, any ratio of 1:2 or higher is "good." I starred 26 of the 34 poems in this book on the first reading (and if I were to re-do my marks now, I'd star them all).
**Eric Gamalinda, I fully acknowledge that I have absolutely no permission to reprint any of your work in part, or in whole. However, I must warn you that if you contact me asking me to remove your work, you are going to subject yourself to a barrage of questions filled with breathless adulation, and a standing invitation to every one of my birthday parties.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Long ago, I had a question for everything...
Two nights ago I found out that my friend's older brother died tragically young in a car accident. I didn't know his older brother well, but there was a time when I was very close with my friend. Anytime I hear that anyone I know has died, my heart wrenches in my chest with all too much familiarity.
I called my father to tell him I'd be coming home sometime soon. He asked me why, and when I told him that I had to attend a viewing he responded, "Jesus, again?"
My father is not a cold man; he was expressing genuine shock. He went on to say, "You must have been to 10 times as many funerals as me." (The knowledge that my father is 40 years older than I am was implicit to both of us.)
I, and my group of friends, have lost more young people - far more young people- than any other person my age that I know, or have heard of. Most of our friends and acquaintances have died in car accidents - all of them have died tragically young.
We're not a reckless group of people. We're not a bad group of people. Some of our friends were risk-takers, others were incredibly responsible and cautious. Some of their deaths may have been preventable (but how can you even measure such a thing?) and others definitely were not.
The only thing our friends had in common, aside from dying too young, is us. I know it has crossed all of our minds - that there is some connection between the deaths, or some "curse" among us. Everyone knows it's ridiculous and untrue, but still you reach a point where logic and emotion blur together, and when what once seemed completely irrational, begins to seem the only logical explantion - well, let's just say there are only some manys ways to put the pieces of a puzzle together.
I mourn this loss, and all of the other losses. My heart goes out to you, Eric. My heart goes out to you, and your family, and your friends, and your fiance.
Eric Gamalinda wrote:
"Long ago I had a question for everything
but now I know better: everything goes
and only the questions remain."
And so far, this is the only truth I know.
I called my father to tell him I'd be coming home sometime soon. He asked me why, and when I told him that I had to attend a viewing he responded, "Jesus, again?"
My father is not a cold man; he was expressing genuine shock. He went on to say, "You must have been to 10 times as many funerals as me." (The knowledge that my father is 40 years older than I am was implicit to both of us.)
I, and my group of friends, have lost more young people - far more young people- than any other person my age that I know, or have heard of. Most of our friends and acquaintances have died in car accidents - all of them have died tragically young.
We're not a reckless group of people. We're not a bad group of people. Some of our friends were risk-takers, others were incredibly responsible and cautious. Some of their deaths may have been preventable (but how can you even measure such a thing?) and others definitely were not.
The only thing our friends had in common, aside from dying too young, is us. I know it has crossed all of our minds - that there is some connection between the deaths, or some "curse" among us. Everyone knows it's ridiculous and untrue, but still you reach a point where logic and emotion blur together, and when what once seemed completely irrational, begins to seem the only logical explantion - well, let's just say there are only some manys ways to put the pieces of a puzzle together.
I mourn this loss, and all of the other losses. My heart goes out to you, Eric. My heart goes out to you, and your family, and your friends, and your fiance.
Eric Gamalinda wrote:
"Long ago I had a question for everything
but now I know better: everything goes
and only the questions remain."
And so far, this is the only truth I know.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Move Over, Venice.
This morning, while I was riding the bus across the Birmingham Bridge, I got blinded by a ray from the most beautiful, perfect, pie-in-the-sky sun. As I watched the light bounce off of the downtown skyline on my right, and the steam rise from the coal barges on my left, I was grateful to live in this city.
I know not everyone feels this way about Pittsburgh, but realize that Baltimore, or San Franciso, or Seattle may be to you what Pittsburgh is to me- and it's the moments like this that remind me why I love Pittsburgh the way I do.
I know not everyone feels this way about Pittsburgh, but realize that Baltimore, or San Franciso, or Seattle may be to you what Pittsburgh is to me- and it's the moments like this that remind me why I love Pittsburgh the way I do.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Concerning the UFO Sighting*
My freshman year of college, in the first few weeks of school, I awakened one night to blood-curdling screams. Bloody murder screams. Hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck-standing-up screams. I had been sleeping in the top bunk of standard dorm bunk beds, and my roommate had been sleeping below me. In the first few instants after I had awakened I was actually terrified that someone was killing my roommate. In the next instant I jumped out of my bed, perhaps with an idiotic lack of fear, to see if she was okay.
My roommate was upright in bed, with tear streamed eyes, screaming. I said her name and shook her shoulder and told her it was a dream. Her eyes were strangely vacant, and as the screaming stopped, the tears grew heavier.
I had no idea what to do. I barely knew her at the time; I had no idea why she was crying, or why such a normal person in the day would act so strangely at night (and so suddenly, too). I sat and talked with her, calming her and repeating that it was only a dream and that she was okay, while every-so-often asking her if everything was alright. She never responded to my questions or really acknowledged them, but she finally went back to sleep, and so did I.
The next day I didn't say a thing about it because I was afraid she might be embarrassed or ashamed. We yammered over the noise of our hair dryers in the morning, like we usually did, and we got lunch together when our afternoon classes were over.
A few weeks later, when we were having a typical "getting-to-know-you" roommate heart-to-heart, she told me, with lots of laughter, that she was a horrific sleep walker, and when she still lived at home, her little sister would often give her reports on her nocturnal activities in the morning. "Fortunately," she said, "I haven't had any sleeping problems here."
"Except for the other night, you mean"
"What other night?"
"When you woke up in the middle of the night...screaming...and I talked to you and told you it was only a bad dream."
"What?"
So began my knowledge of night terrors.
I've never had a night terror, and I'm seriously thrilled about this. They sound absolutely horrific. According to Wikipedia (which I just used to refresh my memory about all the symptoms), night terrors are non-specific dream-like things, that are sometimes so bad and frightening that they cause temporary amnesia. Often times the person experiencing one cannot be awakened (because they are in slow-wave sleep). As it turned out, my roommate, who I had so lovingly comforted, had not been awake at all, and had no memory of the occurrence.
Despite my lack of personal familiarity with night terrors, my normally amazing sleep has started to take a slow turn for the worse. About every six months now (starting with one of my best friend's birthdays in 2006), I've been experiencing what the doctor diagnosed as sleep paralysis. I told my young doctor about my symptoms in the course of a check-up and she said (in a very thick Romanian accent) "Yeah that happens to me sometimes. You wake up and you are like 'oh shit.'"
Kind of.
It's more like I wake up and I have no idea if I am awake or asleep. Everything I've read says that people who experience sleep paralysis are actually awake when it happens, but your brain doesn't know you're awake so it acts like you are still in REM sleep, making for a very surreal and disorienting experience. It's so disorienting, in fact, that people hallucinate while it's happening (which is, apparently, what leads them to believe they are dreaming).
Last night I "awakened" to the feeling of being shaken violently from my waist; like the world's strongest man was trying to break my neck through whiplash. It was absolutely horrible. I tried to get to my phone to call for help, and was so disoriented and uncoordinated that the effort was futile. Shortly afterward I felt like people were absolutely beating the tar out of me. The kicker is, you're always where you went to sleep. In dreams, you might be on a cloud, or in a swimming pool, or in a park with purple grass; with these, you're always where you went to sleep. Things are always the way they are in real life (which coincides with the reality of wakefulness).
Last night I was so frightened that I actually tried to get my dog's attention, to see if she could help me. I'd condemn my dog for being a crappy companion, but I don't know if I was actually making noise, or even moving.
Suddenly, it was like a screen was lifted from in front of my eyes. I pushed myself with all of my strength and was able to, very sloppily, reach for my phone, next to my bed. With a lot of effort, I made a phone call. In all honesty, I called my boyfriend just to be certain that I wasn't still sleeping (there really isn't an easy way to make a distinction when this happens).
When this first happened to me in Washington DC, on Blake's birthday, I was asleep in another friend's guest bedroom, and Blake was in a bed across the room from me. When I began to feel the shaking motion, I said to Blake "Help me, help me." He rolled over and said "No one can help you."
This was all a hallucination, of course, but take a moment to think about how you'd feel if you asked one of your best friends to help you, in a moment of terror, and they replied "no one can help you."
It isn't real, but the memories are really there. It's hard to tell your mind that a "real" memory isn't there. It's in the repository. You think of it like a real memory when someone says something associated with that memory, but it never really happened.
It says on Wikipedia that doctors think most people's alien encounters are actually just sleep paralysis. I have to admit, I don't judge "believers" so harshly now. It's hard not to believe in something that even your brain seems to think is true.
* This title was inspired by (and obviously derived from) the Sufjan Stevens song title "Concerning the UFO Sighting near Highland, Illinois" - I know it seems a little ridiculous to credit this, but I always try to give credit where credit is due (call it a writerly nod of respect).
My roommate was upright in bed, with tear streamed eyes, screaming. I said her name and shook her shoulder and told her it was a dream. Her eyes were strangely vacant, and as the screaming stopped, the tears grew heavier.
I had no idea what to do. I barely knew her at the time; I had no idea why she was crying, or why such a normal person in the day would act so strangely at night (and so suddenly, too). I sat and talked with her, calming her and repeating that it was only a dream and that she was okay, while every-so-often asking her if everything was alright. She never responded to my questions or really acknowledged them, but she finally went back to sleep, and so did I.
The next day I didn't say a thing about it because I was afraid she might be embarrassed or ashamed. We yammered over the noise of our hair dryers in the morning, like we usually did, and we got lunch together when our afternoon classes were over.
A few weeks later, when we were having a typical "getting-to-know-you" roommate heart-to-heart, she told me, with lots of laughter, that she was a horrific sleep walker, and when she still lived at home, her little sister would often give her reports on her nocturnal activities in the morning. "Fortunately," she said, "I haven't had any sleeping problems here."
"Except for the other night, you mean"
"What other night?"
"When you woke up in the middle of the night...screaming...and I talked to you and told you it was only a bad dream."
"What?"
So began my knowledge of night terrors.
I've never had a night terror, and I'm seriously thrilled about this. They sound absolutely horrific. According to Wikipedia (which I just used to refresh my memory about all the symptoms), night terrors are non-specific dream-like things, that are sometimes so bad and frightening that they cause temporary amnesia. Often times the person experiencing one cannot be awakened (because they are in slow-wave sleep). As it turned out, my roommate, who I had so lovingly comforted, had not been awake at all, and had no memory of the occurrence.
Despite my lack of personal familiarity with night terrors, my normally amazing sleep has started to take a slow turn for the worse. About every six months now (starting with one of my best friend's birthdays in 2006), I've been experiencing what the doctor diagnosed as sleep paralysis. I told my young doctor about my symptoms in the course of a check-up and she said (in a very thick Romanian accent) "Yeah that happens to me sometimes. You wake up and you are like 'oh shit.'"
Kind of.
It's more like I wake up and I have no idea if I am awake or asleep. Everything I've read says that people who experience sleep paralysis are actually awake when it happens, but your brain doesn't know you're awake so it acts like you are still in REM sleep, making for a very surreal and disorienting experience. It's so disorienting, in fact, that people hallucinate while it's happening (which is, apparently, what leads them to believe they are dreaming).
Last night I "awakened" to the feeling of being shaken violently from my waist; like the world's strongest man was trying to break my neck through whiplash. It was absolutely horrible. I tried to get to my phone to call for help, and was so disoriented and uncoordinated that the effort was futile. Shortly afterward I felt like people were absolutely beating the tar out of me. The kicker is, you're always where you went to sleep. In dreams, you might be on a cloud, or in a swimming pool, or in a park with purple grass; with these, you're always where you went to sleep. Things are always the way they are in real life (which coincides with the reality of wakefulness).
Last night I was so frightened that I actually tried to get my dog's attention, to see if she could help me. I'd condemn my dog for being a crappy companion, but I don't know if I was actually making noise, or even moving.
Suddenly, it was like a screen was lifted from in front of my eyes. I pushed myself with all of my strength and was able to, very sloppily, reach for my phone, next to my bed. With a lot of effort, I made a phone call. In all honesty, I called my boyfriend just to be certain that I wasn't still sleeping (there really isn't an easy way to make a distinction when this happens).
When this first happened to me in Washington DC, on Blake's birthday, I was asleep in another friend's guest bedroom, and Blake was in a bed across the room from me. When I began to feel the shaking motion, I said to Blake "Help me, help me." He rolled over and said "No one can help you."
This was all a hallucination, of course, but take a moment to think about how you'd feel if you asked one of your best friends to help you, in a moment of terror, and they replied "no one can help you."
It isn't real, but the memories are really there. It's hard to tell your mind that a "real" memory isn't there. It's in the repository. You think of it like a real memory when someone says something associated with that memory, but it never really happened.
It says on Wikipedia that doctors think most people's alien encounters are actually just sleep paralysis. I have to admit, I don't judge "believers" so harshly now. It's hard not to believe in something that even your brain seems to think is true.
* This title was inspired by (and obviously derived from) the Sufjan Stevens song title "Concerning the UFO Sighting near Highland, Illinois" - I know it seems a little ridiculous to credit this, but I always try to give credit where credit is due (call it a writerly nod of respect).
Public Service Announcement
Consider this a Public Service Announcement:
To all you folks out there who love the song "Son of a Bitch" by AC/DC, I have some bad news for you: "Son of a bitch," by AC/DC, doesn't exist.
"But wait a minute" you say, "just wait one minute."
Now you're messin' with - a son of a bitch
"It has to exist, I know the words and everything!"
Again, no, it doesn't.
The song you, and so many others, call "Son of a Bitch" by AC/DC, is actually "Hair of the Dog," by Nazareth.
"Wait a second, every-rose-has-its-thorn-Nazareth?"
No, that was Poison.
"Oh riiiight. But wait, are you sure? Cause I know lots of people who love that song. I even downloaded 'son of a bitch' by AC/DC off of Napster, and my friends all have it on their ipods."
The other "ugly" side of illegal file-sharing is that it propogates misinformation - like attributing one band's song to another, better known band, because the lead singers kind of sound the same.
"Look I'm not sure you're right, cause I love AC/DC. I can even tell the Bon Scott stuff from the Brian Johnson stuff."
And for that I am truly sorry. Look, I love AC/DC as much as any red-blooded, true-American, freedom-loving, terrorist-hating,Western Pennsylvania girl, but the minute I can start to tell Bon Scott from Brian Johnson (or want to), I'm kicking this love affair to the curb. But seriously, check the internet, it's on my side, and the internet never lies.
To all you folks out there who love the song "Son of a Bitch" by AC/DC, I have some bad news for you: "Son of a bitch," by AC/DC, doesn't exist.
"But wait a minute" you say, "just wait one minute."
Now you're messin' with - a son of a bitch
"It has to exist, I know the words and everything!"
Again, no, it doesn't.
The song you, and so many others, call "Son of a Bitch" by AC/DC, is actually "Hair of the Dog," by Nazareth.
"Wait a second, every-rose-has-its-thorn-Nazareth?"
No, that was Poison.
"Oh riiiight. But wait, are you sure? Cause I know lots of people who love that song. I even downloaded 'son of a bitch' by AC/DC off of Napster, and my friends all have it on their ipods."
The other "ugly" side of illegal file-sharing is that it propogates misinformation - like attributing one band's song to another, better known band, because the lead singers kind of sound the same.
"Look I'm not sure you're right, cause I love AC/DC. I can even tell the Bon Scott stuff from the Brian Johnson stuff."
And for that I am truly sorry. Look, I love AC/DC as much as any red-blooded, true-American, freedom-loving, terrorist-hating,Western Pennsylvania girl, but the minute I can start to tell Bon Scott from Brian Johnson (or want to), I'm kicking this love affair to the curb. But seriously, check the internet, it's on my side, and the internet never lies.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Pretty Houses
As I was walking my dog on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I noticed something that I have long suspected, but have never been able to confirm.
I live in one of prettiest neighborhoods in the city of Pittsburgh (some would argue the prettiest, but I would disagree). The houses are generally old, and impeccably well maintained. Actually, "maintained" is the wrong word. "Primped" is closer to the word I am looking for, but still not right. Anyway, the houses are not just maintained, they are a step above maintenance. To me, maintenance implies fixing things when they break, mowing your lawn, keeping the trim painted, taking out your garbage - things of that nature.
The owners of these houses go beyond maintenance, though. They hire landscapers, many hire landscape architects (and anyone who knows anything about landscaping doesn't need to see a truck outside of a house to see the difference between amateur and professional yard design*), owners are constantly renovating or remodeling, porch furniture is always being added or removed, holiday decorations are perfect (*cough* almost as if a professional selected them), and people are rarely enjoying the fine house on which they spend so much money and time.
It's expensive to live here. People say they want to live here. But after all is said and done, I'm not sure very many people actually enjoy living here.
There isn't much of a neighborhood feel in this neighborhood of mine. There are plenty of people in the streets, but none of them are particularly friendly. It's difficult to strike up a conversation with your neighbors (I've encountered one exception, a family of transplants, who, after living here for a few years, have decided to transplant themselves right into another neighborhood in the city).
One time, while I was walking home from a run in the evening, I apparently frightened a woman walking her dog so much so that she felt it was necessary to cross to the other side of the street while I passed (and crossed back over after I was gone)**.
This is a far cry from my old neighborhood. My old neighborhood was ugly to all except two kinds of people: the immigrants who'd built it (and were really still imagining it in its glory days), and people like me who, hokey as it sounds/is, can find beauty anywhere. The houses were mostly run-down and ugly. Slum lords did the bare minimum only to ensure that they would pass inspections. Almost all of the rental properties were disgusting and soggy and cracked. It was cheap to live there, and that fact was written out in the peeling paint and sagging gutters of the houses.
But I had friends in my old neighborhood. I knew my neighbors' names, and some of their stories. I talked with Jimmy about his old Irish Setter, Lady, and the Pirates' teen-aged losing record; I talked with Chester and Angela about gardening, and brought them their newspapers when their legs started to fail them; I shared cake and tea with Rose - I talked with her, I planted her tomatoes in the summer, I knew her children's names and faces, I met her grandchildren when they visited, I checked on her when the power went out, and I knew how and when her husband died. I shoveled all of their sidewalks when snow fell. I didn't see any of this as a matter of a pride. I saw it as my way of expressing my thanks for living around people who cared about me, and would take the time to talk to me.
I think I also saw it as showing respect for people who would not abandon their home, despite the broken glass, and scattered garbage, and occasional gunfire. Maybe I even saw my actions as a way of telling them that there was still something there worth holding on to.
Returning to last Wednesday: As I rounded the bend to my block, I was struck by its emptiness. My usually filled street was almost devoid of parked cars. I had nearly asked myself where everyone had gone when I realized that everyone had gone home for the holidays. I stopped shortly after I reached this obvious conclusion. If everyone (including me) goes home for the holidays, then what do the people who live here call this place? I don't know, but the obvious answer is, not home.
I have this theory that too much "pretty" in a house, or a neighborhood, or a city, is indicative of a certain kind of artificiality. To give you an example, I often say that NoVa has no soul***. The roots are shallow there, if present at all. I walk through my neighborhood now and I don't see roots. All of the histories and stories have been stripped and sanded out of these houses, and the people who live here haven't lived here long enough to create their own stories (and probably won't, either).
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the human soul isn't always a pretty thing. There is a lot of ugliness inherent in humanity - and if not ugliness, then certainly turmoil and pain. And I think this is evident, like it or not, in any real home. A complicated soul, like a complicated home or neighborhood, gets bogged down with a little garbage every once in awhile.
I'm not saying that a true home has to be ugly; I'm saying that a true home isn't pretty all the time. And maybe people can't really make their own home until they accept, and even embrace, this idea.
* The owners of a specific house in my neighborhood purchased the empty lot behind their house, tore it to shreds, and commissioned a giant cascading stone staircase that descends from their house to the street behind them (the likes of which I have only encountered at large hotels).
** It's true that I don't wear matching tiny shorts and tops, the way most female runners in my neighborhood do. However, I don't think that my t-shirts, running shorts, and bandanna are all that intimidating. When this happened, I laughed at first. Then I was angry and hurt. Now I'm reassessing the way I feel others perceive me - I guess what they say is true: you can't be too careful. For all I know, one of her loved ones was maimed by a 20-something, mediocre female jogger.
*** As with everything, there are exceptions to this.
I live in one of prettiest neighborhoods in the city of Pittsburgh (some would argue the prettiest, but I would disagree). The houses are generally old, and impeccably well maintained. Actually, "maintained" is the wrong word. "Primped" is closer to the word I am looking for, but still not right. Anyway, the houses are not just maintained, they are a step above maintenance. To me, maintenance implies fixing things when they break, mowing your lawn, keeping the trim painted, taking out your garbage - things of that nature.
The owners of these houses go beyond maintenance, though. They hire landscapers, many hire landscape architects (and anyone who knows anything about landscaping doesn't need to see a truck outside of a house to see the difference between amateur and professional yard design*), owners are constantly renovating or remodeling, porch furniture is always being added or removed, holiday decorations are perfect (*cough* almost as if a professional selected them), and people are rarely enjoying the fine house on which they spend so much money and time.
It's expensive to live here. People say they want to live here. But after all is said and done, I'm not sure very many people actually enjoy living here.
There isn't much of a neighborhood feel in this neighborhood of mine. There are plenty of people in the streets, but none of them are particularly friendly. It's difficult to strike up a conversation with your neighbors (I've encountered one exception, a family of transplants, who, after living here for a few years, have decided to transplant themselves right into another neighborhood in the city).
One time, while I was walking home from a run in the evening, I apparently frightened a woman walking her dog so much so that she felt it was necessary to cross to the other side of the street while I passed (and crossed back over after I was gone)**.
This is a far cry from my old neighborhood. My old neighborhood was ugly to all except two kinds of people: the immigrants who'd built it (and were really still imagining it in its glory days), and people like me who, hokey as it sounds/is, can find beauty anywhere. The houses were mostly run-down and ugly. Slum lords did the bare minimum only to ensure that they would pass inspections. Almost all of the rental properties were disgusting and soggy and cracked. It was cheap to live there, and that fact was written out in the peeling paint and sagging gutters of the houses.
But I had friends in my old neighborhood. I knew my neighbors' names, and some of their stories. I talked with Jimmy about his old Irish Setter, Lady, and the Pirates' teen-aged losing record; I talked with Chester and Angela about gardening, and brought them their newspapers when their legs started to fail them; I shared cake and tea with Rose - I talked with her, I planted her tomatoes in the summer, I knew her children's names and faces, I met her grandchildren when they visited, I checked on her when the power went out, and I knew how and when her husband died. I shoveled all of their sidewalks when snow fell. I didn't see any of this as a matter of a pride. I saw it as my way of expressing my thanks for living around people who cared about me, and would take the time to talk to me.
I think I also saw it as showing respect for people who would not abandon their home, despite the broken glass, and scattered garbage, and occasional gunfire. Maybe I even saw my actions as a way of telling them that there was still something there worth holding on to.
Returning to last Wednesday: As I rounded the bend to my block, I was struck by its emptiness. My usually filled street was almost devoid of parked cars. I had nearly asked myself where everyone had gone when I realized that everyone had gone home for the holidays. I stopped shortly after I reached this obvious conclusion. If everyone (including me) goes home for the holidays, then what do the people who live here call this place? I don't know, but the obvious answer is, not home.
I have this theory that too much "pretty" in a house, or a neighborhood, or a city, is indicative of a certain kind of artificiality. To give you an example, I often say that NoVa has no soul***. The roots are shallow there, if present at all. I walk through my neighborhood now and I don't see roots. All of the histories and stories have been stripped and sanded out of these houses, and the people who live here haven't lived here long enough to create their own stories (and probably won't, either).
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the human soul isn't always a pretty thing. There is a lot of ugliness inherent in humanity - and if not ugliness, then certainly turmoil and pain. And I think this is evident, like it or not, in any real home. A complicated soul, like a complicated home or neighborhood, gets bogged down with a little garbage every once in awhile.
I'm not saying that a true home has to be ugly; I'm saying that a true home isn't pretty all the time. And maybe people can't really make their own home until they accept, and even embrace, this idea.
* The owners of a specific house in my neighborhood purchased the empty lot behind their house, tore it to shreds, and commissioned a giant cascading stone staircase that descends from their house to the street behind them (the likes of which I have only encountered at large hotels).
** It's true that I don't wear matching tiny shorts and tops, the way most female runners in my neighborhood do. However, I don't think that my t-shirts, running shorts, and bandanna are all that intimidating. When this happened, I laughed at first. Then I was angry and hurt. Now I'm reassessing the way I feel others perceive me - I guess what they say is true: you can't be too careful. For all I know, one of her loved ones was maimed by a 20-something, mediocre female jogger.
*** As with everything, there are exceptions to this.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Today
Do you ever wake up and get the feeling that it's going to be a wonderful day? I woke up this morning and got that feeling. Even if the day doesn't live up to that expectation, waking up that way is beautiful.
I look forward to attempting to cook my first solo Thanksgiving dinner this evening, and seeing lots of old friends at home tonight.
I look forward to attempting to cook my first solo Thanksgiving dinner this evening, and seeing lots of old friends at home tonight.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Mr. Big Stuff
I've seen a bothersome man on the bus for the past few days in a row.
I couldn't decide what bothered me about him, until I realized that every time I see him I ask myself, "Who do you think you are?" and then mentally scoff. This led to me calling him "Mr. Big Stuff," when referring to him in my mind. After giving him a smarmy nickname (and patting myself on the back for giving him said smarmy nickname), I started putting the name with the melody, so now everytime I think of Mr. Big Stuff, I hear the chorus to the song in my head (which, as it turns out, is simultaneously entertaining and annoying).
Mr. Big Stuff is obviously riding the bus to get to work (there's no crying in baseball, and there are no colleges in the South Side). Despite this, he carries a Marc Jacobs bag, and is usually adorned in a puffy vest, J. Crew jeans, and a self-righteous smirk. He chews his gum with dramatic satisfaction, and every day he exits the bus after me, but somehow speed walks past me, a block or two after the bus stop.
This is infuriating.
I speed walk after him when this happens, but he has the distinct advantage of not wearing heels.
This morning, when he walked past the available seat next to me, only to sit with another stranger in the back of the bus, I imagined how his gum would go flying down the bus aisle if I stuck my foot out at just the right moment.
My boyfriend says I'm ridiculous and that it's is all in my head*. I hope he's wrong.
Who do you think you are, Mr. Big Stuff?
PS: I imagine I will eventually befriend this poor young man and delete this blog, full of guilt and embrassment.
*My father, as it turns out, is in complete agreeance with the boyfriend. Is anyone on my side?
I couldn't decide what bothered me about him, until I realized that every time I see him I ask myself, "Who do you think you are?" and then mentally scoff. This led to me calling him "Mr. Big Stuff," when referring to him in my mind. After giving him a smarmy nickname (and patting myself on the back for giving him said smarmy nickname), I started putting the name with the melody, so now everytime I think of Mr. Big Stuff, I hear the chorus to the song in my head (which, as it turns out, is simultaneously entertaining and annoying).
Mr. Big Stuff is obviously riding the bus to get to work (there's no crying in baseball, and there are no colleges in the South Side). Despite this, he carries a Marc Jacobs bag, and is usually adorned in a puffy vest, J. Crew jeans, and a self-righteous smirk. He chews his gum with dramatic satisfaction, and every day he exits the bus after me, but somehow speed walks past me, a block or two after the bus stop.
This is infuriating.
I speed walk after him when this happens, but he has the distinct advantage of not wearing heels.
This morning, when he walked past the available seat next to me, only to sit with another stranger in the back of the bus, I imagined how his gum would go flying down the bus aisle if I stuck my foot out at just the right moment.
My boyfriend says I'm ridiculous and that it's is all in my head*. I hope he's wrong.
Who do you think you are, Mr. Big Stuff?
PS: I imagine I will eventually befriend this poor young man and delete this blog, full of guilt and embrassment.
*My father, as it turns out, is in complete agreeance with the boyfriend. Is anyone on my side?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Keep the Faith
I'm writing instead of getting to bed at a reasonable hour for work tomorrow. However, much to my adult side's chagrin, I think this is a good thing.
On Friday at work, my boss told me the story of an elusive co-worker (I've yet to meet him, but his was both the first name I heard, and the name I hear most frequently in the office). She told me how he and his brother both immigrated (she thinks from Serbia) to go to school in Pittsburgh. He (the coworker) went to Pitt, and his brother went to CMU to study music. After earning a master's in music, the brother, in a fit of frustration (and I'm sure some despair too) because he couldn't find a job, gave it up. He stopped playing music. He went back to CMU and got a master's in computer science.
My boss told me she imagined his instrument (which remained nameless in the conversation) sitting in a corner gathering dust. She found this especially sad as the brother now has a young child who could be blessed with his father's playing.
I am in total agreement with her about the idea of exposing young children to music. Hearing music as a child is fantastic. Hearing someone play music passionately is fantastic. When I was young, my parents took me to the symphony a few times a year, and while I didn't understand the music, I loved going. I loved seeing the symphony in Chautauqua when I was little, too. (to be honest, I even loved hearing the symphony practice in Chautauqua - but then, Chautauqua is a lot like the Walgreen's commercials: perfect.)
My mom took me to see Ray Charles when I was 5*, and my dad taught me to use the cd player and drag a chair into the living room so I could play my favorite Beatles' bootleg, Backtrack, at around the same time. So anyway, yes, exposing young children to music is important.
However, I disagree with my boss about the finality of all of this. I maintained at the time (and I still do) that this is temporary. He is frustrated. Being an artist is frustrating. Being an unsucessful artist (when you have the potential to be, or already are, great) can be mind-numbing. It's obvious to me that the brother is just numbed right now. But it's not permanent.
Loving art is a lot like loving a person, except without the benefit of talking. It's always a one-sided conversation. Writing sometimes leaves me dying for my writing to respond to me. It never does. After some subconscious cost/benefit analyis, you decide whether the relationship is one worth keeping or whether to scrap it. Here's the thing: you can never really scrap it. You can never really make a clean break from writing or music (or painting, or drawing, or composing, or singing, or dancing).
He will play again. He's in the midst of a lover's quarrel. They will kiss, and make up. He will play again.
And Michelle, even though you haven't written in four years, and you hate what being a journalist did to your feeling about the written word, you can write again too.
*Not that I was a saint at these performances- I once (and I gained notoriety for this) fell asleep in the front rows watching Carmina Burana when I was 7, or 8. I also fell asleep in the front rows watching a huge Motown reunion (and my mom still teases me about it).
On Friday at work, my boss told me the story of an elusive co-worker (I've yet to meet him, but his was both the first name I heard, and the name I hear most frequently in the office). She told me how he and his brother both immigrated (she thinks from Serbia) to go to school in Pittsburgh. He (the coworker) went to Pitt, and his brother went to CMU to study music. After earning a master's in music, the brother, in a fit of frustration (and I'm sure some despair too) because he couldn't find a job, gave it up. He stopped playing music. He went back to CMU and got a master's in computer science.
My boss told me she imagined his instrument (which remained nameless in the conversation) sitting in a corner gathering dust. She found this especially sad as the brother now has a young child who could be blessed with his father's playing.
I am in total agreement with her about the idea of exposing young children to music. Hearing music as a child is fantastic. Hearing someone play music passionately is fantastic. When I was young, my parents took me to the symphony a few times a year, and while I didn't understand the music, I loved going. I loved seeing the symphony in Chautauqua when I was little, too. (to be honest, I even loved hearing the symphony practice in Chautauqua - but then, Chautauqua is a lot like the Walgreen's commercials: perfect.)
My mom took me to see Ray Charles when I was 5*, and my dad taught me to use the cd player and drag a chair into the living room so I could play my favorite Beatles' bootleg, Backtrack, at around the same time. So anyway, yes, exposing young children to music is important.
However, I disagree with my boss about the finality of all of this. I maintained at the time (and I still do) that this is temporary. He is frustrated. Being an artist is frustrating. Being an unsucessful artist (when you have the potential to be, or already are, great) can be mind-numbing. It's obvious to me that the brother is just numbed right now. But it's not permanent.
Loving art is a lot like loving a person, except without the benefit of talking. It's always a one-sided conversation. Writing sometimes leaves me dying for my writing to respond to me. It never does. After some subconscious cost/benefit analyis, you decide whether the relationship is one worth keeping or whether to scrap it. Here's the thing: you can never really scrap it. You can never really make a clean break from writing or music (or painting, or drawing, or composing, or singing, or dancing).
He will play again. He's in the midst of a lover's quarrel. They will kiss, and make up. He will play again.
And Michelle, even though you haven't written in four years, and you hate what being a journalist did to your feeling about the written word, you can write again too.
*Not that I was a saint at these performances- I once (and I gained notoriety for this) fell asleep in the front rows watching Carmina Burana when I was 7, or 8. I also fell asleep in the front rows watching a huge Motown reunion (and my mom still teases me about it).
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Dear PAT,
(Dear PAT,)
PAT (Pittsburgh Port Authority Transit) has officially announced that they are raising their fares. Zone 1 fares are going to be raised from $1.75 to either $2 or $2.25. This means that fare hikes for Zone 2 and Zone 3 are going to be ridiculous - but I'll leave that be since it doesn't immediately concern me.
Currently, I ride two buses to work each day (and the same two buses back). Fortunately, I am in Zone 1 for both of my rides, but because PAT's bus routes are inefficient, I have to transfer which means that on top of my $1.75 bus fare each way, I have to pay an additional 50 cents. This means that I am spending $4.5o on inefficient public transportation each day.
I just used gmap pedometer to figure out the exact distance I ride the bus: 3.7 miles. The argument for public transportation (economically) is that it saves you money for gas and for parking. Even the least fuel-efficient cars in the world get better than 4 miles to the gallon, hell they get better than 8 miles to the gallon (to be honest the least fuel-efficient car I have ever encountered is a 10-year-old Lincoln Navigator that got a whopping 10 miles to the gallon).
This means that, were I driving 8 miles a day, my travel costs would be less than the cost of one gallon of gasoline right now (which, we'll just say is $3.50/gallon). Parking is free in my building, so as-is, it would make more sense for me to drive to work. In addition, my little, not-even-4-mile, trek takes me, on average, 45 minutes (one way). I could cut that in half driving.
Best case scenario, with the new hikes: my daily costs will be $5 a day (assuming PAT leaves transfers at 50 cents, which they say they will, but I'm skeptical).
[Something else to keep in mind, is that a monthly (and especially yearly) bus pas is not economically feasible for me at this time, especially when the monthly passes are supposed to go up to $75 a month with the fare hikes. What is in my price-range is what PAT calls a "10-trip ticket." However, despite the fact that one is essentially purchasing tickets in bulk, PAT offers no bulk discount (one 10-trip ticket currently costs $17.50 and will increase in cost accordingly along with the fare hikes)] .
What's sad is, I believe in public transportation. I believe that it's an important part of, and necessity in, cities. I like the sense of community it builds, and the notion that by riding the bus (or metro or subway or T or ferry), you're not only not contributing to overall shitty metropolitan air qualities, you're helping to eliminate city congestion, as well as bringing the costs of travel down (the more people who use the bus, the less it should cost, ideally). I actually feel like I'm helping the city when I'm riding the bus (and I think that's the point: the idea that you're helping things - or at least engaging in the lesser of two evils- is supposed to outweigh all of the obvious negative parts of using mass transit).
With all that being said:
Dear PAT,
you make me want to buy a car. At least a car will be mine, and will run on time, and won't be rude to me when I ask questions, or slam the door in my face, or smell like urine, or stink of exhaust, or make me hold my purse tighter, or cost me more than it's worth.
PAT (Pittsburgh Port Authority Transit) has officially announced that they are raising their fares. Zone 1 fares are going to be raised from $1.75 to either $2 or $2.25. This means that fare hikes for Zone 2 and Zone 3 are going to be ridiculous - but I'll leave that be since it doesn't immediately concern me.
Currently, I ride two buses to work each day (and the same two buses back). Fortunately, I am in Zone 1 for both of my rides, but because PAT's bus routes are inefficient, I have to transfer which means that on top of my $1.75 bus fare each way, I have to pay an additional 50 cents. This means that I am spending $4.5o on inefficient public transportation each day.
I just used gmap pedometer to figure out the exact distance I ride the bus: 3.7 miles. The argument for public transportation (economically) is that it saves you money for gas and for parking. Even the least fuel-efficient cars in the world get better than 4 miles to the gallon, hell they get better than 8 miles to the gallon (to be honest the least fuel-efficient car I have ever encountered is a 10-year-old Lincoln Navigator that got a whopping 10 miles to the gallon).
This means that, were I driving 8 miles a day, my travel costs would be less than the cost of one gallon of gasoline right now (which, we'll just say is $3.50/gallon). Parking is free in my building, so as-is, it would make more sense for me to drive to work. In addition, my little, not-even-4-mile, trek takes me, on average, 45 minutes (one way). I could cut that in half driving.
Best case scenario, with the new hikes: my daily costs will be $5 a day (assuming PAT leaves transfers at 50 cents, which they say they will, but I'm skeptical).
[Something else to keep in mind, is that a monthly (and especially yearly) bus pas is not economically feasible for me at this time, especially when the monthly passes are supposed to go up to $75 a month with the fare hikes. What is in my price-range is what PAT calls a "10-trip ticket." However, despite the fact that one is essentially purchasing tickets in bulk, PAT offers no bulk discount (one 10-trip ticket currently costs $17.50 and will increase in cost accordingly along with the fare hikes)] .
What's sad is, I believe in public transportation. I believe that it's an important part of, and necessity in, cities. I like the sense of community it builds, and the notion that by riding the bus (or metro or subway or T or ferry), you're not only not contributing to overall shitty metropolitan air qualities, you're helping to eliminate city congestion, as well as bringing the costs of travel down (the more people who use the bus, the less it should cost, ideally). I actually feel like I'm helping the city when I'm riding the bus (and I think that's the point: the idea that you're helping things - or at least engaging in the lesser of two evils- is supposed to outweigh all of the obvious negative parts of using mass transit).
With all that being said:
Dear PAT,
you make me want to buy a car. At least a car will be mine, and will run on time, and won't be rude to me when I ask questions, or slam the door in my face, or smell like urine, or stink of exhaust, or make me hold my purse tighter, or cost me more than it's worth.
Windy City
Yesterday, while waiting to transfer buses on my way to work (in the midst of the first good Pittsburgh snow), I encountered a little old lady who was waiting for the same bus as I was. The bus we wanted sat a block away from us, apparently broken down. I struck up a conversation with her - or rather, she with me - after asking her if she knew anything about the state of the bus. The only thing she knew, she said, was that she'd been waiting for another 54C for nearly 30 minutes. After repeatedly placing my headphones in my ears, and then removing them after long pauses in our conversation (each pause causing me to assume she was done talking), she said "I wouldn't want to walk across the bridge on a day like today. No sir, not in this wind." Wide-eyed, I replied "I wouldn't want to walk across the bridge ever." *long pause*
"You know I walked across the bridge once."
"Really?"
"The day of the mayor's funeral, though I didn't know that at the time."
"I remember that day."
"I stood here wondering why the buses wouldn't come, and I had to get to work, so I walked."
She asked me where I worked, and guiltily but guardedly, I only revealed the name of the complex in which my office is located. She told me the address and name of her employer: "Elderberry Junction", better known as the Goodwill Senior Center. She spoke of Elderberry Junction with such pride that I congratulated her, with genuine happiness, for having a job that sounded so wonderful.
A few minutes later the bus came, and when the door opened she eagerly shuffled toward the bus and then stopped unexpectedly. The bus driver seemed perplexed at first, and then knowingly lowered the bus (it is what they call a "kneeling bus") and she barely made it up onto the first step. I actually had my arms out behind her because I thought she was going to fall. A young man sitting in what I like to call the "a little farther back" section (also known as the front) immediately vacated his seat for her.
15 minutes later, we exited the bus at the same stop. I began walking toward my destination, and she hurried off in the opposite direction, perhaps to get a cup of coffee before heading to Elderberry Junction.
All day long, I thought about this woman, and I'm not sure why. I can think of a few reasons, but none of them seem to fit. It's not necessarily the image of this hobbling woman walking across a long and dangerous bridge, though that's part of it. It's not the idea that a spirited older woman has more tenacity than I do, though that's certainly part of it. I'm not even sure it's her passion and her pride in her job, though that is something so beautiful and rare that I hope to never forget it. I am really not sure what it is.
Maybe it's her will. Maybe it's her will in all of these things combined. Her will to wait in the snow; her will to get onto the bus; her will to walk to work; her will to be a good employee; her will to be kind to, and connect with strangers. It's so rare to see an unblemished (I guess "barely blemished" is fairer, as I don't know her story) will in a person anymore - most people my age are so downtrodden and dejected, and self-pitying (not through-and-through, but every young person I know pities him or herself in at least one way). She had no self-pity, only drive. And --I was going to say in spite of, but I think "because of" is more apt -- maybe because of this, she is happy.
"You know I walked across the bridge once."
"Really?"
"The day of the mayor's funeral, though I didn't know that at the time."
"I remember that day."
"I stood here wondering why the buses wouldn't come, and I had to get to work, so I walked."
She asked me where I worked, and guiltily but guardedly, I only revealed the name of the complex in which my office is located. She told me the address and name of her employer: "Elderberry Junction", better known as the Goodwill Senior Center. She spoke of Elderberry Junction with such pride that I congratulated her, with genuine happiness, for having a job that sounded so wonderful.
A few minutes later the bus came, and when the door opened she eagerly shuffled toward the bus and then stopped unexpectedly. The bus driver seemed perplexed at first, and then knowingly lowered the bus (it is what they call a "kneeling bus") and she barely made it up onto the first step. I actually had my arms out behind her because I thought she was going to fall. A young man sitting in what I like to call the "a little farther back" section (also known as the front) immediately vacated his seat for her.
15 minutes later, we exited the bus at the same stop. I began walking toward my destination, and she hurried off in the opposite direction, perhaps to get a cup of coffee before heading to Elderberry Junction.
All day long, I thought about this woman, and I'm not sure why. I can think of a few reasons, but none of them seem to fit. It's not necessarily the image of this hobbling woman walking across a long and dangerous bridge, though that's part of it. It's not the idea that a spirited older woman has more tenacity than I do, though that's certainly part of it. I'm not even sure it's her passion and her pride in her job, though that is something so beautiful and rare that I hope to never forget it. I am really not sure what it is.
Maybe it's her will. Maybe it's her will in all of these things combined. Her will to wait in the snow; her will to get onto the bus; her will to walk to work; her will to be a good employee; her will to be kind to, and connect with strangers. It's so rare to see an unblemished (I guess "barely blemished" is fairer, as I don't know her story) will in a person anymore - most people my age are so downtrodden and dejected, and self-pitying (not through-and-through, but every young person I know pities him or herself in at least one way). She had no self-pity, only drive. And --I was going to say in spite of, but I think "because of" is more apt -- maybe because of this, she is happy.
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