College feels like a million miles away. It feels so far that it nearly feels like it didn't happen, or barely happened. I don't remember it. I didn't drink heavily. I didn't party hard. Sometimes I'm shocked by the amount of "doing" that I just didn't. I went to class; I auditioned for one play (and got so embarrassed by forgetting my monologue that I dropped out of the theater school entirely); I wrote for the Daily Iowan; I hosted a weekly radio show for three years on KRUI 89.7. I called it "The Early Morning Airstrike."
Higher education — it's supposed to be this time of self-discovery, learning, adventure, finding out what you're good at, trying things — but I don't really think I did those overarching things. I was busy doing this and then that, creating friendships that when looked at closely these days aren't all that close (at least not anymore). Both of my college roommates ended up in Los Angeles post graduation, yet we seldom get together. It's no ones specific fault. We just lead different lives, have different interests, different priorities. We're different, after all. When I really think about it, it's unbelievable that we've made it this far because we are so different.
This time last year, I was just ending a sub-chapter back in a University setting. I was behind a desk, working in an office, watching students linger outside classrooms, skateboard past signs that say "No Skateboarding," and wear business suits as an assignment — And now a full year after that, I'm left wondering, where did it all go? Even if you're in the same decade, it's unbelievable how different a 20-year-old is from a 29-year-old. The incremental change each day of those 365 days from 29 to 30 hits you the day before your birthday. It isn't incremental at all. And now that keep hitting these painful numbers, it feels like I've somehow moved further away from something rather than toward something else. I don't think I'll ever feel my age again. Maybe when I'm 80. By then my hips, knees and eyes won't let me skip past the truth like they do now.
I'm not old. I'm not. I'm really not. But, I feel old. I feel left behind. I have this overwhelming sense that my life is passing me by. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Like I didn't just waste a couple decades. It seems that for most people their job is where they find their satisfaction, their reason to be, "raison d'être." And as a performer, it's tough to know that my career is somewhat in the hands of others. Yes, I can create my work — I can write for myself — I can join teams and perform shows, and so on, and on, and on; I can do all of these things, and that is amazing. But what does it matter if no one sees it. If no one thinks it's good enough to pay for. Where is my worth? I have so much control, but what is control anyway?
Google defines it as "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events." But this is only a half definition to me. Control can direct, sure, but when you're out of control there is also a direction, and it's not always down. The relationship between control and success is a lie.
I have so much less "control" than I think. I can do what I can to direct the course of my life, but life will do what it wants, and other people in their lives are doing the same, and my life will intersect with theirs, and there will be "right time and right place," and then the less popular, but more common, "wrong time and wrong place," followed by the confusing, "wrong time and right place," and then of course, the ever frustrating "right time and wrong place." If we're looking at life as a Punnett Square based on life situations: Time and Place as the main variables — "right time and right place" accounts for just 25 percent of what life hands you, the rest, darlings, is unfortunately 75 percent the mismatching of everything else. We cannot control time. So inevitably control is for nothing.
If I want to make any money at my creative craft, that alleged control I love to have so much, goes to the birds. Others write my paycheck. It's incredibly tough.
Where does that leave me?
It leaves time as the constant variable that won't allow itself to be controlled.
Showing posts with label College. Show all posts
Showing posts with label College. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 05, 2016
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
dear you, my friend, my confidante, my pen-pals.
I have a lot of pen-pals. You know? Pen pals — those people who your third grade teacher somehow arranged for you to write to so that you, the youth of America, could get to know the intricate lives of other kids in other towns. So you could spread your mind. Expand your universe. Realize you're not so alone. Those. Those are the pen-pals, I speak of.
As I've continued on this seemingly endless journey, I've managed to keep a running list of friends who have become better friends as a result of letter writing, far beyond the bounds of that elementary tradition. As I continue to move and change and grow and live, people drop off and pick up — and it's fun. Sometimes I forget who I wrote to and what I wrote them until I get a letter back...like a little treat. I keep them all, the letters/cards/notes. I put them in a shoebox and every now and again, I pull them out, remember the moments that went into them. I reread over and over. They're reflections of the lives we were leading in that moment, however far apart, however close together.
I think there's something truly exciting about writing someone a letter. The reality that there is only one copy, that once the envelope is open and its contents delivered, that sensational anticipation withers until the next go-around. The struggle of a hand cramping, a tear smudging, the USPS seemingly dousing the whole thing in a bunch of dirt...
Sometimes I write long notes, sometimes short, but I sort of like not knowing exactly what I wrote once it's stamped, sealed and sent.
It's so easy to write and rewrite and go back and clarify things on a computer, that sometimes I wonder if it even matters — my life edited is not my life. There's something to be said about the intention that goes into writing a letter, hoping to remember exactly what I told someone, remembering the questions I asked, the thoughts swirling in my mind at the time.
With computers and email and texting and comment threads and message boards and all these different ways to "drop a quick note," I revel in the one-on-one correspondence of it all. I revel in having only their responses to go off of, like a Best Friend necklace, we each have our sides, even if we're not best friends.
A few weeks ago a friend sent me a letter that detailed his life.
We've known one another for years now, peripherally, but letter writing has since made it more apparent how similar our overall experiences and thoughts are, while also showing how incredibly different our day-to-day lives actually are. We started at the same University at the same time, wrote for the same college paper, and though we didn't know each other well — well enough to say, "Hi," to befriend one another on social media, to feel comfortable "liking" a photo on Facebook, or thoughtfully responding to a status update — we've struck up a friendship born from our mutual desire to share.
Putting our minds, our worries, our thoughts of the moment, to page in specific correspondence with one another — I don't know — it feels more real than some of my daily relationships.
At the moment I have three regular pen-pals, and a harbor stocked with friends I write regular emails to, and even more who read this blog (the ultimate one-way pen-pal situation, so I guess just pen?).
Sometimes depending on the pen-pal, it feels as if I'm reading the book of their life, and they're reading mine, like a memoir unedited, unabridged and unending. It's a delight, and I hope it doesn't ever stop. As friends come and go from my life, as in-person relationships fade with distance and time, I'm glad that however arcane it might be to grab a ballpoint and a college-ruled piece of paper, I have people who's addresses I can send to knowing they're excited to hear from me.
Write more, everyone.
As I've continued on this seemingly endless journey, I've managed to keep a running list of friends who have become better friends as a result of letter writing, far beyond the bounds of that elementary tradition. As I continue to move and change and grow and live, people drop off and pick up — and it's fun. Sometimes I forget who I wrote to and what I wrote them until I get a letter back...like a little treat. I keep them all, the letters/cards/notes. I put them in a shoebox and every now and again, I pull them out, remember the moments that went into them. I reread over and over. They're reflections of the lives we were leading in that moment, however far apart, however close together.
I think there's something truly exciting about writing someone a letter. The reality that there is only one copy, that once the envelope is open and its contents delivered, that sensational anticipation withers until the next go-around. The struggle of a hand cramping, a tear smudging, the USPS seemingly dousing the whole thing in a bunch of dirt...
Sometimes I write long notes, sometimes short, but I sort of like not knowing exactly what I wrote once it's stamped, sealed and sent.
It's so easy to write and rewrite and go back and clarify things on a computer, that sometimes I wonder if it even matters — my life edited is not my life. There's something to be said about the intention that goes into writing a letter, hoping to remember exactly what I told someone, remembering the questions I asked, the thoughts swirling in my mind at the time.
With computers and email and texting and comment threads and message boards and all these different ways to "drop a quick note," I revel in the one-on-one correspondence of it all. I revel in having only their responses to go off of, like a Best Friend necklace, we each have our sides, even if we're not best friends.
We've known one another for years now, peripherally, but letter writing has since made it more apparent how similar our overall experiences and thoughts are, while also showing how incredibly different our day-to-day lives actually are. We started at the same University at the same time, wrote for the same college paper, and though we didn't know each other well — well enough to say, "Hi," to befriend one another on social media, to feel comfortable "liking" a photo on Facebook, or thoughtfully responding to a status update — we've struck up a friendship born from our mutual desire to share.
Putting our minds, our worries, our thoughts of the moment, to page in specific correspondence with one another — I don't know — it feels more real than some of my daily relationships.
At the moment I have three regular pen-pals, and a harbor stocked with friends I write regular emails to, and even more who read this blog (the ultimate one-way pen-pal situation, so I guess just pen?).
Sometimes depending on the pen-pal, it feels as if I'm reading the book of their life, and they're reading mine, like a memoir unedited, unabridged and unending. It's a delight, and I hope it doesn't ever stop. As friends come and go from my life, as in-person relationships fade with distance and time, I'm glad that however arcane it might be to grab a ballpoint and a college-ruled piece of paper, I have people who's addresses I can send to knowing they're excited to hear from me.
Write more, everyone.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
hate mail / hate male: i did it for the jokes.
At the start of my collegiate writing career I experienced one of my then most exciting comedy breakthroughs — an opportunity to write The Ledge, a weekly joke column for my school newspaper, The Daily Iowan. Being offered this chance to deliver to the masses a social comedic commentary that would truly influence lives (!!!) was like being offered Saturday Night Live directly by Lorne Michaels himself. It was something I never imagined I would get to do, but there I was, doing it —as a sophomore, no less. (I would like the record to reflect that I am now able to see that my sights were not set high enough.)
The previous week Michael Moller, a DI colleague of mine, wrote a Ledge titled, "Sexual Things Women Don't know About Men." It was funny, if generic, and having grown up with four brothers, I got the jokes. What I didn't get at the time was that for many college boys, that bulleted list wasn't a joke like I saw it — a list highlighting the "funny" things that used to be true, things that are so ridiculous that they're clearly a joke. No, Michael's list for many guys (at least at the University of Iowa, and continues to prove elsewhere) was the Truth List, funny because it belittled their female peers.
On one end of the scale, the column read, "Every guy has measured his penis..." (laugh-worthy, sure) and on the other side of the jaw-dropping chuckle fest, "If they have an STD, they will not tell you" (a pretty blatant violation of sexual trust).
But, hey, it was a joke. I love jokes. Still do. And, I am absolutely positive all those gals with HPV have been laughing nonstop about this one.
So, I decided to write a "Come-back" column. At the time I thought I was on the cusp of some major Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus precipice, ready to discover something truly original in what I now know is a never ending conversation about gender roles that I hate. I was young. I didn't know!
I wrote my list, my hilarious, insightful, indignant and violently hyperbolic list: "Things Men Should Know About Women." I proclaimed things like, "We all are smarter than you, wherever you went to
school and whatever your GPA is." God, I was good. I played with words like Seshat would, spilling my outspoken female psyche onto giggling co-eds. "We’ve got feminine wiles. Did anyone ever hear of male wiles? No." And, they didn't, and don't.
I was a brilliant mastermind falling right into a clichéd collegiate squabble. But, hey it was a joke! I did it for the laughs! I only wish I knew that it wasn't some dumb playground back-and-forth. I wish I knew that this conversation, these sorts of "men do this, and women do that," ping-pong competitions, jokes or not, are so, so dumb.
Shortly after my list was published I received a melee of hate mail, or rather hate from males. I was harassed on Facebook. I was harassed over email. No one ever harassed me to my face because, God, there's something so...what's the word, oh, EMPOWERING, about attacking people through the thick vat that is the Internet.
I got messages from an idiot named Eric (can't remember his last name) telling me in no uncertain terms that due to my lack of sexual prowess he could "guarantee" that "no guy had ever bought [me] a drink in a bar." Oh, man. Stinger. Like the class-act I've always been I wrote a bunch of trite sassy responses, none of which I actually sent him, instead opting for the high road. I informed him that "I'm a person," and he had offended me. Obviously, it only made sense to thank him for reading my column. The honor to have him as reader. I was so, so blessed with his presence.
But, the most malicious response came in the form of a terribly crafted email written by a University of Iowa football player, Jovon. I only shared his email with a few people, including my boyfriend at the time, Brian, and my two roommates, both named Elizabeth.
Then that was it. I don't think I ever responded to Jovon. He hurt me more than I even knew then. I don't remember the whole email, and I've long since deleted it, hoping that with a quick hit of the button I'd never think about him calling me a "beat ass chicken head," among other things again. But, I do. It's been eight years of randomly remembering Jovon's hateful words. I remember thinking that receiving hate mail was part of what being a journalist was. I remember Brian telling me that Jovon's email was garbage. I remember him telling me he loved me, and he would definitely buy me a drink in a bar. I remember laughing about it with my friends, and I remember crying about it alone.
The Elizabeth's encouraged me to forward the emails to my editor, as did Brian. But, I thought having a brave face, ignoring this incessant gender warring faction, was the way to really prove I was an equal sex. I don't know if I was right to ignore the advice of my peers, opting to "not be a tattle-tale." But I will say now, I wish I spoke up, rather than becoming silenced. What I didn't realize then was that I wasn't just being attacked for being a jokester of a female, I was being attacked for daring to joke about gender inequality, daring to just kid around about women being superior to men, about not wanting to get into the kitchen to make a sandwich, etc. Joking. I don't believe women are superior, nor do I believe men are, but plenty of men do think they are — and even kidding that it could be the other way around was too much for some male counterparts, then and clearly still, now.
Since then I have grown as a comic, as an improviser, as an actor, as a writer. That experience long ago sticks with me, and there have been others since then, too, perhaps not as sticky in my mind, but they are there.
I've made jokes about males. I've made jokes about females. I've delivered stand-up about how people don't say what they want. I've delivered stand-up about my fears that saying what I want will make me look like a weak little girl. I try to tackle the things that matter to me, whether it's through comedy, writing or just regular conversation with friends. And still, I find myself self-censoring because sometimes I am still scared of rocking the boat, of offending, of saying something or doing something that will make someone not just write me mean things or prank call me spewing hate, but really hurt me.
There is nothing worse for a person's soul then to feel like they have to hide who they are because of the fear of what someone could do to them.
I don't want this for my fellow peers, male or female.
The previous week Michael Moller, a DI colleague of mine, wrote a Ledge titled, "Sexual Things Women Don't know About Men." It was funny, if generic, and having grown up with four brothers, I got the jokes. What I didn't get at the time was that for many college boys, that bulleted list wasn't a joke like I saw it — a list highlighting the "funny" things that used to be true, things that are so ridiculous that they're clearly a joke. No, Michael's list for many guys (at least at the University of Iowa, and continues to prove elsewhere) was the Truth List, funny because it belittled their female peers.
On one end of the scale, the column read, "Every guy has measured his penis..." (laugh-worthy, sure) and on the other side of the jaw-dropping chuckle fest, "If they have an STD, they will not tell you" (a pretty blatant violation of sexual trust).
But, hey, it was a joke. I love jokes. Still do. And, I am absolutely positive all those gals with HPV have been laughing nonstop about this one.
So, I decided to write a "Come-back" column. At the time I thought I was on the cusp of some major Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus precipice, ready to discover something truly original in what I now know is a never ending conversation about gender roles that I hate. I was young. I didn't know!
I wrote my list, my hilarious, insightful, indignant and violently hyperbolic list: "Things Men Should Know About Women." I proclaimed things like, "We all are smarter than you, wherever you went to
school and whatever your GPA is." God, I was good. I played with words like Seshat would, spilling my outspoken female psyche onto giggling co-eds. "We’ve got feminine wiles. Did anyone ever hear of male wiles? No." And, they didn't, and don't.
I was a brilliant mastermind falling right into a clichéd collegiate squabble. But, hey it was a joke! I did it for the laughs! I only wish I knew that it wasn't some dumb playground back-and-forth. I wish I knew that this conversation, these sorts of "men do this, and women do that," ping-pong competitions, jokes or not, are so, so dumb.
Shortly after my list was published I received a melee of hate mail, or rather hate from males. I was harassed on Facebook. I was harassed over email. No one ever harassed me to my face because, God, there's something so...what's the word, oh, EMPOWERING, about attacking people through the thick vat that is the Internet.
I got messages from an idiot named Eric (can't remember his last name) telling me in no uncertain terms that due to my lack of sexual prowess he could "guarantee" that "no guy had ever bought [me] a drink in a bar." Oh, man. Stinger. Like the class-act I've always been I wrote a bunch of trite sassy responses, none of which I actually sent him, instead opting for the high road. I informed him that "I'm a person," and he had offended me. Obviously, it only made sense to thank him for reading my column. The honor to have him as reader. I was so, so blessed with his presence.
But, the most malicious response came in the form of a terribly crafted email written by a University of Iowa football player, Jovon. I only shared his email with a few people, including my boyfriend at the time, Brian, and my two roommates, both named Elizabeth.
Then that was it. I don't think I ever responded to Jovon. He hurt me more than I even knew then. I don't remember the whole email, and I've long since deleted it, hoping that with a quick hit of the button I'd never think about him calling me a "beat ass chicken head," among other things again. But, I do. It's been eight years of randomly remembering Jovon's hateful words. I remember thinking that receiving hate mail was part of what being a journalist was. I remember Brian telling me that Jovon's email was garbage. I remember him telling me he loved me, and he would definitely buy me a drink in a bar. I remember laughing about it with my friends, and I remember crying about it alone.
The Elizabeth's encouraged me to forward the emails to my editor, as did Brian. But, I thought having a brave face, ignoring this incessant gender warring faction, was the way to really prove I was an equal sex. I don't know if I was right to ignore the advice of my peers, opting to "not be a tattle-tale." But I will say now, I wish I spoke up, rather than becoming silenced. What I didn't realize then was that I wasn't just being attacked for being a jokester of a female, I was being attacked for daring to joke about gender inequality, daring to just kid around about women being superior to men, about not wanting to get into the kitchen to make a sandwich, etc. Joking. I don't believe women are superior, nor do I believe men are, but plenty of men do think they are — and even kidding that it could be the other way around was too much for some male counterparts, then and clearly still, now.
Since then I have grown as a comic, as an improviser, as an actor, as a writer. That experience long ago sticks with me, and there have been others since then, too, perhaps not as sticky in my mind, but they are there.
I've made jokes about males. I've made jokes about females. I've delivered stand-up about how people don't say what they want. I've delivered stand-up about my fears that saying what I want will make me look like a weak little girl. I try to tackle the things that matter to me, whether it's through comedy, writing or just regular conversation with friends. And still, I find myself self-censoring because sometimes I am still scared of rocking the boat, of offending, of saying something or doing something that will make someone not just write me mean things or prank call me spewing hate, but really hurt me.
There is nothing worse for a person's soul then to feel like they have to hide who they are because of the fear of what someone could do to them.
I don't want this for my fellow peers, male or female.
Thursday, June 05, 2014
Open Your Eyes, 2007
“It's fine,” I yelled up the stairs. “Don’t worry about the converter. I don’t need it.”
She shouted to me as I opened the door to leave something about outlets and voltage. That was one thing I would sometimes get impatient with, all the shouting, not even anger, just loud voices; I loved her, but there was simply no way. Outside a jet black Buick honked notifying me of its presence.
“I have to go Katy.”
The creaking wood floors beneath her soft footsteps and the smell of her as she brushed up against me for one last embrace made me want to stay, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Again I opened our front door, which now seems not mine at all, but hers, all hers. We painted it the day we moved in. She told me on our first date that her favorite color was red, but not just red. She described it with her hands, brushing through the air of my imagination a violet-red-rouge color that at the time I never knew I would one day see. We painted our front door a year into our relationship later. She picked it out at Inman’s Paint on the corner of Ledge and Morningside just past Don’s Finest Foods downtown. I remember her coming home with three large cans for about six square feet. She always knew how to make me laugh, even if it was unintentional.
That was two years ago, and we were still in graduate school at Stanford. She was there for a Masters in Art History and printmaking. I was finishing graduate school and beginning the strenuous process of receiving a PhD in International studies. We met at O’Keefe’s, a local bar rarely visited by the loads of undergrad students who frequented the downtown scene.
***
She tapped on my shoulder.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
I turned around to find a short brunette woman smiling coyly. The freckles across the bridge of her nose danced as she smiled at me. At that moment all I wanted was a cigarette to give her — Parliaments, Virginia Slims, anything.
“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said. Feeling like an idiot for listening to the Surgeon General, I leaned back around to pick up my Heineken.
“Great. I don’t either,” she said taking the seat to my right. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t because man, I hate it...Hi, I’m Katy.”
“I’m James,” I said extending my hand.
And that’s how we started. Shortly after the pop quiz we left O’Keefe’s. It was only about 7 p.m so we strolled about looking into boutique windows and speaking about ourselves, then I walked her home. She gave me her number and we just sort of started being a ‘thing.’ At first she was pretty anti-titles, so I never called her my girlfriend and she never called me her boyfriend. We just sort of, were.
***
I got into the car bound for the San Jose airport to make my 10:53 a.m. flight. That’s one thing I never could quite understand, the way flight times are — never 11 a.m. or 6 p.m., simply 1:38 a.m. Be there or be square. I felt so old planning my flight, taking action in the decisions I know will affect me wherever I end up ten years from now. It’s May, and I just graduated. I’m now Dr. James Napier. I wasn’t trained to clean wounds or heal the lame, I wasn’t taught to listen to the problems of others or use a stethoscope. Being a doctor of International Studies, doesn’t seem like much of a doctor job. My specialty’s in human rights, while I mostly deal in issues of human trafficking in third world countries from Bangladesh to Laos. Straight out of the University of Chicago where I attended undergrad, I applied to work for the United States Peace Corps in Malaysia, but I pulled out after only six months on sight. Since then I haven’t been able to sleep through the night.
Even after I came back to the states and started with school again, I knew I couldn’t live as an academic forever, and Katy always knew I wasn’t planning on being stagnant in California forever.
“So where are you off to?” asked the driver.
“Going to Cambodia.” Hearing myself say it made the tiniest hairs prick up on the nape of my neck. I was surprised that my hands weren’t shaking, but as I repositioned myself in the back of the car I rubbed my clammy palms against the soft black leather seat.
The driver’s eyes darted back at me in the rearview mirror as I said it. “Off getting yourself a tan?” he asked.
I cracked a smile and said, “I can get a tan here. No, I’ll be going there to research human trafficking.”
“Oh,” he said. That was it.
“Have you heard of what’s going on over in East Asia at all?”
He seemed to be concentrating on the road as I tried to pry my way into his mind. Holding the wheel with two hands he slid in and out of lanes passing the green exit signs with caution as not to miss the terminal.
“I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”
His voice seemed tired, slightly distressed and very uninterested. Glancing out the window I starred up at the clear skies and then down at the shadows of palm trees gliding along the pavement.
“Oh, it was nothing.”
***
When I got to Cambodia it was 96 degrees and the locals were getting ready for the autumnal floods headed their way over the next few weeks. I was stationed in the country’s capital to do most of my research through one of the NGOs I randomly picked after scanning through the list the previous spring. I chose the Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association and when I told one of my professors of my decision to work there he told me it was the leading organization in the fight against Cambodian human trafficking.
The airport was a sea of colors and languages and music and animals. I had never seen anything like it. I got off the plane headed for the baggage claim along with the hundreds of other foreigners streaming into Cambodia’s singular international airport. “Sir, sir, sir, sir!” Those were the first attempted English words I heard people shout at me as I picked up my luggage in Phnom Penh International Airport. I suppose my dehydrated, pallid face nearly pristine white to them gave me away as an outsider. My pathetic attempt to disguise myself rather as an experienced traveler was clearly a failure upon arrival as my camping-styled Mountain Hardware hiking bag’s front pocket exploded with about twenty Ralph Lauren Polo socks. Immediately I was taken up by the flood of invitations from Cambodian’s to ‘come with them’ and ended up getting a ride to a hotel around the corner from my new place of business by way of a kind gentleman named Prahsuit. He seemed to know English well and after speaking with him for a few minutes I had found out about nearly his entire family and learned of how he had been learning English for the last fifteen years driving tourists here and there.
“Where you from?” inquired Prahsuit.
I hadn’t been expecting much conversation initially, but I answered plainly, “The United States.”
He laughed showing his rotted out gums reminding me that I hadn’t gone to the dentist myself in close to a year.
“I know you from U.S.A., but where you from?” he continued. “I know people who live there.”
Of course he knows people who live there. Of course, already I was the American guilty of underestimating the rest of the world.
“I’m from Michigan. It’s close to Canada.”
“Canada? Oh, Canada. Not French.”
It struck me as odd that he seemed to know a little about French colonization in the Western hemisphere. Taking out a reporter notebook I bought at Walgreen’s a few days before I wrote down the remark and placed a large star beside it. Below it I wrote to buy an international cell phone, but in the mean time to call Katy using the hotel line.
***
“James Napier?”
A loud receptionist at the head of the waiting room finally called my name. She said it like it was doubtful if I would actually be there or not—like they didn’t have faith that a real down on the farm Michigan boy couldn’t possibly find himself at the other side of the globe. Maybe it was just my insecurities shouting into my psyche.
“Yes, yes, that’s me.”
She nodded her head, which carried with it a code of ‘come with me.’ I followed the tiny woman to a small, vacant room with two chairs, one desk reminiscent of post-Soviet Union classrooms, and a small window that had large steel beams cross over it.
“Your advisor will be with you in a moment.” She left me in the room where I made myself comfortable sitting in one of the chairs. The linoleum floors and cement block walls reminded me of my first dormitory at UC. There were traces of foot prints and dust bunnies everywhere. Before I could speculate more Dr. Marvin Shuckhorn preceded into what I learned was his office.
“Hello,” he said extending his large callused hand. “So how are things so far? You’ve been here, what, a few days? Have you met your colleagues? How are they? Do you guys get along? Are you all here for the same purpose?”
After his machinegun shoot-off of questions I was finally able to answer.
“Things so far are, well, for sure they’re different.”
“Well of course they’re different,” he said with a Santa Claus-like twinkle in his eye. “You know it’s not USA college life out there, is it?” He trailed off laughing at his own ‘dad joke.’
“Yeah, it’s no USA,” I said skeptically. “Anyway, I’ve met a few people. I noticed that this is much more of an international workplace than I had expected. I was sort of thinking I’d be the only American in a predominantly Cambodian office. It’s interesting for sure.”
“So you think the ‘melting pot,’ if you will, works here? Good, I’m glad. You know, we were a bit worried that a multinational group would lose sight of the human rights for Cambodians would be a problem.”
“No, no, it’s good.”
“Good. Yeah, I guess it does work. Yeah, because, hey, we’re all people here. We all need rights, and have them, innately, that is. Hmm, so who do you have a connection with in the group so far?”
“Oh, well, I met a French woman named Marion Clair. She’s from the town in France my sister studied in.”
“Yeah, Marion, she’s a good girl. Very smart. Interested in reporting human rights issues, I hear. Good girl, yeah. Very pretty, too, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Oh, yeah, well, she’s fine, but I have a girl at home, so,” I said. Then trying to change the subject, I added, “So yeah, the other members are great so far too. I met a Belgian some other Americans and a few Spaniards—yeah, we all live in the same housing complex up the road.”
“Right, ok,” he said. Getting down to the real meat of the meeting, he said, “Now, let me see here...”
Adjusting his bifocals so they’d sit on the brim of his large nose rather than the tip where they continually fell, he said, “So, I see you’re a doctor?”
“Yeah, but not in the way you might think. I’m a researcher. I study human development and specialize in the human trafficking that has become a phenomenon over the past few decades.”
At this he gave me a half smile and said sarcastically one word, “Phenomenon?”
I had heard all the arguments before regarding the time period before, but I was prepared for Shuckhorn’s undoubtedly longwinded explanation of the time frame.
“Phenomenon?” he repeated. “Let me tell you something, human trafficking is anything but a phenomenon. It’s a damn catastrophe. I tell you, if people think major environmental disasters are a problem, think about the estimated 600,000 to 820,000 men, women, and children that are trafficked across international borders each year. I mean, Jesus.”
At that he placed both hands on his brows. His brown eyes darted from side to side as he meticulously calculated the amount of human suffering that must occur each day in this godforsaken world we live in.
“We live in a world where crafty businessmen think it’s their birthright to suppress the suppressible, stomp on the weak and sell the ones left over.”
As he said this I starred up from my hands which I had been cracking rapidly during his much deserved soliloquy.
“You want to see your life here researching ‘phenomenal issues’ matter?” he asked in a tone more like a statement. “Then don’t go on telling people things that are just plain false.”
For a while we both were quiet. I was back in my place as a subordinate to a much higher ruling party than I and was ready to receive information about my time constraints, financial measures and permanent living assessment.
“Now, you’re here to get your assignment and to explain your proposed research inquiry. At the end of your session here you will turn in a short report regarding your position on the issue of human trafficking in Eastern Asia, in specific regard to Cambodia.”
He stopped to breathe.
“Is this clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “It’s clear.”
“So, go ahead. Explain briefly your reasons in working for the CHRD.”
I was taken off-guard. I hadn’t realized until that very moment why I had decided CHRD, why I had decided on human rights. I couldn’t remember for the life of me why I was there, why I felt like I needed to make a difference, why my life could impact the lives of others. For a while, probably a few seconds that felt like a few hours we both sat in silence. Dr. Shuckhorn’s clothing smelled unwashed and faintly of river water and sweat. His odor made it difficult to concentrate. Perspiration pockets built up beneath my armpits and a single bead floated down my spine dipping into the small of my back.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You want me to explain right now my position on trafficking in brief and give a smaller version of my research topic?”
Shifting in his seat leaning toward the open window, he said, “Yeah, if you can. If you aren’t prepared or need a few minutes, that’s fine.”
“No, no, that’s alright. I can explain it now,” I said. Then it came to me. All my ideas surged out in one big splat of an idea. “Ok, so the United Nations has in the past put sanctions on Cambodia after various other nations have left their footprint in the Cambodian sands — well, the UN ruled under transitional authority from ’89 to ’93, but they left the country to the restored monarchy in ’94. That said, serious sex trafficking was witnessed and reported increases after peacekeeping forces moved in and after they left. I plan to explore the link between these peacekeeping forces like the UN and NATO and increased amount of sexual human trafficking in Cambodia, while also using countries like Bosnia and Kosovo as other examples.”
I came out like tidal wave of well-researched thoughts.
“What do you think?” I asked Shuckhorn.
“Sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you’ll uncover something those other payroll researchers haven’t yet.”
With that he stood up to shake my hand and bring me out of the office. Walking at his heels I noticed his balding blonde and grey swirl of hair on the top of his head and the sun marks like wrinkles and sunspots popped up at me. I suppose that’s what one would look like if they lived her for the rest of their days.
“You’ll need to set up an appointment for every third of the month to check up with research and theories. Let yourself out. It’s been nice meeting you.”
“Yeah, you too,” I said. “Thanks for the input on ideas. I’ll see you in a month.”
By then he was practically at the end of the hallway, but then turned around slightly to add in another tidbit of wisdom.
“Don’t forget what I said about phenomenon.”
***
I had been researching on the local trade culture regarding the deals involving slave trades or similar trades like sex trades and favors for about a month already. So far it didn’t seem anything out of the normal in regard to the nature of selling humans for financial gains. The UN had pulled out of the country just over a decade before and the bulk of my studies dealt with the overwhelming aftermath of their lack of paying attention, while they were in country, to the underground thriving industry of the sale of men, women and children. According to past statements they said the ‘phenomenon’ of human trafficking in Cambodia is relatively new, although globally it has been a problem for centuries upon centuries. The issue has come to light as a problem in the ‘90s, but very little knowledge of why it is occurring there or who is participating is known.
After reading up on the sexual exploitation of mainly women and children who live in the country region of Cambodia and their recruitment into this line of work under the guise of factory jobs I couldn’t look out my window without feeling like all of these people were victims. Even the victimizers have their reasons for exploiting others. It’s a cycle of country self-destruction forming from the alarming amount of poverty. For days at a time I couldn’t read anything on the issue without throwing up in sheer disgust and pain for the abused.
***
“There’s no way I can get into the field work part of the job and have it count as ‘research’ Shuckhorn? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I was pissed. After two months in country and after having read every article, book, seen every amount of video coverage and scoured the Internet for anything else I missed, the last thing I had to complete was to see it with my own eyes.
“I’m sorry James. It’s just not part of why you’re here.”
“Not part of why I am here? Not part of why I am here?” I was shouting now and couldn’t for the life of me come to terms with the amount of my very heart and soul I had placed in my work.
“I need to see it Marvin.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He left the sterile office from our first meeting and returned fifteen minutes later with a consent form and a visiting journalist named Brimt from Laos.
“This is Brimt, he needs someone to bring him up to speed in mini detail on the topic,” said Huckshorn, sighing in relief that I was no longer going to be at his heals begging for an opportunity to see the story I’ve been reading about before my eyes.
A week later I had filled in Bremt, no gaps without a line to fill it in. He was just as passionate about it as I was, but perhaps less, as I did have a much stronger foothold in the topic. We were set to leave for Battambang where sex trafficking has been known to occur and appear on and around the streets frequently.
***
“When are you going to be home James?” asked Katy. Her connection was going in and out. All week I had trouble getting a hold of her. She was either working or our time zones were off or the phone simply wasn’t working.
“Home?” I said. “Yeah, home, I should be home within the next month or so, hun. There are just a lot of new things happening every day.”
I sounded like one of those workaholic fathers that never got the chance to make it to one of their son’s soccer games. I never meant to become that guy, but while big things are going on its easy to loose sight of certain things, no matter how important what a person may be doing at the time.
“You’re not sure then?” she said. “Well, if you aren’t sure then I can’t figure out when to book your flight for and I don’t know if I should get you a ticket to Chicago to visit my parents over Christmas because if you do come then we have to go to Michigan because it’s your year.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Kate. The line’s getting fuzzy and I can’t understand everything you say. I’m getting about every third word or so.”
“O-K-well-never-mind-then,” she said slowly. “I-will-just-get-the-tickets-late-then-if-that-is-O-K-with-you.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I gotta go now Kate,” I said. “I, I gotta go. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she answered back. “Bye.”
***
Bremt and I boarded a bus bound for Battambang the following morning. He was to pose as a possible costumer at a local restaurant who was also looking for other types of appetite-feeding activities. I was his uninterested friend who was married with four children, just in case anyone asked.
“Hello, do you speak English?” I asked a waitress at the front of Angkor, a well-known eatery in the middle of the city. We would have stayed in the capital, but while I hadn’t been to every place in town, the identities of most of the employees working against trafficking are known among sellers, so we had to go outside the walls into more rural parts then into other slightly larger locations.
Entering into the restaurant was almost surreal. One moment we were offered a place to sit and offered beverages. As a side course the restaurant manager offered Bremt and I an added pamphlet.
“This is only for special costumers,” he said. “Special price, just for you.”
I looked at the paper written in poor English with little consideration as to punctuation, spelling or grammar, but these were the least of my worries. I handed the paper to Bremt. Then I proceeded to take my camera out and take a picture with the manager, smiling and posing as though we were interested participants.
“I bring you out three ladies, and you chose,” he said.
“Oh, oh, no, no, I am not interested,” I said, “but my friend here is.”
I pointed to Bremt, who was holding the pamphlet with an eager facial expression.
“Oh, ok, I bring them out for him.”
Ten minutes later a procession of three girls, eight, twelve and fourteen years old wearing thrice recycled clothing from when I was a boy came out of the back food preparation area.
Bremt and I looked at the faces of these three children. I took a picture of the girls without the knowledge of the manager so later someone would come back for them. Walking out of the restaurant completely famished and aching all over in pain and distress I got back on the bus to Phnom Penh with Bremt. Their faces were etched in my mind, and the last thing I wanted to do after I saw their faces was leave. I wanted to punch out the manager and raid the place in search of the multiple victims.
***
“No honey, I won’t be back for Christmas...Hello? Shit.”
Standing in the middle of Phnom Penh in a bad excuse for a telephone booth almost two months after I left California, one month over due to return home, I realized that I simply couldn’t leave yet. Katy and I just had our first trans-country fight. I skulked back to where other researchers and volunteers of the foundation were standing waiting for me so we could get back to the office.
“Are you alright?” asked Marion. “You look really upset. I can tell, because you have those concerned eyes. I haven’t seen them since the first day you got here.”
Opening my now quite worn Marmot backpack I grabbed one of the granola bars my mom had mailed to me earlier last week. Food like that here was a precious commodity, but in reality I actually didn’t mind chomping on curry at every meal, or trying new things when the option arose.
“Things are fine,” I said. “— No, they’re really fine — they’re fine.”
I tried to convince myself of this as I crouched down balancing on the balls of my feet, but I kept thinking of those children in Battambang. I rubbed the sweat beads gathering on my dusty forehead dripping down the sides of my bearded cheeks. After I broke my razor during the orientation days I skipped shaving entirely and instead favored a pair of Crayola scissors for mere trims.
“No, it’s just, my girlfriend. She’s there, and I’m here, and we’re not together. And, god I just don’t know.” I could have gone on and on like that forever. There seemed to be no way out of this perpetual letting down process I was doing to her, myself, my colleagues and to the victims of these violations of human rights.
She bent down next to me and placed her hand on the soft spot of my back in between my shoulder blades and rubbed her hand around like a mother after a bad day.
“I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”
I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of sunlight coming through the splits between her straight honey-colored hair. All I could think was that she didn’t know how hard this was.
“Don’t give me that, you don’t know what I’m even talking about,” I said standing up leaving her on the dusty side walk.
I had met Marion on my first day of orientation at the foundation. Her French accent stuck out amid the numerous American’s, along with a few international citizens of humanity. I had studied in France for a semester during my sophomore year of college because I was originally an International Studies and French double, but mid-way through college I switched from French to Human Relations. Marion and I hit it off right away. She had been working there for close to six months at the time and had already invested herself in the people and culture much more than I could have thought possible.
I could hear the racing footsteps behind me as Marion came nearer. “You know, just because you think you know everything about me and why I’m here and who I am, doesn’t mean that you actually do.” She was out of breath and annoyed by the time I slowed down to hear her out.
“I may not know your relationship with this girl and what exactly you hoped to accomplish in a few months in one of the poorest countries in our world today, but you know what, fine,” she said, gaining momentum. “You’re an arrogant ass —”
Before she could go on and on and on, I said, “Perhaps, I don’t want to tell you everything or whatever, but you can’t just go giving advice without knowing something. What do you know anyway? We’re here in this country and it seems like no one cares and nothing is getting done and people are still being treated like cattle, and my girlfriend a million miles away is upset that I can’t foresee myself coming home for Christmas —”
She stopped to look at me again. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I just, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just never thought she could be so selfish.”
Marion stood up from where she was sitting and turned toward me.
“She isn’t being selfish James. She’s being, I don't know, a person on the other side of the world who just, just...she doesn’t know. That’s the fault of the rest of the world, and you’re assuming she has seen everything you’ve seen over the past weeks. You’re assuming she knows what its like to see thousands of women per day be scooped up from the streets and thrown into a situation where they’re forced to have sex or die.”
She sat back onto the curb outside a local pop shop. Clasping her hands together and placing them on her knee caps she starred back up at me. “She just doesn’t know James, and communication is key. That’s why my concentration is journalism and human rights, how to get the word out in an affective manner. People get desensitized. They can’t help it. If you’re not faced with it every day in a real way, then there’s nothing you can do but guard yourself against feeling.”
Putting my arms through the backpack straps I sat down next to her and didn’t say anything. Everything she was saying made so much sense. We sat and looked out onto the street before us bustling with farmer produce, animals, juxtaposed with the honking of several Honda’s in a long polluting procession of vehicles.
“God, the third world,” I said, half-thinking to myself.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
He wasn't wondering.
Reindeer boxer shorts rest limply on Conor Buckley's desk chair. It's June, so this is to be expected. The idea that someone would purchase underwear only for a particular season or holiday is ridiculous. He's had to explain this to a variety of overnight guests. He would be better served to use his breath on perhaps explaining why being such a slob helps him focus on his work. However, Conor can't actually do that. He can't do that because he has had "Art Block" for a week, and always does when his life's a mess.
Conor started off college as an English major, hence the borrowing and re-appropriating of the term "Blank Block." Conor would sooner say he had "Sex Block" when he inevitably failed at showing the ladies why he was an OK choice for the night (feel free to substitute: week or month, nothing more than that, obviously), than to admit that he's not always the most suave.
He's not-not suave. He's just, a — a guy — a guy in his twenties. And, he's figuring it out, just like the rest of them...the guys, the rest of the guys in their twenties. Obviously he's excepting those who got tricked into a young-just-out-of-college-marriage. Everyone has a pair of friends like that, or rather, has a friend who has a wife or husband that you've had to become friends with because apparently they're going to be around for the long haul, probably longer than you in the end.
Conor's apartment definitely looks as though someone lives there, but not as though he plans on living there for longer than three months. Nothing hangs on the walls, but there are framed posters of Fight Club and Warrior leaning on them. The idea was there, it's the execution that's a consistent fail.
"Hey dude," Conor says to Patrick, his roommate, who's sitting on the couch Patrick's mom purchased for the apartment eight months ago. She came to visit from New Hampshire, had nowhere to sit when she "popped by" to say hello, so went to Pottery Barn and "made it right."
"Hey," Patrick returns. "How was yesterday?"
Yesterday? Patrick was referring to their mid-week debauchery. Conor had recently been let go from his job at some call center downtown, so decided to blow a hundred bucks like he had it.
"Fine — Jenn was there." Of course she was.
"Yeah, I saw her."
"Yeah."
Conor walks over to the pantry, opens it, looks into it for a bit, then closes it taking nothing out.
"She was with Katie," Conor continues. Jenn and Conor had never dated. They'd always teetered on the line. Sure, they'd made out. Sure, Conor had invited her over to his house after parties. Sure, they've seen each other naked. But, dated? No. "It's everything but the label," she had said when she explained why she couldn't do it anymore. "It's not the label, Conor, it's the lack of one."
It's not as though Conor thought he blew it with Jenn. By his calculation, he'd been the one rejected.
"Anyway, she looked good," Conor said.
"Not a surprise, man."
Conor walks back into his room, closes the door, collects last night's clothes from the floor, then puts them on his bed. He picks up his jeans, examines them, smells them, then slides them on. He does the same with a green-grey t-shirt, then sits down at his desk, looks at his sketch pad, his reindeer boxers still on the seat-back.
Conor started off college as an English major, hence the borrowing and re-appropriating of the term "Blank Block." Conor would sooner say he had "Sex Block" when he inevitably failed at showing the ladies why he was an OK choice for the night (feel free to substitute: week or month, nothing more than that, obviously), than to admit that he's not always the most suave.
He's not-not suave. He's just, a — a guy — a guy in his twenties. And, he's figuring it out, just like the rest of them...the guys, the rest of the guys in their twenties. Obviously he's excepting those who got tricked into a young-just-out-of-college-marriage. Everyone has a pair of friends like that, or rather, has a friend who has a wife or husband that you've had to become friends with because apparently they're going to be around for the long haul, probably longer than you in the end.
Conor's apartment definitely looks as though someone lives there, but not as though he plans on living there for longer than three months. Nothing hangs on the walls, but there are framed posters of Fight Club and Warrior leaning on them. The idea was there, it's the execution that's a consistent fail.
"Hey dude," Conor says to Patrick, his roommate, who's sitting on the couch Patrick's mom purchased for the apartment eight months ago. She came to visit from New Hampshire, had nowhere to sit when she "popped by" to say hello, so went to Pottery Barn and "made it right."
"Hey," Patrick returns. "How was yesterday?"
Yesterday? Patrick was referring to their mid-week debauchery. Conor had recently been let go from his job at some call center downtown, so decided to blow a hundred bucks like he had it.
"Fine — Jenn was there." Of course she was.
"Yeah, I saw her."
"Yeah."
Conor walks over to the pantry, opens it, looks into it for a bit, then closes it taking nothing out.
"She was with Katie," Conor continues. Jenn and Conor had never dated. They'd always teetered on the line. Sure, they'd made out. Sure, Conor had invited her over to his house after parties. Sure, they've seen each other naked. But, dated? No. "It's everything but the label," she had said when she explained why she couldn't do it anymore. "It's not the label, Conor, it's the lack of one."
It's not as though Conor thought he blew it with Jenn. By his calculation, he'd been the one rejected.
Flash to last night:
"Hey, there," Jen said, but, really it was more like a shout, from down the bar.
"Hey, hey," Conor said, smiling. "How've you been?"
Conor crossed over to where she was.
"I'm good. I'm fine. Katie's here."
"Yeah, I know. I saw her from the balcony."
"How mysterious..."
When Jenn smiles, she shows all of her teeth. She smiles, and she laughs. And it makes the people around her do the same. Conor never understood the phrase laughter's contagious until he met Jenn.
"So mysterious."
"How've you been?"
"Pretty good. Just working." Conor paused remembering he'd been let go. "I mean, I'm looking for work right now. Feels like a job. But I'm painting, and stuff. So..."
"Tell me about it."
"I just did." The two laughed.
"Funny. Anyway, I should get back —"
"Of course. Good to see you." Jenn turned to go, then spun back around quickly. Conor was still looking in her direction.
"I'm here with someone."
She said it like he was wondering. But he wasn't wondering. And that's what's made the moment so awkward.
"That's great," Conor said, then smiled out of the side of his mouth.
They looked at each other, said goodbye again, and Conor proceeded to spend money like he had it.
"Anyway, she looked good," Conor said.
"Not a surprise, man."
Conor walks back into his room, closes the door, collects last night's clothes from the floor, then puts them on his bed. He picks up his jeans, examines them, smells them, then slides them on. He does the same with a green-grey t-shirt, then sits down at his desk, looks at his sketch pad, his reindeer boxers still on the seat-back.
Monday, June 29, 2009
"Who am I?" "I don't know." "I guess I have a lot of things to ponder." -Derek Zoolander
“You don't know me at all.” –Ben Folds, featuring Regina Spektor, “You Don’t Know Me”
We all know what happens when we say things like, “ You don’t know me at all” to a counterpart—whether it’s a friendship where one’s Batman and the other’s Robin, or a parent to a child. The relationship is cut off and you start at scratch (or at least as much scratch as you can get). But what happens when you don’t know yourself at all? You can’t exactly sever all ties.
Ben Folds and Regina Spektor sang a duet on Fold’s semi-recent album Way to Normal (a route unknown all together), titled “You Don’t Know Me.” With a few small tricks of the piano, the melding of a man and woman’s poppy voices together, and rather depressing lyrics, a song was born. It’s actually sort of like The Weepies’ “Nobody Knows Me At All” from “Say I Am You,” but more about a sour relationship than a statement on repeat like The Weepies.
I was listening to both songs tonight. A friend sent me The Weepies tune earlier tonight, and last week Spektor dropped her follow-up album to hit-machine (though not her debut disc) “Begin to Hope.” The album, titled “Far,” plays sweetly, sometimes sadly, but mostly it’s just interesting. Sort of like this question I posed.
I’ve been thinking about the notion of Quarter-Life Crisis’s. Everyone’s heard of the pending Mid-Life Crisis, but it seems that everything is becoming fast forwarded, and now we’re stressing ourselves out earlier and earlier. This evening I was chatting with a friend from college about how I have these mini crises every day about life choices and the like. It got me to thinking about being 50 and wondering if I’d make the right choices. I guess I’m trying to get my crisis out of the way today, make the correct decisions now, so that I won’t have one comes the big five-oh. See, I can’t imagine being nearly done and thinking, “Well, what was the point? Was this the right path? Or just the path of least resistance?”
The only problem is that I don’t quite know what exactly I want to be doing. Leading me back to the serious issue of perhaps I don’t know myself (not necessarily a completely bad thing). We’ll see how this all pans out. I love that phrase, “It all comes out in the wash.” It makes me feel secure in my own strength, even though it’s meant to make people wary about telling lies.
“When I was a child everybody smiled, nobody knows me at all/ Very late at night and in the morning light, nobody knows me at all.” –The Weepies. “Nobody Knows Me At All”
We all know what happens when we say things like, “ You don’t know me at all” to a counterpart—whether it’s a friendship where one’s Batman and the other’s Robin, or a parent to a child. The relationship is cut off and you start at scratch (or at least as much scratch as you can get). But what happens when you don’t know yourself at all? You can’t exactly sever all ties.
Ben Folds and Regina Spektor sang a duet on Fold’s semi-recent album Way to Normal (a route unknown all together), titled “You Don’t Know Me.” With a few small tricks of the piano, the melding of a man and woman’s poppy voices together, and rather depressing lyrics, a song was born. It’s actually sort of like The Weepies’ “Nobody Knows Me At All” from “Say I Am You,” but more about a sour relationship than a statement on repeat like The Weepies.
I was listening to both songs tonight. A friend sent me The Weepies tune earlier tonight, and last week Spektor dropped her follow-up album to hit-machine (though not her debut disc) “Begin to Hope.” The album, titled “Far,” plays sweetly, sometimes sadly, but mostly it’s just interesting. Sort of like this question I posed.
I’ve been thinking about the notion of Quarter-Life Crisis’s. Everyone’s heard of the pending Mid-Life Crisis, but it seems that everything is becoming fast forwarded, and now we’re stressing ourselves out earlier and earlier. This evening I was chatting with a friend from college about how I have these mini crises every day about life choices and the like. It got me to thinking about being 50 and wondering if I’d make the right choices. I guess I’m trying to get my crisis out of the way today, make the correct decisions now, so that I won’t have one comes the big five-oh. See, I can’t imagine being nearly done and thinking, “Well, what was the point? Was this the right path? Or just the path of least resistance?”
The only problem is that I don’t quite know what exactly I want to be doing. Leading me back to the serious issue of perhaps I don’t know myself (not necessarily a completely bad thing). We’ll see how this all pans out. I love that phrase, “It all comes out in the wash.” It makes me feel secure in my own strength, even though it’s meant to make people wary about telling lies.
“When I was a child everybody smiled, nobody knows me at all/ Very late at night and in the morning light, nobody knows me at all.” –The Weepies. “Nobody Knows Me At All”
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Compiling the List of Yesteryear
I really enjoy making lists: to-do, check-lists, lists about things I enjoy, etc. etc. I'm a list girl. So, in keeping with my list satisfaction, I've decided to make a list chronicling all of the things I've done in the last year. My first year out of college went quickly at times and slowly at others, but now it's complete and I need to make sure I haven't wasted my time.
1. Graduated from the University of Iowa with Honors degree in Journalism & Mass Comm. and Distinction in English
2. Left Iowa City one week after graduation.
3. Went home for two weeks, began work at L. Marshall Inc. as an administrative assistant until my life caught up with me.
4. Turned 22, basically just 21 plus 1, no big thing.
5. Traveled to Rockford, IL for my good friend Meagan's wedding - was a bridesmaid
6. Applied to numerous positions, including one paid internship in San Francisco, California at Ode Magazine.
7. Took the editorial internship. Moved to California three weeks later. First day was July 6. Mommy Sheila flew out with me. We took a tour of SF to make sure I liked it enough to stay. Visited the Japanese Tea Garden, had sushi in the Richmond, met and fell in love with roommates Nancy and Drina.
8. Jumped headfirst into the job. Wrote dozens of articles for Ode, compiled special reports, edited, copywrote and lived.
9. Colleen visited SF. We went to Muir Woods, ate at Cha Cha Chas Tapas in the Haight, thrift shopped by Golden Gate, visited SF Museum of Modern Art's (MOMA) Frida Kahlo exhibit, drank California wines, and saw a movie about California wine making at Robert Redford's Sundance Theatre.
10. Brian visited SF. We wine tasted, went to a Giant's game, walked around the downtown, ate Mexican in the Mission, made homemade cookies, hit up a sweet Ryan Adams concert at the Fillmore (it was a surprise!) and went to the San Francisco Outside Lands Music Festival.
11. Roommate's Nancy and Drina, and I hit up Golden Gate Park for the Hardly, Strictly Bluegrass Festival. We watched Emmylou Harris, Odetta, Iron and Wine, Joe Purdy, and everyone great during a beautiful San Francisco Indian Summer October day.
12. I went back to Chicago for my cousin Maureen's wedding in October. Stayed for a little over a weekend. Colleen came back from LA too. Family bonding to the nth. Go back to SF to finish the internship and tie up loose ends for about a month and a half.
13. Squeezed in a trip to Las Vegas visiting then-Newly Weds Meagan and Dan Walsh with Brian. Went rock climbing at Red Rocks, hit up a few casinos, lost $20 to the locals, saw the Beatles Love Show at the Mirage, imagined myself as one of Ocean's 13, and jumped out of an airplane for a little mid-morning skydiving. Lived to tell the tale.
14. Kerstin squeezes in a visit to San Francisco while she's working in LA on an engineering job for the Nokia Club. We obviously go shoe shopping, travel to Alcatraz Island, go out to a fancy restaurant in the Marina and meet up with some of my friends for a comedy show downtown. Celebrate Nancy's birthday with a party in the backyard and an apple dessert bar!
15. Somehow now Californian's, yet Midwesterners, Brandon, Kelly and I manage to meet and hang out multiple times during all of this mayhem. Though we never made it into the SF Zoo together, we did do a wine tasting, hang at the beach, see movies, and go out to dinner.
16. Last day at Ode. Get a ride to work with managing editor, Marco, as per usual. We talk about nothing and writing and everything, and then have the last day, which is like any other. Eat cupcakes with the staff. I had a double chocolate Oreo: Hostess Mostess concoction. Wonderful goodbye treat.
17. I managed to get published in each Ode Magazine while interning and in the next four issues after said internship. Learned a ton about publishing, what it takes to really make it in magazines, and figured out I wanted to go to graduate school eventually for something.
18. Mommy Sheila flies to San Francisco on my last day at Ode. She hangs with Nancy, then meets me after work. We get tapas in the Mission. Next day we visit the San Francisco Zoo (finally!) with Drina. Brandon and Kelly can't make it. No bigs. We visit SF's de Young Art Museum. Then, we rent a car and drive 12 hours along the Pacific Coast Highway stopping in Monteray for lunch and Sea Lion sightings and then go to the Hearst Castle in San Simeon for two and a half hours. It was a long and beautiful dream.
19. Finally arrive in Los Angeles. Angry elves: Sheila and Brigid. Annoyed that the other exists at all. Get Italian food with Colleen. Visit with Graham, Charlie and Jordan, while Pat sleeps. Get an angry message from Pat that still hurts my feelings. Colleen and I decide we want to go to the Laugh Factory, we see John Lovitz after getting sushi with She-She. Mom and I take a tour of Hollywood. We go shopping in all the hot spots. I get a Michael Kors dress. I am in love with said dress. See Paramount studios. Visit with Elizabeth Steele, college roomie, who now lives in Hollywood. We get icecream, obviously. Visit to LA is too short. Sad.
20. Fly home. Graham is in the car with the three Marshall women. We apologize incessantly.
21. Get home just in time for Thanksgiving and Mommy's birthday.
22. Two weeks go by. Visit alma mater, Iowa, and all my friends there. Another week goes by. Christmas shopping, hanging with Brian and friends. Christmas arrives. Receive banjo from Brian. Go to Michigan for skiing with family. Get back New Years Eve. That night go out with Brian, his roommates and my friends. Have a good time, all said and done.
23. January, drive with cousin Colleen Quinlan to Georgetown for her final semester. Stay for 6 days. Visit National Archives, visit with friends Abby Bartine and Kyle Simpson. Want to move there. Still in my mind. We'll see. Visit the NEWseum, see a friend, who works there randomly, ask for a job. Drop off resume. No word. No bigs. Drop off more resumes. Visit American University's Journalism graduate program and their International Communications program. Really loved it. Plan on studying for GRE and LSAT. Higher education, here I come.
24. Get home. Meet with family friend to figure out job situation. Send out resumes, get recommended, fly to New York for three interviews. Find out there is no job at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, just informational interviews. Stay with childhood friend, Kate Hawes, yay no hotel fees!
25. Apply for more jobs. Valentine's Day happens. Hang with Brian. He makes delicious lobster and fillet dinner. :) Vow to learn banjo well. Start lessons. Get ready for a week in Florida with Grandpa Harry, Grandma Celeste, Mommy Sheila and my cousin Patrick with his wife Susie. Bonding!
26. Get a job as a regular substitute for St. Martin de Porres High School in Waukegan. It's a work4ed school for disadvantaged students. Good stuff. Get another job as a temp worker for 33 Personnel in Chicago. Get another job as a Sales Associate at J. Crew Inc. in Skokie. Finally am more busy, but still feel like I need something more.
27. Visit Iowa City again. Hang with Paul and baby Isaiah. Guest host for KRUI 89.7's 25th Anniversary Weekend. Woo! Catch up with friends finishing school, and figuring out lives. Go home in time for St. Patrick's Day: Southside Irish Parade with cousins.
28. April: Brian's Birthday & Anniversary. Woo! Celebrate with his family just a few hours after a wake. Sad. More sad for Brian though. Strange birthday. April was a big month. White Sox Opening Day happens.
29. Cassie's wedding shower. Buy a griddle. Experience what it's like to buy cutlery. Interesting. I will wait.
30. Erwin and Medina wed! May 16. Colleen's birthday too. Travel to Iowa City for John Wilmes, Sarah Burnett, Sara Stratton and Anne Lingwall's graduation. Continue driving on I-80 into Des Moines. Bachelorette Dinner Party and Wedding Shower with bestfriend Elizabeth. Get interesting advice for her from the marrieds in the group. Spend time with Elizabeth and her family. Get nails done, hang with Steele and Meagan. Rehearsal happens. We cry. Rehearsal dinner happens. We laugh. Meet Elizabeth's friend Lisa, all is well with the world. Next day. Brian drives in from Chicago. Wedding. Somehow Steele, Ekberg/Walsh and I are early. Like by an hour. Amazing. This never happens. Erwin is late. Wedding happens. She is now Medina. Reception. Beautiful. Wish it would have never ended. Jacob, Dance Monster, Erwin, Elizabeth's 4-year-old nephew, dances like a fiend and then invites Steele and I to his 5th birthday party. He let's us know there are extra beds in the basement. Nice. Was a bridesmaid.
31. Fly to New York again for a job interview. Meet up with Kate Hawes again. Hang in Central Park. Really pleasant. Enjoy a nice spring day. Wear new suit I bought from J. Crew. Don't get job. Sad. Fly home. Blackhawks get out of the Stanley Cup runnings. Sad. They fly home from Detroit. Sad.
32. Contact Teach For America people. Apply for a job. Get an interview. Interview is next week. Preparing now. Hope I get it. Doesn't start until August. Would be perfect.
34. Have a feeling I will be attending some sort of higher education in the near future. LSAT prep course and possible GRE prep course are in the works. I love to learn, an exciting thing I'm trying to convey to my sub students.
35. Wait. We'll see what happens next.
1. Graduated from the University of Iowa with Honors degree in Journalism & Mass Comm. and Distinction in English
2. Left Iowa City one week after graduation.
3. Went home for two weeks, began work at L. Marshall Inc. as an administrative assistant until my life caught up with me.
4. Turned 22, basically just 21 plus 1, no big thing.
5. Traveled to Rockford, IL for my good friend Meagan's wedding - was a bridesmaid
6. Applied to numerous positions, including one paid internship in San Francisco, California at Ode Magazine.
7. Took the editorial internship. Moved to California three weeks later. First day was July 6. Mommy Sheila flew out with me. We took a tour of SF to make sure I liked it enough to stay. Visited the Japanese Tea Garden, had sushi in the Richmond, met and fell in love with roommates Nancy and Drina.
8. Jumped headfirst into the job. Wrote dozens of articles for Ode, compiled special reports, edited, copywrote and lived.
9. Colleen visited SF. We went to Muir Woods, ate at Cha Cha Chas Tapas in the Haight, thrift shopped by Golden Gate, visited SF Museum of Modern Art's (MOMA) Frida Kahlo exhibit, drank California wines, and saw a movie about California wine making at Robert Redford's Sundance Theatre.
10. Brian visited SF. We wine tasted, went to a Giant's game, walked around the downtown, ate Mexican in the Mission, made homemade cookies, hit up a sweet Ryan Adams concert at the Fillmore (it was a surprise!) and went to the San Francisco Outside Lands Music Festival.
11. Roommate's Nancy and Drina, and I hit up Golden Gate Park for the Hardly, Strictly Bluegrass Festival. We watched Emmylou Harris, Odetta, Iron and Wine, Joe Purdy, and everyone great during a beautiful San Francisco Indian Summer October day.
12. I went back to Chicago for my cousin Maureen's wedding in October. Stayed for a little over a weekend. Colleen came back from LA too. Family bonding to the nth. Go back to SF to finish the internship and tie up loose ends for about a month and a half.
13. Squeezed in a trip to Las Vegas visiting then-Newly Weds Meagan and Dan Walsh with Brian. Went rock climbing at Red Rocks, hit up a few casinos, lost $20 to the locals, saw the Beatles Love Show at the Mirage, imagined myself as one of Ocean's 13, and jumped out of an airplane for a little mid-morning skydiving. Lived to tell the tale.
14. Kerstin squeezes in a visit to San Francisco while she's working in LA on an engineering job for the Nokia Club. We obviously go shoe shopping, travel to Alcatraz Island, go out to a fancy restaurant in the Marina and meet up with some of my friends for a comedy show downtown. Celebrate Nancy's birthday with a party in the backyard and an apple dessert bar!
15. Somehow now Californian's, yet Midwesterners, Brandon, Kelly and I manage to meet and hang out multiple times during all of this mayhem. Though we never made it into the SF Zoo together, we did do a wine tasting, hang at the beach, see movies, and go out to dinner.
16. Last day at Ode. Get a ride to work with managing editor, Marco, as per usual. We talk about nothing and writing and everything, and then have the last day, which is like any other. Eat cupcakes with the staff. I had a double chocolate Oreo: Hostess Mostess concoction. Wonderful goodbye treat.
17. I managed to get published in each Ode Magazine while interning and in the next four issues after said internship. Learned a ton about publishing, what it takes to really make it in magazines, and figured out I wanted to go to graduate school eventually for something.
18. Mommy Sheila flies to San Francisco on my last day at Ode. She hangs with Nancy, then meets me after work. We get tapas in the Mission. Next day we visit the San Francisco Zoo (finally!) with Drina. Brandon and Kelly can't make it. No bigs. We visit SF's de Young Art Museum. Then, we rent a car and drive 12 hours along the Pacific Coast Highway stopping in Monteray for lunch and Sea Lion sightings and then go to the Hearst Castle in San Simeon for two and a half hours. It was a long and beautiful dream.
19. Finally arrive in Los Angeles. Angry elves: Sheila and Brigid. Annoyed that the other exists at all. Get Italian food with Colleen. Visit with Graham, Charlie and Jordan, while Pat sleeps. Get an angry message from Pat that still hurts my feelings. Colleen and I decide we want to go to the Laugh Factory, we see John Lovitz after getting sushi with She-She. Mom and I take a tour of Hollywood. We go shopping in all the hot spots. I get a Michael Kors dress. I am in love with said dress. See Paramount studios. Visit with Elizabeth Steele, college roomie, who now lives in Hollywood. We get icecream, obviously. Visit to LA is too short. Sad.
20. Fly home. Graham is in the car with the three Marshall women. We apologize incessantly.
21. Get home just in time for Thanksgiving and Mommy's birthday.
22. Two weeks go by. Visit alma mater, Iowa, and all my friends there. Another week goes by. Christmas shopping, hanging with Brian and friends. Christmas arrives. Receive banjo from Brian. Go to Michigan for skiing with family. Get back New Years Eve. That night go out with Brian, his roommates and my friends. Have a good time, all said and done.
23. January, drive with cousin Colleen Quinlan to Georgetown for her final semester. Stay for 6 days. Visit National Archives, visit with friends Abby Bartine and Kyle Simpson. Want to move there. Still in my mind. We'll see. Visit the NEWseum, see a friend, who works there randomly, ask for a job. Drop off resume. No word. No bigs. Drop off more resumes. Visit American University's Journalism graduate program and their International Communications program. Really loved it. Plan on studying for GRE and LSAT. Higher education, here I come.
24. Get home. Meet with family friend to figure out job situation. Send out resumes, get recommended, fly to New York for three interviews. Find out there is no job at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, just informational interviews. Stay with childhood friend, Kate Hawes, yay no hotel fees!
25. Apply for more jobs. Valentine's Day happens. Hang with Brian. He makes delicious lobster and fillet dinner. :) Vow to learn banjo well. Start lessons. Get ready for a week in Florida with Grandpa Harry, Grandma Celeste, Mommy Sheila and my cousin Patrick with his wife Susie. Bonding!
26. Get a job as a regular substitute for St. Martin de Porres High School in Waukegan. It's a work4ed school for disadvantaged students. Good stuff. Get another job as a temp worker for 33 Personnel in Chicago. Get another job as a Sales Associate at J. Crew Inc. in Skokie. Finally am more busy, but still feel like I need something more.
27. Visit Iowa City again. Hang with Paul and baby Isaiah. Guest host for KRUI 89.7's 25th Anniversary Weekend. Woo! Catch up with friends finishing school, and figuring out lives. Go home in time for St. Patrick's Day: Southside Irish Parade with cousins.
28. April: Brian's Birthday & Anniversary. Woo! Celebrate with his family just a few hours after a wake. Sad. More sad for Brian though. Strange birthday. April was a big month. White Sox Opening Day happens.
29. Cassie's wedding shower. Buy a griddle. Experience what it's like to buy cutlery. Interesting. I will wait.
30. Erwin and Medina wed! May 16. Colleen's birthday too. Travel to Iowa City for John Wilmes, Sarah Burnett, Sara Stratton and Anne Lingwall's graduation. Continue driving on I-80 into Des Moines. Bachelorette Dinner Party and Wedding Shower with bestfriend Elizabeth. Get interesting advice for her from the marrieds in the group. Spend time with Elizabeth and her family. Get nails done, hang with Steele and Meagan. Rehearsal happens. We cry. Rehearsal dinner happens. We laugh. Meet Elizabeth's friend Lisa, all is well with the world. Next day. Brian drives in from Chicago. Wedding. Somehow Steele, Ekberg/Walsh and I are early. Like by an hour. Amazing. This never happens. Erwin is late. Wedding happens. She is now Medina. Reception. Beautiful. Wish it would have never ended. Jacob, Dance Monster, Erwin, Elizabeth's 4-year-old nephew, dances like a fiend and then invites Steele and I to his 5th birthday party. He let's us know there are extra beds in the basement. Nice. Was a bridesmaid.
31. Fly to New York again for a job interview. Meet up with Kate Hawes again. Hang in Central Park. Really pleasant. Enjoy a nice spring day. Wear new suit I bought from J. Crew. Don't get job. Sad. Fly home. Blackhawks get out of the Stanley Cup runnings. Sad. They fly home from Detroit. Sad.
32. Contact Teach For America people. Apply for a job. Get an interview. Interview is next week. Preparing now. Hope I get it. Doesn't start until August. Would be perfect.
34. Have a feeling I will be attending some sort of higher education in the near future. LSAT prep course and possible GRE prep course are in the works. I love to learn, an exciting thing I'm trying to convey to my sub students.
35. Wait. We'll see what happens next.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
What Came First, the Chicken or the Egg?
What do employers want from me? I have about one thousand sent items to companies, corporations, publications and anything else in between, and dammit: I don't know what these people want from me.
How do you convince Jane No Name and her colleagues that you're totally, utterly, and completely, the lost individual they've been searching for all this time...without saying just that. Subtlety. I don't have it, I guess. I mean, seriously. I don't know Jane. I know her company, her brand of human, and I can imitate it all I want, but that doesn't mean that I fit, or even that someone will take the time to sift through the thousands of emails that funnel through 7 seconds after posting on Craigslist.
Thank Ed2010.com for that one. I look on that journalism job site, along with JournalismJobs.com and MediaBistro.com about a zillion times per day, week, month, yadda yadda yadda. It tells me who's looking, and today for the first time it told me why they weren't looking for me.
Other than the fact that being over qualified is now a turn-off, I'm not that surprised. [Also, I don't 'get' the whole over-qualified. Why is being ahead a bad thing, why is having a lot of experience a deterrent? John McCain and I ponder this every day.] But at the same time, even if you don't make one of these 10 careless errors, you and your silly letter will still be neglected. Lost in the Email Abyss, sorry to say. I came to a conclusion that made me highly depressed.
Basically: there's nothing I can do about it. My life is out of my hands all the time, and it's spinning out of control.
I don't like it.
For More on Joblessness and Out of Control College Graduates, check out: http://www.middleness.wordpress.com
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Middle: A No Mans Land
So, I'm in that land called, "The Middle." The one where you're not a full-time student, or even part-time, but you're also not employed. College is done, I've kissed it goodbye, and now I'm in the middle. To celebrate this awkward and at times depressing future, I've begun to write for a lovely little blog called Middleness. [Note, I just wrote Middlemess on accident, but that seems apt.]
Anyway, check it out. It's for people like me. Middlers.
Anyway, check it out. It's for people like me. Middlers.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Exchange/ Caricatures/ College: no cohesion
Recently I've been posting a lot of entries on OdeMagazine.com. It's been a nice change of pace. I'm writing short blurbs on interesting events, people and places—plus I'm commenting on other exchangers' posts. We're trying to drive more traffic to the web, and one way to do it is by adding more content regularly throughout the day. This is where I and my colleagues come in. Oh, and you too. We're planning on redesigning our site in the near future to make it more of a social utility allowing readers to have more of an interactive experience with Ode.
So far there haven't been a lot of comments on stories, posts or profiles. I've taken it upon myself to start writing on random strangers' exchange stories. Whether they're argumentative or in appreciation doesn't matter much. I pretty much just write a caricature of what I would have said in real life if an actual friend of mine had said whatever it was whomever wrote. I use the word caricature all the time, and what about those people who make funny drawings of people who pay a rather large sum for something a 6-year-old would have done free and with more enjoyment. Anyway, I always used to want an actual picture caricature of myself, but now I'm glad I don't have one—though there was this one time a neighbor of mine had an artist friend visit from Finland or somewhere in Scandinavia, and he drew me. It was too true to form though to be a caricature. Anyway, caricatures are neither here nor there.
ODE. Yes, Ode's been cranking out web pieces left and right. I've been writing around 3-6 web stories per day along with completing various other tasks. My point in all of this is to simply say, check it out, here, if you will. You can even add your own pieces. I like interactive story sites like Ode's offers. It's none of that iReport crap that CNN.com has. I seriously hate that stuff. Sometimes they'll write full stories based solely on iReporters. It's stupid. Plus, aren't they stealing that whole "i" thing from Apple?
Sorry this is scattered, I've got a lot on my mind, and it doesn't help that I cant' concentrate because I'm sick. I've had Dayquil, Nyquil, Zicam, Benedryl, Allegra, cough drops and chamomile tea—still, I am sick. Season changes never cease to ruin me (I had reunion me, originally, that's how scattered I am). Speaking of changes, or rather transitions, I'm moving back to Chicago in a bit. My last day at Ode is next Friday, November 14. My mom's flying out, we're going to spend the weekend in SF, then drive down the coast in a rented set of wheels to LA. We're visiting my sister and my college roommate, Elizabeth Steele, and it is going to be glorious. We'll be back by the 21st. Life is just going again. Pretty soon I'll be 40, and then what will I have to write about. Gees. I miss college. I never thought I'd be one of those people, but I am. I look at the photos of my friends who are still in college and really just want to be there too. I'm seriously thinking graduate school. International studies? History? We'll see. I miss classroom learning.
So far there haven't been a lot of comments on stories, posts or profiles. I've taken it upon myself to start writing on random strangers' exchange stories. Whether they're argumentative or in appreciation doesn't matter much. I pretty much just write a caricature of what I would have said in real life if an actual friend of mine had said whatever it was whomever wrote. I use the word caricature all the time, and what about those people who make funny drawings of people who pay a rather large sum for something a 6-year-old would have done free and with more enjoyment. Anyway, I always used to want an actual picture caricature of myself, but now I'm glad I don't have one—though there was this one time a neighbor of mine had an artist friend visit from Finland or somewhere in Scandinavia, and he drew me. It was too true to form though to be a caricature. Anyway, caricatures are neither here nor there.
ODE. Yes, Ode's been cranking out web pieces left and right. I've been writing around 3-6 web stories per day along with completing various other tasks. My point in all of this is to simply say, check it out, here, if you will. You can even add your own pieces. I like interactive story sites like Ode's offers. It's none of that iReport crap that CNN.com has. I seriously hate that stuff. Sometimes they'll write full stories based solely on iReporters. It's stupid. Plus, aren't they stealing that whole "i" thing from Apple?
Sorry this is scattered, I've got a lot on my mind, and it doesn't help that I cant' concentrate because I'm sick. I've had Dayquil, Nyquil, Zicam, Benedryl, Allegra, cough drops and chamomile tea—still, I am sick. Season changes never cease to ruin me (I had reunion me, originally, that's how scattered I am). Speaking of changes, or rather transitions, I'm moving back to Chicago in a bit. My last day at Ode is next Friday, November 14. My mom's flying out, we're going to spend the weekend in SF, then drive down the coast in a rented set of wheels to LA. We're visiting my sister and my college roommate, Elizabeth Steele, and it is going to be glorious. We'll be back by the 21st. Life is just going again. Pretty soon I'll be 40, and then what will I have to write about. Gees. I miss college. I never thought I'd be one of those people, but I am. I look at the photos of my friends who are still in college and really just want to be there too. I'm seriously thinking graduate school. International studies? History? We'll see. I miss classroom learning.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Reality Bites. Not So Much.
Lelaina: Quick, Vicky, whats your social security?
Vicky: Uhm... 851-25-9357.
Troy: Very impressive.
Vicky: Thats the only thing I really learned in college... Sometimes I get that not so fresh feeling.
By now everyone should know how much I love the movie Reality Bites. It's hilarious and should be required movie-watching for the under-30s.
Vicky: Uhm... 851-25-9357.
Troy: Very impressive.
Vicky: Thats the only thing I really learned in college... Sometimes I get that not so fresh feeling.
By now everyone should know how much I love the movie Reality Bites. It's hilarious and should be required movie-watching for the under-30s.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Nation of College Graduates
Sure, I'm a fan of higher education. I'm a college graduate myself. But these days, college degrees don't mean a whole lot. Unfortunately. Actually, education in the United States at least (prepare yourself for a sweeping generalization) doesn't mean that much. This afternoon I read this piece on The Star Ledger's website HERE. Well, it's nice to see that students are doing well on SATs and such, but standardized testing doesn't mean that much either. See. In the article the school touts the testing system as a valid form of measuring success. But from my perspective, having gone to a state school, gone through the motions of public elementary and secondary education, these tests only measure clearly commonplace status: "average."
The article also makes mention that most if not all of the students from the particular school in New Jersey intend to go to college, and actually plan on going to instate colleges. The principal of the school had the audacity to say it might be that they don't want to travel too far or it "might" be that higher education is expensive. Of course that's why they're going to instate schools. College is extraordinarily expensive, especially when you measure the gains of going. Yes, you're more intelligent, but upon graduation, since so many people are going to colleges there literally aren't enough jobs to go around. And for how many seemingly blank checks students are filling out to no end, there should be jobs that pay more than the crippling dolla-dolla-bills that young graduates are might be getting out of college. Depending on which internship one accepts or not.
As a graduate with a liberal arts degrees in both Journalism and English, I can say with certainty that the education system in the United States cares more about the institution — those it employs and ever-increasing profit margins — than the students attending the school who are emptying out their piggy bank's worth of life savings just to be there. I went to the University of Iowa, and I worked hard. I enjoyed my college experience, but that's what it was, an experience. I worked all four years (yes, I finished in four years); I participated in clubs and organizations ranging from the Newman Center to University Choir; I wrote for The Daily Iowan, was Executive Editor, Managing Director and writer at Content Magazine and was a DJ at KRUI 89.7; I worked summers. I tried hard, all in the name of getting a career rolling. I did well.
Crossing the stage, shaking hands of the professors and various university officials (all making well into the $50k-$150k range, I thought of them at their graduation. I thought of who their terrible speaker was, of who they thought they were going to be 20, 40, 60 years from their meager 20-something days. Ten professors were honored for over two hours, the last hour was dedicated to the thousands of students that paid the most expensive price of admission to that basketball stadium. For a few seconds we were honored, but it didn't seem like it was about us at all.
Now I am living in California for a short stint interning for penny's (more than many of my peers are making as they intern for free, see Reality Bites below). As I attempt to flee working a dead end job that will at least give me health care, I'm here without any real cash — save for my piggy bank. I have to dig deeper into debt, because that seems to be the only way to get ahead in this world. You have to spend money to make it. And it's ridiculous. Everyone is trying to make money, but in their desire to gain a bonus they're essentially robbing the very people that make their company go-go-go. And, for the most part, company executives don't do this intentionally. Many people have mouths to feed and bills to pay, and to each his own, right? Take care of self first, right? The only way to sustain existence, right? As a 22-year-old University of Iowa graduate, Lake Forest High School graduate, Deerfield Junior High graduate, as a learned person, as someone worth employing, why does even a $35,000 job make it hard to make ends meet? By the time rent's spent, groceries bought, health care paid for, general appliances cashed out, and maybe a little tucked away for savings or a rainy day — why then, why is there still not much left? Most jobs are 40 hours a week, then another two hours in transportation time, so that's 10 hours a day, leaving between 4-5 hours left a day for life outside of sleeping and working. We're killing ourselves to get jobs that don't pay and steal our time. Our. Precious. Valuable. Time. Check out the October issue of Ode Magazine when it comes out for a peak into what a NYC schoolteacher thinks of the education institution post teaching days. I also put together a Q&A with the teacher to be put on the Web as well.
For those students graduating from high school, please head onto college, but know that even that won't be enough to get you the white picket fence, the brick house, the good neighborhood, the nice clothes. It will only get you average, and when you think of average, think nothing special. As individuals we need to think of ways to be special, to get what we want, but not at the expense of someone else. We need to be more conscious in our actions, and please, don't reward the status quo. That's a surefire way of rewarding no one.
"This year's SAT averages in themselves are not all that notable, as they were close to those in 2007 and typically change little from year to year.
Nationally, the averages didn't shift a single point from last year: 515 in math, 502 in reading, and 494 in writing, each out of a maximum 800."
-The Star Ledger
The article also makes mention that most if not all of the students from the particular school in New Jersey intend to go to college, and actually plan on going to instate colleges. The principal of the school had the audacity to say it might be that they don't want to travel too far or it "might" be that higher education is expensive. Of course that's why they're going to instate schools. College is extraordinarily expensive, especially when you measure the gains of going. Yes, you're more intelligent, but upon graduation, since so many people are going to colleges there literally aren't enough jobs to go around. And for how many seemingly blank checks students are filling out to no end, there should be jobs that pay more than the crippling dolla-dolla-bills that young graduates are might be getting out of college. Depending on which internship one accepts or not.
As a graduate with a liberal arts degrees in both Journalism and English, I can say with certainty that the education system in the United States cares more about the institution — those it employs and ever-increasing profit margins — than the students attending the school who are emptying out their piggy bank's worth of life savings just to be there. I went to the University of Iowa, and I worked hard. I enjoyed my college experience, but that's what it was, an experience. I worked all four years (yes, I finished in four years); I participated in clubs and organizations ranging from the Newman Center to University Choir; I wrote for The Daily Iowan, was Executive Editor, Managing Director and writer at Content Magazine and was a DJ at KRUI 89.7; I worked summers. I tried hard, all in the name of getting a career rolling. I did well.
Crossing the stage, shaking hands of the professors and various university officials (all making well into the $50k-$150k range, I thought of them at their graduation. I thought of who their terrible speaker was, of who they thought they were going to be 20, 40, 60 years from their meager 20-something days. Ten professors were honored for over two hours, the last hour was dedicated to the thousands of students that paid the most expensive price of admission to that basketball stadium. For a few seconds we were honored, but it didn't seem like it was about us at all.
Now I am living in California for a short stint interning for penny's (more than many of my peers are making as they intern for free, see Reality Bites below). As I attempt to flee working a dead end job that will at least give me health care, I'm here without any real cash — save for my piggy bank. I have to dig deeper into debt, because that seems to be the only way to get ahead in this world. You have to spend money to make it. And it's ridiculous. Everyone is trying to make money, but in their desire to gain a bonus they're essentially robbing the very people that make their company go-go-go. And, for the most part, company executives don't do this intentionally. Many people have mouths to feed and bills to pay, and to each his own, right? Take care of self first, right? The only way to sustain existence, right? As a 22-year-old University of Iowa graduate, Lake Forest High School graduate, Deerfield Junior High graduate, as a learned person, as someone worth employing, why does even a $35,000 job make it hard to make ends meet? By the time rent's spent, groceries bought, health care paid for, general appliances cashed out, and maybe a little tucked away for savings or a rainy day — why then, why is there still not much left? Most jobs are 40 hours a week, then another two hours in transportation time, so that's 10 hours a day, leaving between 4-5 hours left a day for life outside of sleeping and working. We're killing ourselves to get jobs that don't pay and steal our time. Our. Precious. Valuable. Time. Check out the October issue of Ode Magazine when it comes out for a peak into what a NYC schoolteacher thinks of the education institution post teaching days. I also put together a Q&A with the teacher to be put on the Web as well.
For those students graduating from high school, please head onto college, but know that even that won't be enough to get you the white picket fence, the brick house, the good neighborhood, the nice clothes. It will only get you average, and when you think of average, think nothing special. As individuals we need to think of ways to be special, to get what we want, but not at the expense of someone else. We need to be more conscious in our actions, and please, don't reward the status quo. That's a surefire way of rewarding no one.
"Everyone's special, Dash."
"Which is another way of saying no one is."
-The Incredibles
Monday, June 09, 2008
Classrooms to Social Class
So, I've often heard it said that life goes in cycles, but I never really believed it to be true.
Now that I seem to have loads of time on my hands, which for anyone who knows me in the slightest knows I do not enjoy, I've used some of it to reflect. [I'm more of a busy body who detests the silence, and revels in the quick-witted world of journalism.] Honestly, at this point I have no choice but to reflect.
You see, jobs are scarce. And yes, I am capable. Yes, I am intelligent. And yes, of course, I can deliver a beautifully crafted 500-5000+ word story for a vast readership. But no. There is no opportunity for that. I get it. I know I can't simply call up my buddy Sam Zell and actually receive a job chalk full of benefits and a company car. I knew that when I signed on as a journalism major, applied to the School, and subsequently graduated with honors. But this whole cycle business -- well, isn't it about time for it to cycle some more? I'm not advocating a mass withdrawal of babyboomers from the jobs that I desire to be mine, but I am advocating for some sort of position open specifically to post-students like myself, and not just one here and there.
Capable. Talented. Intelligent. And really, someone who is unwilling to ditch her dreams to become another desk-riding worker in some office somewhere. It's not even so much the dream of becoming a reputable reporter, but in all honesty, that's what I am trained to be. This is what I paid for, with not only money, but effort and long hours writing, reporting and studying.
As has become obvious with the Bush administration and multiple media outlets finally calling the "subtle beginnings" of what "may be" a recession, it is clear there are going to be a lot of layoffs and much more of what's already started in the job market. However, there should always be room for talented, hardworking people.
I am not living in a dream world -- unless I believed everyone is capable of attaining the American Dream, which I don't subscribe to. Failure happens. Social Mobility happens. Success happens.
The President has used the influx of students released from universities out into the disappearing workforce as a scapegoat for why jobs are seemingly evaporating into thin air, with all this summer heat around, and what not. But I do not buy it. The work force cycles, comes in waves just as everything else, but it probably won't go back this time. Not to how it used to be. We're living in a global economy. Jobs are outsourced, and it's more than just Qwest Internet connections forwarded to India. It's everywhere.
But where is journalism in all this? Should we be effected the same way? It's all that Internet, right? It's newspapers slashing newsrooms 19% like the Chicago Sun-Times. "It's competitive," they say. Or at least they say after we've walked out of the classroom for the last time.
Now that I seem to have loads of time on my hands, which for anyone who knows me in the slightest knows I do not enjoy, I've used some of it to reflect. [I'm more of a busy body who detests the silence, and revels in the quick-witted world of journalism.] Honestly, at this point I have no choice but to reflect.
You see, jobs are scarce. And yes, I am capable. Yes, I am intelligent. And yes, of course, I can deliver a beautifully crafted 500-5000+ word story for a vast readership. But no. There is no opportunity for that. I get it. I know I can't simply call up my buddy Sam Zell and actually receive a job chalk full of benefits and a company car. I knew that when I signed on as a journalism major, applied to the School, and subsequently graduated with honors. But this whole cycle business -- well, isn't it about time for it to cycle some more? I'm not advocating a mass withdrawal of babyboomers from the jobs that I desire to be mine, but I am advocating for some sort of position open specifically to post-students like myself, and not just one here and there.
Capable. Talented. Intelligent. And really, someone who is unwilling to ditch her dreams to become another desk-riding worker in some office somewhere. It's not even so much the dream of becoming a reputable reporter, but in all honesty, that's what I am trained to be. This is what I paid for, with not only money, but effort and long hours writing, reporting and studying.
As has become obvious with the Bush administration and multiple media outlets finally calling the "subtle beginnings" of what "may be" a recession, it is clear there are going to be a lot of layoffs and much more of what's already started in the job market. However, there should always be room for talented, hardworking people.
I am not living in a dream world -- unless I believed everyone is capable of attaining the American Dream, which I don't subscribe to. Failure happens. Social Mobility happens. Success happens.
The President has used the influx of students released from universities out into the disappearing workforce as a scapegoat for why jobs are seemingly evaporating into thin air, with all this summer heat around, and what not. But I do not buy it. The work force cycles, comes in waves just as everything else, but it probably won't go back this time. Not to how it used to be. We're living in a global economy. Jobs are outsourced, and it's more than just Qwest Internet connections forwarded to India. It's everywhere.
But where is journalism in all this? Should we be effected the same way? It's all that Internet, right? It's newspapers slashing newsrooms 19% like the Chicago Sun-Times. "It's competitive," they say. Or at least they say after we've walked out of the classroom for the last time.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
the graceful steps of life
i wrote this story. it was published in the daily iowan's may 15th issue. it was my last daily iowan story before i graduated. enjoy. click here for more.
Whitney Wright took some great photos that you can see here.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
Snowing & Snowing
A dreary February full of snow and no sunshine is not really what I'm up for these days. It's no fun to walk around Iowa City and feel like I may die at any turn. It's impossible to navigate the sidewalks and roads. I wish I had a collapsable shovel that I could carry around with me in order to dig my way out. Mayhem.
This kid knows what's up.
***
Anyway, I've been back to listening to loads of Ryan Adams due to a magical instrument called Copy Pod! Adams' melancholy lullaby "La Cienega Just Smiled" on 2001's "Gold" is me. "And I hold you close in the back of my mind/Feels so good but damn it makes me hurt/And I'm too scared to know to how I feel about you now/How I feel about you now."
This kid knows what's up.
***
Anyway, I've been back to listening to loads of Ryan Adams due to a magical instrument called Copy Pod! Adams' melancholy lullaby "La Cienega Just Smiled" on 2001's "Gold" is me. "And I hold you close in the back of my mind/Feels so good but damn it makes me hurt/And I'm too scared to know to how I feel about you now/How I feel about you now."
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