HELLO

Me and my pride will see ourselves out

Where I work, we're engaged with guiding low-income families through the nation's blighted education system.  As you might expect, we often toe the line between cooperation and condescension.  And this morning I caught myself in a quietly awkward situation.  In quoting a parent we work with, I considered writing "[sic]" three times — in just three sentences.  No one was around to witness it, but my shame was thick and immediate.

Don't get me wrong, I know I'm luckier than most.  I pass homeless men and women wherever I go in this city, and I've faced no adversity worse than my parents' divorce.  But I don't like to see myself as above or better than anyone else.  When I volunteer at a local SRO in the Tenderloin, I see the occupants as just people without enough family or education to work through their broken psychology.  I'd probably be right there with them, if not for my sisters and a high school diploma.  My inclination to skirt the blame of grammatical errors, though, was different.  I truly felt uncomfortable publishing a double negative without calling attention to it as not my mistake.  And once I realized what I was thinking, it was like suddenly noticing just how far away the ground is from the saddle of this horse.

Perhaps there is no such thing as equality.  We strive for it, we fight wars for it, but even a bleeding heart like me can't achieve it.

The two-thirds requirement

As Peter Schrag recounts in California: America's High Stakes Experiment, the California dream has always had its dark side — from the discrimination against the Chinese in the late nineteenth century to the "battering" the Okies took during the Depression to the "push-pull-love-hate relationship with Mexicans." What is distinctive about the present situation, however, is that the dark side of the California dream encompasses population groups that will soon make up the majority of its citizens.

Sharp ethnic and racial divides of this kind don't necessarily undermine an economy. On the contrary, California's success in agriculture was based on cheap immigrant labor. But it's a recipe for social and political unrest — and even riot and rebellion. And it's a betrayal of the American, as well as the California, dream. That's something California's government will need to address, but there's the question of whether it is capable of doing so.

If you haven't read this op-ed in The New Republic, I highly suggest you drop everything to do so right now.

Objectified

If you've seen me recently, then you know I'm feeling more at peace with myself and life than I have in years.  Almost everything that was wrong, that was holding me back, was an aftershock of the summer of 2005.  And around this time last year I realized that I was trying to live my life as an antithesis of anorexia.  I'd somehow become so afraid of unintentionally boxing myself in again that I'd stopped doing the things I loved before I was sick.  I'd lost that prior sense of who I am, instead choosing to define myself by who I'm not or who I won't be.  It's taken all this time but I've systematically faced every fear that was stymieing my ability to grow up — from simple hang-ups, like letting myself have even a single routine, to more complicated anxieties, like running.  It's a work-in-progress, but we all are.

And lately I've been trying to come to terms with something new.  Or rather, something that dredges up the past.  When I'm taking care of myself, I'm aware of my presence.  (As opposed to feeling latent and indistinct.)  I notice when someone is surveying me and I'm torn in two directions: it feels good, but I shouldn't like it.

In the '70s, John Berger observed that "according to usage and conventions which are at last being questioned but have by no means been overcome — men act and women appear.  Men look at women.  Women watch themselves being looked at."  When I first read this in college, I tried to disagree.  I was experimenting with photography and working in design; I considered myself someone actively shaping the way I saw the world.  But the truth is, I felt invisible.  Unless you count the opinions of construction workers, I wasn't attractive, especially not in any conventional sense.  But all that changed when I lost an unhealthy amount of weight.

Now that I'm trying to encourage that latent, indistinct self, I'm unsure how to confront this anxiety.  It should be a good thing to be looked at, but I can't let the approval of others surpass my own opinion of myself. 

8 years old

Last month, at my little brother's birthday party, I had the gut-wrenching realization that I'll always know how long ago I witnessed September 11th — it was just a month after Declan was born.  Every year I try to distance myself from the terror, the echoes of screams in my mind.  Until recently I had to hide from class, work, and friends, always roaming aimlessly in quiet reflection of what happened to New York and what happened to me.  At least I can function now, even if the tightness in my chest makes it feel like I'm about to cry at any moment.

This morning I searched through my old web site's archives.  I hadn't reread what I wrote for that public journal in at least six years, choosing instead to try not to remember.  What I found was surprising, in that my 17-year-old self had created a narrative to the day:

: 9.11.2001 :

    from my window, i witnessed the collapse of both towers of the world trade center.

    *ring* *ring* the sheets were a tangle between my legs, the phone reverberating in my sleep-laden ears. who would call at this hour?

    the city was bustling outside my window and the stirring of students in my hall was oddly comforting, reassuring. i focused, my eyes finally settling on the springs above my head. i released my fevered thighs from the sheets, lifting my feet to the bars under the bunk above me. my knees appear so slim this way. have i lost weight?

    then the sirens. louder than usual. a megaphone harassing the streets. i rolled my eyes. another reason why i don't need an alarm clock in new york. my head buzzed with the echoes of sirens. new yorkers don't seem to pull over for ambulances or firetrucks. they prefer to obstruct the path of rescue. megan pointed it out to me last week. her face all scrunched with angst against new york drivers, she proclaimed (a little too loudly) that new york needs to learn how to drive. i blushed. a few too many of my new neighbors heard that. *crash* another car accident in two weeks? *booom* what the hell? *screams* oh my god.

    the sheets were twisted again around my ankles. i fell face first out of my empty bed, one hand catching the fall on molly's giant trunk. i yanked my ankle free and jumped at the window. damn, the windows were shut. it'd been raining the night before. i turned the handle round and round, round and round. does everything take this long in a state of panic? at last the window was open. i shoved my torso out above the street and looked to the right. nothing. the people below looking left, south. in fact there were hundreds of people standing in the middle of fifth avenue. what is going on? i whipped my head to the left and my breath stopped. was there a bomb? several stories of one of the world trade center towers were on fire. in fact, whole sections of the structure were missing. i thought of jenga, the game santa gave me when i was in elementary school. mom slipped up, mentioning how the toy store employee recommended it to her. hahha. i remember knowing that santa doesn't exist, but still questioning whether what mom said was true.

    my feet flew off the windowsill into the middle of the room where i picked up the receiver. no dial tone. none of my family must know what's happened yet. it was almost seven in the morning on the west coast. if anyone, my air force-trained stepfather could be awake. i turned on my computer. no one was online. i leapt back to the window and stared at the changes underway. new york was at a standstill. wait. why is that plane flying so low? oh my god, that's how the first tower was hit. it wasn't a bomb. *crash* the plane flew straight into the upper portion of the second tower. *booom* there were screams all around me. i felt as though it was the passengers i was hearing. i imagined the fear on their faces as they watched their destiny scraping the sky ahead. the first of several tears streamed down my face. what did we do to deserve this? who hates us this much? how many are lost already?

    slipping off my roommate's bed to my computer, i noticed that mom had come online. agile fingers retold the chaos, baring my emotions. up on the twelfth floor, my windows shielded the pandemonium below with a quiet skyline out to the west. i jumped back to dangling out the window, watching south. the fire on the first tower created so much smoke. how naive i was, shocked at the billowing black clouds above the twins. the first tower was going to collapse. i yelled to the girl next door. erin! her back was facing me. ERIN! i banged on the windows, kicked at the windowsill. she turned around, waved. the tower is going to collapse! what? THE TOWER IS GOING TO COLLAPSE! you think so? i nodded.

    at first, it appeared that the building was just shedding its skin. a little crumbling here, a little crumbling there. revealing the shiny, new layer underneath. no, it's just the glass. wait, why is that smoke coming from below? the whole building was sinking. jesus. suddenly, a third of my previously publicized view is gone. the smoke mushroomed and unfolded into the sky. the rumbling of the collapse was almost deafening over the screams. breathe.

    i've never felt so lonely. how completely frightening it was to be stuck there with only my own thoughts. i bolted to the door and shoved our can opener under it. shelley was stepping off the elevator; she ran over to me. we interrogated each other on the latest news. i showed her how horrifying our view was. people were jumping out the windows. the people in the street below were so loud with their concerns. every couple seconds, the obnoxious cries of sirens blew past us.

    shelley jumped back into the room, grabbing for the phone. it still wasn't working. she flipped open her cellphone. nothing. the anxiety on her face was paralyzing. she was so worried that her family was home, thinking the worst. i sat back in front of my laptop. dad was online. i updated him on my safety but soon the tugging for the windows drew me away. shelley grabbed her camera, snapping so many pictures before the opportunity was lost. i asked her if we could listen to the news on her radio. while tuning it to a news station, shelley missed the first half-second of the second tower falling.

    i screamed, and shelley ran for the window next to me. i began to cry, again. the second tower's depleted, steel beams fell like tree trunks, blanketing manhattan with soot and debris. the charred clouds rose above with a current of black floating up to the sky. two-thirds of my highly publicized view: gone. the people below turned to go home. the show was over, i guess, for them. i asked shelley if she'd come with me to give blood. she agreed and we ran up and down our hallway, knocking on every door to find anyone else to join us.

- - -

    six and a half hours, four hospitals, a trip to queens on a bus, an overheated subway, and legs that have walked a hundred and fifty blocks later, i still haven't given blood. i trudged back to my hall alone, lacking armband, and exhausted. i'm so frustrated. the deaths today were so horrendous.  i crave the expunging of my blood to pump life back into the world. to at least try to save a life. i know one life doesn't make up for thousands, but what else can i do? 

    poor patrick. 'world war three' on his birthday. happy birthday, patrick! i'm sorry this sorrowful day couldn't be of pure celebration in honor of you.

I'm a little embarrassed to share this because it reads so self-absorbed.  Back then I wrote on my web site like it was just another private journal.  'Blogs,' as we know them now, were barely popular.  I'm sharing this because there's something charming about that very same self-absorption: my youth.  I've always remembered this day as the tangible moment when my naïveté was hijacked, sunk into ground zero with lives more righteous than my own.  Rereading this, I see that perhaps my juvenility survived the attacks after all.  Maybe now I'll be able to understand this day less as an omen of mortality and more as proof of the endurance of life.

Hope.

Running America

I just read about two guys who are scheduled to run the equivalent of two marathons and a 10K each day, to cross from San Francisco to New York City.  And one of them is 57 years old!

I'm two parts zealous and one part jealous.  Considering my plans for cycling from here to there, I recognize this brand of crazy... and it's got me thinking I should stop daydreaming and just get to fund-raising. 

History v. Harvey

Using a loophole in the district's sex education regulations, school officials tried to prevent a little girl in California from presenting a history — read, factual — report on Harvey Milk.  They argued that Harvey Milk's sexual orientation made the material too sensitive and thus classified it as sex ed.  The girl's parents, the ACLU, and others objected, so the district did finally let her give the presentation during a lunch period — but only to students whose parents had signed a waiver.

Really, San Diego?  What's next?  Signing a waiver so your kid can learn about evolution during recess?

Absence

It's nothing personal, but I've been sharing my excess musings somewhere else lately.  What can I say?  I can't stop myself.

The smart people over there continue to intrigue and delight me... So if you're looking for a more consistent read, give Clusterflock.org a shot.

The world is shrinking around my love life

My exboyfriend just linked to a blog post about some research that features the next guy I dated.  One still lives in New York relatively unrelated to the incestuous tech world out here, while the other breathes in Silicon Valley connections.  They're both old history for me so I shouldn't even know of their whereabouts by now.

But Facebook has more than made news like this available to me.  Our interconnectedness feels excessive.  How would you react to this?

Sleeping arrangements

Hiding under pillows
Originally uploaded by kelsey *.

I used to be a state-of-the-art sleeper. I used to just lie down on my stomach and dream for hours, vividly. Some nights I'd imagine myself as a bird, coasting above the salty Bay and its lofty bridges. Other nights I peered through the eyes of my heros, facing danger with expert calm. I remember every one.

Then I grew up. Anxiety compounded responsibility until even my rest was tense. In college I discovered lounging in bed with a good sleeper, which is almost a dream in itself! It generated this silly joke, that I could forgo a boyfriend for a napfriend. Friends would say, "You could advertise for that!" And I'd laugh, wondering if ...really I could.

It's weeks like this — when my fears have no face and my sleep doesn't last — that I think about that idea again. Of course, as my father's would, my mind races to the messy logistics. Where would you post an ad for a napfriend? How could you check an applicant's references? What's the going rate for hire?

Pick-up lines from the Pack a Parka Party

• No wonder the sky is gray today... All the blue is in your eyes!
• Are your feet tired? 'Cause you've been running through my mind all day long!
• I came with my steady. She is willing to NEGOTIATE...
• Stop, drop, and roll, baby!  You're on fire!
• I think I'm in LOVE... <3
  
• You know, I don't know the theme song to Deliverance.
  
• You've got a pretty mouth... Wanna make out?
• Can I take your portrait?
• How about you have a seat in my lap and we talk about the first thing that pops up?
• Are those SPACE PANTS?
• If I said you had a good body, would you hold it against me?
• Meet me upstairs in 10 minutes... I've got something to show you!
• You know, I like to walk my bunny in the Panhandle...