I don't mind waiting in long lines, because it allows me to engage in one of my favorite hobbies. Eavesdropping isn't as simple as listening in to any nearby private conversation, any more than hunting is shooting whatever organism your gun is pointed at. Applying the skills of aural voyeurism to the average conversation is the equivalent of shooting a tree. A true sportsman is more discriminating than that, setting out with a particular type of prey in mind. For my part, the conversations I relish are between a young kid and an adult who is not his or her parent. I savor the lopsidedness in which such conversations are steeped: the more comfortable one party is (say, the overbearing, booming-voiced auntie using sentences far too complex for her 5-year old companion), the more uncomfortable the other one becomes (5-year-old watching the floor in case an escape hatch opens while executing subtle but complex slow-motion dance moves).
It takes close listening and sharp deductive reasoning skills to figure out when you have such a situation in the checkout line with you. The most common clues include a woman saying something to the child about "your mother." This alone isn't a dead giveaway, as plenty of children have two mommies, and even more have crazy mommies who speak of themselves in third person.
After just moments in line at the bookstore the other day, my skills were rewarded with conclusive evidence that the adult and child behind me were not related. It seemed that mom was somewhere else in the store (self-help? fantasy?); this lady must have, seeing a gleam in her friend's eye that signalled a desperate need to be alone for a few moments, volunteered to take the little girl to pay for her picture book. The kid was happily chattering; she was clearly the comfortable one in this situation. She pointed to the lady's bracelets and said, "pretty."
"Thank you! Can you count them?"
"One...two...three..." and so on, carefully and deliberately, but flawlessly, to nine.
"That's a lot of bracelets on my wrist, huh?"
The girl pointed to a display of drinking games near the checkout: Beer-opoly, etc.
"A game! Oooh. I want that game! Please? Please?"
I don't know if the rest of the line was listening as closely as I was, or if they were, whether they, too, smiled to think of the mother's mortification upon hearing her daughter beg this lady to buy her something, much less a drinking game.
"No, honey. That's a...an adult...well, that's a beer game."
The child was squirming, maybe even hopping a little bit. "But I like beer games! I love beer games! Please!"
It was pretty funny in the moment. It made me think of how irrational we humans get in the face of strong desire; how in a moment of want, nothing matters outside of the thing that you covet. Logic, truth, and dignity fade away. I wondered whether we outgrow that urge or just refine our methods, replacing hopping up and down with more artful strategems such as pick-up lines and blackmail.
Maybe the chance to return to that childhood impulse is part of the pleasure of Mardi Gras bead-whoring: that single-minded desire for beads that causes people to shed clothing for strangers. While I've never personally uncovered any important parts of my body, I have pleaded, kissed strangers, called people "gorgeous" who weren't, and I've certainly jumped up and down and screamed until the bead-thrower couldn't ignore me any more. It's fun for a couple of hours. Still, it must get exhausting for kids to spend years that way, constantly in the grips of such a powerfully desperate longing for every shiny object onto which their gaze happens to fall.
The lady had to stifle a laugh and then backtrack, re-explain. Still failing to change the kid's mind, I watched her think up and halfheartedly articulate ten different reasons why that particular game was not an appropriate object of desire for someone too young to count nine bracelets without effort. Her logic was flailing for a foothold in this totally illogical argument, all because she was afraid, or unable, to give that firm and definite "no" that mothers have mastered. She just couldn't produce the kind of "no" that rules out any further need for explanation (some moms might add, "Because I said so;" mine usually finished with "Period. End of report"). If I were this lady, I'd be praying that there would be a sudden rush for the Beer-opoly games, frenzied customers snatching them from the shelf. That way, I'd be able to use the only phrase I'd ever used to successfully deny a child something: the inarguably terminal "all gone."
For my lack of ability to deliver that powerful "no," I've dragged a two-year old on a giant stuffed orca through her house for what seemed like hours, past the point at which my knees were buckling and my vertebrae fusing, stifling cries of agony as she didn't supress squeals of glee that seemed to mock my pain. I couldn't formulate a sound argument for "again!" despite employing every rhetorical strategy I could summon. "One more time," I gasped between back spasms. The child echoed, signalling agreement with my terms. "One more time! One more time!" Lulled into a false sense of impending relief, and wanting to make the last orca-ride a memorable one, I'd pull with extra vigor, or take a new route around the coffee table. In doing so, I sealed my fate: the gleeful cry of "again!" lacked any recognition that it was clearly in violation of our agreement.
"But...but..."
"Again! Again!"
"Okay, ONE more time?"
"One more time!"
I knew that, somehow, I had to get the orca out from under the kid and out of her sight, but the sleight of hand to pull that off was way beyond my grasp. It might come down to this: I would have to destroy the orca, all at once, rendering it unrideable before the inevitable screams of protest could stop me. Somehow, though, I had to unsheath my only rhetorical weapon. But "all gone" wouldn't work until this cursed stuffed animal was actually all gone, and it was made of quality materials: it could last for thousands of trips. It was likely to outlast my back by a long shot, and it had already left my belief in free will in its cuddly wake. Mastery of my fate? All gone.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
the adventures of a nerd in the wild west
how I discovered the life of the mind through cowboy boots
There are moments in each of our histories that are, by all appearances, unremarkable. Inexplicably, we remember them for decades with the same perfect clarity we usually reserve for births, deaths, and epiphanies. These are the stories that I start to tell at parties—they must be funny or profound; why else would I have remembered them all these years?—and realize, as my narrative approaches the gaping hole where the climax ought to be, that the stories are, in fact, pointless. I leave a confused and awkwardly pitying audience in my wake as I head to the liquor cabinet to regroup.
These memories make lousy anecdotes. Their value lies beneath the surface, deeper than a punchline. We are right to have kept stored them so carefully in our memory; they are profound. Our work is to unlock them, to excavate them. The story of my first day of school in Colorado is one of these memories. It stays with me, but in the telling, offers only an underwhelming window into a typical, if slightly pathetic, 7-year-old world. Hidden in its shallows, though, are the seeds of much of what I have since come to value. I was wearing cowboy boots on the day that the possibility of a rich inner life was revealed to me.
Coming from New England, and being seven, I envisioned Colorado as The Wild West. I felt that I would need to ride a horse and learn to walk with my feet far apart, hands at my hips. Perhaps I would get to wear a holster on weekends; probably not to school. Those details would be worked out eventually. In the meantime, I needed to make some wardrobe adjustments. The Docksiders and fair isle sweaters would need to be replaced before the move if I were to fit in among the cowpokes of Colorado. My grandmother took me to the store and I picked out plaid western shirts with mother-of-pearl snaps and big collars. I endured two weeks of blistered toes to break in my Dingo-brand cowboy boots, and I traded my Garanimals for Wranglers. Mercifully, my grandmother refused to shell out for a ten-gallon hat or—god forbid—chaps.
“Class, let’s welcome our new student, Laurie. She just moved here from Rhode Island, the smallest state.” While Mrs. Beatty pointed to Rhode Island on the map with one hand and made the universal gesture for “teeny” with the other, I stood next to her in my finest western apparel. I surveyed the sea of my new, decidedly non-wild-west-looking classmates: rugby shirts, popped collars, Velcro sneakers; not the cowpoke couture I had anticipated. My miscalculation earned me the dreaded NERD label, one which, in the unforgiving social strata of suburban education, had remarkable staying power. I was to be a Nerd, in the eyes of my classmates, for eternity.
It was painful, yes, to move from a world of birthday parties, bike rides in large posses, and daily kickball on the playground into one of social ostracism. It forced me to find entertainment, affirmation, and even conversation in solitude. This was when the books that had languished on a shelf at home suddenly seemed worth my attention. It wasn’t like I had sleepovers to gussy up for; I might as well look inside one of them. I didn’t have anyone to whisper to in class, or to write notes with, so I paid attention by default. Lacking a confidante, I embarked upon horrendous poetry and embarrassing diary entries—stumbling, in time, on the possibility of word play and purposeful writing.
By the time I did manage to scrape together a few friends to ride bikes with, I had lost my fear of solitude, and had formed new habits. I had plunged into the life of the mind and had grown used to learning, to reading, to writing—things that have dominated my life ever since. I stopped wearing the cowboy boots, though my inner life turned out to be a wilder frontier than Colorado ever was.
There are moments in each of our histories that are, by all appearances, unremarkable. Inexplicably, we remember them for decades with the same perfect clarity we usually reserve for births, deaths, and epiphanies. These are the stories that I start to tell at parties—they must be funny or profound; why else would I have remembered them all these years?—and realize, as my narrative approaches the gaping hole where the climax ought to be, that the stories are, in fact, pointless. I leave a confused and awkwardly pitying audience in my wake as I head to the liquor cabinet to regroup.
These memories make lousy anecdotes. Their value lies beneath the surface, deeper than a punchline. We are right to have kept stored them so carefully in our memory; they are profound. Our work is to unlock them, to excavate them. The story of my first day of school in Colorado is one of these memories. It stays with me, but in the telling, offers only an underwhelming window into a typical, if slightly pathetic, 7-year-old world. Hidden in its shallows, though, are the seeds of much of what I have since come to value. I was wearing cowboy boots on the day that the possibility of a rich inner life was revealed to me.
Coming from New England, and being seven, I envisioned Colorado as The Wild West. I felt that I would need to ride a horse and learn to walk with my feet far apart, hands at my hips. Perhaps I would get to wear a holster on weekends; probably not to school. Those details would be worked out eventually. In the meantime, I needed to make some wardrobe adjustments. The Docksiders and fair isle sweaters would need to be replaced before the move if I were to fit in among the cowpokes of Colorado. My grandmother took me to the store and I picked out plaid western shirts with mother-of-pearl snaps and big collars. I endured two weeks of blistered toes to break in my Dingo-brand cowboy boots, and I traded my Garanimals for Wranglers. Mercifully, my grandmother refused to shell out for a ten-gallon hat or—god forbid—chaps.
“Class, let’s welcome our new student, Laurie. She just moved here from Rhode Island, the smallest state.” While Mrs. Beatty pointed to Rhode Island on the map with one hand and made the universal gesture for “teeny” with the other, I stood next to her in my finest western apparel. I surveyed the sea of my new, decidedly non-wild-west-looking classmates: rugby shirts, popped collars, Velcro sneakers; not the cowpoke couture I had anticipated. My miscalculation earned me the dreaded NERD label, one which, in the unforgiving social strata of suburban education, had remarkable staying power. I was to be a Nerd, in the eyes of my classmates, for eternity.
It was painful, yes, to move from a world of birthday parties, bike rides in large posses, and daily kickball on the playground into one of social ostracism. It forced me to find entertainment, affirmation, and even conversation in solitude. This was when the books that had languished on a shelf at home suddenly seemed worth my attention. It wasn’t like I had sleepovers to gussy up for; I might as well look inside one of them. I didn’t have anyone to whisper to in class, or to write notes with, so I paid attention by default. Lacking a confidante, I embarked upon horrendous poetry and embarrassing diary entries—stumbling, in time, on the possibility of word play and purposeful writing.
By the time I did manage to scrape together a few friends to ride bikes with, I had lost my fear of solitude, and had formed new habits. I had plunged into the life of the mind and had grown used to learning, to reading, to writing—things that have dominated my life ever since. I stopped wearing the cowboy boots, though my inner life turned out to be a wilder frontier than Colorado ever was.
Monday, May 28, 2007
a chunk of mount olympus
in pale imitation of Charles Simics' "Stone"
Ranch-style haunt of tiny carbon gods,
Slate-roofed shelter from Hera’s wrath and sandal-slap,
Inside this jagged polygon, dense walls impose on tiny rooms.
Molecules, packed shoulder to shoulder, still wriggle.
Inside this solid I would be safe,
Locked inside a stout-walled vault,
Spartan, dim, impenetrable.
I’ll claim my corner and crouch, among huddled molecules, satisfied,
protected from the tricks of fickle earth;
walled in from tremor, from storm, from tidal wave.
Inside, I trace a path, pace to pass time,
I wander the labyrinth.
Each footfall stirs the trapped air,
grinds stone into dust.
Lonesome for the world,
With fingertips I'll trace names on the stone wall,
the shapes of trees, of wooden houses and the sun.
Worn by relentless single steps,
riven by the rub of soft flesh,
chiseled, slowly, by a trickle of exhaled air,
the stout walls erode to threadbare.
These claustrophobic molecules
break away in slow single file
as pebble, or mote, or grain of sand,
patiently dismantling this stone shelter,
dispersing my Olympus.
Time erodes what elements cannot crack;
My breath will unravel what gods can’t break apart.
Ranch-style haunt of tiny carbon gods,
Slate-roofed shelter from Hera’s wrath and sandal-slap,
Inside this jagged polygon, dense walls impose on tiny rooms.
Molecules, packed shoulder to shoulder, still wriggle.
Inside this solid I would be safe,
Locked inside a stout-walled vault,
Spartan, dim, impenetrable.
I’ll claim my corner and crouch, among huddled molecules, satisfied,
protected from the tricks of fickle earth;
walled in from tremor, from storm, from tidal wave.
Inside, I trace a path, pace to pass time,
I wander the labyrinth.
Each footfall stirs the trapped air,
grinds stone into dust.
Lonesome for the world,
With fingertips I'll trace names on the stone wall,
the shapes of trees, of wooden houses and the sun.
Worn by relentless single steps,
riven by the rub of soft flesh,
chiseled, slowly, by a trickle of exhaled air,
the stout walls erode to threadbare.
These claustrophobic molecules
break away in slow single file
as pebble, or mote, or grain of sand,
patiently dismantling this stone shelter,
dispersing my Olympus.
Time erodes what elements cannot crack;
My breath will unravel what gods can’t break apart.
Friday, May 25, 2007
migration
playing with sound and thinking about the move from Colorado to Louisiana
Eggshell and sickly salmon walls enclose enclaves of promised repose
Broken with a fifth of vodka and NoDoz;
Brass accents match
cold glowing bulbs, locked hollow doors,
Lifeless as catalogs.
Flailing to escape,
Punching holes in the drywall to prove
it can't contain you,
you escape, callow little thing:
Vaulted
past sturdy ceiling beams,
though airborne, you seem
weighted, laden, fraught.
Catapulted, launched flipless, arrow-straight,
Southbound, seeking Haunted.
These soggy grounds, musty as wet wool, absorbed you;
mists blur lines and colors bleed
through wallpaper's sediment, curling back from crumbling brick,
no promises here, you earn what rest you find.
Faded and smoke-stained,
this south lacks order, lacks tact, it is
thumped, punched, staid: true.
Eggshell and sickly salmon walls enclose enclaves of promised repose
Broken with a fifth of vodka and NoDoz;
Brass accents match
cold glowing bulbs, locked hollow doors,
Lifeless as catalogs.
Flailing to escape,
Punching holes in the drywall to prove
it can't contain you,
you escape, callow little thing:
Vaulted
past sturdy ceiling beams,
though airborne, you seem
weighted, laden, fraught.
Catapulted, launched flipless, arrow-straight,
Southbound, seeking Haunted.
These soggy grounds, musty as wet wool, absorbed you;
mists blur lines and colors bleed
through wallpaper's sediment, curling back from crumbling brick,
no promises here, you earn what rest you find.
Faded and smoke-stained,
this south lacks order, lacks tact, it is
thumped, punched, staid: true.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
hubris
an experiment with compressed rhyme inspired by a pompous hostess
Pure ego, unbowed, leaves you dumbstruck and cowed,
and I
own this crowd;
and it
is avowed
that I'm smart 'cause I'm loud.
My powers come from a rare mutation--a chronic need for your adoration
I'm the leader, you are grateful nation; I'm Toussaint and you are a Haitian;
Drape my statues with decoration: lace and laurel, cause that's your station
(and
spare me the indignation--
this is no two-way conversation,
it's a clandestine operation
where I locate your lacerations
and
drink
your
blood).
My esteem needs to propagate, I'm alive when I dominate
See, I'm trying to compensate for my cranial empty plate.
Though I binge, I can never sate;
All I see is a self-portrait.
That's why I'm garrulous.
I think I'm clever but I'm querulous.
I always talk but I don't discuss; I bang on but I don't percuss.
This self-love's so lascivious, when you speak I'm oblivious.
When I state what is obvious, you're expected to make a fuss:
Treat my words like a grand opus
Thus
Make my breathing less frivolous.
If you are envious you may call me imperious, you could point to my arrogance,
but your words are transient
and mine
go
on.
This room is my circus tent.
Main event: verbal flatulence
endless tales of my youth misspent will distract from my indolence.
I say nothing so adamant you can't see that it makes no sense.
Gentlemen call me "radiant" as I spew out contaminants--
virulent strains of ignorance,
anecdotes flow inordinate
I see weakness in reticence
and
I
pounce.
I enthrall with the gall of my words' urban sprawl
and you're caught in the squall of my rapid recall
and
fire.
Though you pall when I bawl like to crack the drywall
I still need to hold all of your rolling eyeballs
on
me.
Pure ego, unbowed, leaves you dumbstruck and cowed,
and I
own this crowd;
and it
is avowed
that I'm smart 'cause I'm loud.
My powers come from a rare mutation--a chronic need for your adoration
I'm the leader, you are grateful nation; I'm Toussaint and you are a Haitian;
Drape my statues with decoration: lace and laurel, cause that's your station
(and
spare me the indignation--
this is no two-way conversation,
it's a clandestine operation
where I locate your lacerations
and
drink
your
blood).
My esteem needs to propagate, I'm alive when I dominate
See, I'm trying to compensate for my cranial empty plate.
Though I binge, I can never sate;
All I see is a self-portrait.
That's why I'm garrulous.
I think I'm clever but I'm querulous.
I always talk but I don't discuss; I bang on but I don't percuss.
This self-love's so lascivious, when you speak I'm oblivious.
When I state what is obvious, you're expected to make a fuss:
Treat my words like a grand opus
Thus
Make my breathing less frivolous.
If you are envious you may call me imperious, you could point to my arrogance,
but your words are transient
and mine
go
on.
This room is my circus tent.
Main event: verbal flatulence
endless tales of my youth misspent will distract from my indolence.
I say nothing so adamant you can't see that it makes no sense.
Gentlemen call me "radiant" as I spew out contaminants--
virulent strains of ignorance,
anecdotes flow inordinate
I see weakness in reticence
and
I
pounce.
I enthrall with the gall of my words' urban sprawl
and you're caught in the squall of my rapid recall
and
fire.
Though you pall when I bawl like to crack the drywall
I still need to hold all of your rolling eyeballs
on
me.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
why I choose ficton
If you've read the novel The Kite Runner, you know about the beauty, tradition, and incredible danger of kite-fighting in Afghanistan. If you've read or watched American news, on the other hand, you've only heard half of it.
My friend Melissa sent me this article from the South African newspaper The Star: "'Innocent' kite festival marred by 11 deaths." See, the kite strings are often coated in glass shards, or are replaced altogether with sharp wire; victory is marked by celebratory gunshots. It turns out that the strings are sharp enough to cut throats, and randomly fired guns...well, we Americans know all about that one.
Khaled Hosseini presents kite-fighting in all of its complexity in his novel. He waxes nostalgic without denying the darker side of things. He trusts his readers enough to present one person's ambivalent experience of the event, letting us draw our own conclusions. The kite festivals are background to the relationships, here; still, as is so often true in a good novel, the background is captured with the honest realism we can no longer expect from the news. Maybe there's freedom in writing in a genre that is explicitly subjective; lord knows the objective journalists seem to have completely lost track of the truth amidst all of the confirmed facts and double-checked sources.
In painting the Taliban regime as one of pure, irrational evil, the media flaunted the kite-flying ban as exhibit A. They neglected to mention any possible reason for the ban (i.e. preventing needless deaths), leaving us imagining the innocent kites of our childhoods, snatched from our hands by insane fundamentalists. The reports came with a built-in reaction for us to voice, as if we were reading from a script:
Tends to break?
Here's a headline from The Christian Science Monitor:
My friend Melissa sent me this article from the South African newspaper The Star: "'Innocent' kite festival marred by 11 deaths." See, the kite strings are often coated in glass shards, or are replaced altogether with sharp wire; victory is marked by celebratory gunshots. It turns out that the strings are sharp enough to cut throats, and randomly fired guns...well, we Americans know all about that one.
Khaled Hosseini presents kite-fighting in all of its complexity in his novel. He waxes nostalgic without denying the darker side of things. He trusts his readers enough to present one person's ambivalent experience of the event, letting us draw our own conclusions. The kite festivals are background to the relationships, here; still, as is so often true in a good novel, the background is captured with the honest realism we can no longer expect from the news. Maybe there's freedom in writing in a genre that is explicitly subjective; lord knows the objective journalists seem to have completely lost track of the truth amidst all of the confirmed facts and double-checked sources.
In painting the Taliban regime as one of pure, irrational evil, the media flaunted the kite-flying ban as exhibit A. They neglected to mention any possible reason for the ban (i.e. preventing needless deaths), leaving us imagining the innocent kites of our childhoods, snatched from our hands by insane fundamentalists. The reports came with a built-in reaction for us to voice, as if we were reading from a script:
Nobody seemed interested of disabusing Americans of the notion that kite-flying was the most innocent of all entertainments and that the ban was pure and random meanness. Here's a great article from 2001 that studiously preserves that notion. A few choice quotes:JOURNALIST: Under this regime, the centuries old tradition of kite-flying has been banned.
AUDIENCE (murmuring animatedly): That's crazy! What else do they do? They probably kill kittens and outlaw picnics! I'm so glad we liberated those poor people!
For the five years the Taliban were in power, Boba Abdul Shukor had to sell his wares in secret. His contraband was not drugs or pornography or alcohol, but one of the oldest symbols of freedom, the modest kite. In the joyless world of the Taliban, scratching the heavens with the soaring paper fantasies was an offense to God.
...Families rushed to restore a favorite holiday pastime in which boys and young men throng a broad dusty field on the city's outskirts for 'kite fighting.' When two kite strings collide, one tends to break, bestowing victory on the contestant still flying.
Tends to break?
Here's a headline from The Christian Science Monitor:
Paper-string symbols of freedom fill Afghan skies: Kite-flying, a decades-old tradition for Afghans, makes a comeback. Like most entertainment, it was banned by the Taliban.
Thanks for doing my thinking for me, guys. Normally I like to figure out symbolism on my own. How fun would it be if Steinbeck wrote, "Petting the mouse with his thumb, Lenny crushed it, a symbol of the latent danger of his naive strength"? Fortunately, fiction writers don't treat their readers like idiots.
Diane Sawyer calls kite-fighting "poetic and artistic," "a delicate and beautiful piece of the past" practiced by "olympic-quality kite athletes." Sure, all that's probably true, but the omission is glaring. For this simpering, self-congratulatory kind of journalism to run rampant accomplishes three things that I can see: 1) it insults Americans' intelligence 2) it patronizes and infantilizes the Afghani people ("all they want to do is fly their pretty kites.") and 3) it makes me wonder what else is being conveniently omitted from the news.
If the tables were turned, which American laws could, with a pinch of omission, be spun as equally unfair and cruel restrictions on innocent fun? Cockfighting (also a 'decades-old tradition' where I live)? Drag racing? The French could easily spin our drinking age as puritanical madness (they probably have, come to think of it).
Diane Sawyer calls kite-fighting "poetic and artistic," "a delicate and beautiful piece of the past" practiced by "olympic-quality kite athletes." Sure, all that's probably true, but the omission is glaring. For this simpering, self-congratulatory kind of journalism to run rampant accomplishes three things that I can see: 1) it insults Americans' intelligence 2) it patronizes and infantilizes the Afghani people ("all they want to do is fly their pretty kites.") and 3) it makes me wonder what else is being conveniently omitted from the news.
If the tables were turned, which American laws could, with a pinch of omission, be spun as equally unfair and cruel restrictions on innocent fun? Cockfighting (also a 'decades-old tradition' where I live)? Drag racing? The French could easily spin our drinking age as puritanical madness (they probably have, come to think of it).
How about Jarts, for crying out loud? Lawn darts were among my family's favorite holiday pastimes back in the '70s, but they were banned in 1998 after four kids were killed. Where's Diane Sawyer? She could come to my grandmother's house, learn how to make opaque jello salad, and sit with me on the porch as I remember the days when we were free to play Jarts...eventually I'll segue into fond memories of cherry bombs and roman candles (also banned). Her teaser:
In the joyless world of the American West, aiming colorful projectiles at circles on the ground and illuminating the heavens with brilliant lights were an offense to the state.
She'll conveniently leave out the part about the folks killed by stray jarts and the missing fingers on the neighbor kid's left hand. That would compromise the tone of the piece.
Didn't we all, in one U.S. history course or another, study the anti-Japanese propaganda of WWII as if it were an egregious excess our country had outgrown? Didn't we feel foolish as we looked back on the public discourse regarding the color of Manuel Noriega's underpants? Maybe I just need to go back to U.S. history class and accept the fact that, as this ABC news article puts it, "Demonizing the Enemy [is] a Hallmark of War."
I guess we have evolved a bit: I should be glad that the target of negative propaganda nowadays is the country's leaders rather that its entire populace, though the intense and patronizing romanticization of the "folk" and their traditions seems no more honest, only more benign. We used to portray Germans, Japanese, and Italians as dangerous animals. Now we show Afghanis as harmless and quaint kite-flying children. Is one less insulting than the other? Is one less dehumanizing and radically simplistic?
Governments will use propaganda; fair enough. Still, this stuff isn't coming from the government. This is our free, fair, objective media talking. It strikes me as unforgivably shoddy journalism. It leaves me wondering where I can go for a picture of the world that doesn't try to reduce its complexities or shove pre-formed conclusions down my throat. Ironic (but satisfying) that once again, in search of complex truths, I turn to fiction.
Didn't we all, in one U.S. history course or another, study the anti-Japanese propaganda of WWII as if it were an egregious excess our country had outgrown? Didn't we feel foolish as we looked back on the public discourse regarding the color of Manuel Noriega's underpants? Maybe I just need to go back to U.S. history class and accept the fact that, as this ABC news article puts it, "Demonizing the Enemy [is] a Hallmark of War."
I guess we have evolved a bit: I should be glad that the target of negative propaganda nowadays is the country's leaders rather that its entire populace, though the intense and patronizing romanticization of the "folk" and their traditions seems no more honest, only more benign. We used to portray Germans, Japanese, and Italians as dangerous animals. Now we show Afghanis as harmless and quaint kite-flying children. Is one less insulting than the other? Is one less dehumanizing and radically simplistic?
Governments will use propaganda; fair enough. Still, this stuff isn't coming from the government. This is our free, fair, objective media talking. It strikes me as unforgivably shoddy journalism. It leaves me wondering where I can go for a picture of the world that doesn't try to reduce its complexities or shove pre-formed conclusions down my throat. Ironic (but satisfying) that once again, in search of complex truths, I turn to fiction.
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
notes from the quiet kid
It’s been nice how, since college, people have equated my quietness with deep thinking. They haven’t always been so generous. I’m not saying it’s true, but it’s better than the alternatives, this latest in a series of other people’s comments about my quietness. Anyone who has been called "quiet" or "shy" knows what I’m talking about:
“How’d you get so shy?”
“She's just stuck-up.”
“Why don’t you speak up?”
“Why don’t you like anyone?”
“Can’t you say anything? Say something for us.”
Why quiet folks are singled out for this interrogation is beyond me, given that we probably constitute a near-majority. Maybe it’s just to give more garrulous folks something to talk about when they run out of anecdotes. I’m regularly awe-struck by how much people can talk. We build walls with our talk, and whenever there is the slightest chink to be filled in the wall—a speaker’s pause for breath, the few seconds between songs on a CD—we spackle it with talk. We spackle over places that don’t need it, where there is really no room for extra conversation at all: movies, classes, concerts, crowded & noisy hallways. It’s as if silence is a thing to be feared and avoided at all costs—and silent people pose a problem to be solved. I’ve always wondered why being talkative was so highly rated. I’ve also wondered what my answer to people’s intrusive questions would be. So here goes.
***
Maybe people unconsciously think of talk as a campfire built with the last match—you can’t let it go out, because you could never get it started again. Maybe, thousands of years ago, a group of our ancestors developed their grunts into words and began a conversation. They liked it. Being able to confirm their observations was comforting( “is the sky what you would call ‘blue?’ Or is it closer to ‘azure?’”). Being able to speak a thought helped alleviate uncomfortable and dull rumination (“I’m anxious about our dwindling supply of boar’s meat.”). Their fear of losing the conversation soon transformed it into a curse. It became an obligation, a thing to be constantly tended to. They could no longer go for solitary walks without being accused of dodging their duty to keep the conversational flame burning. They couldn’t follow their own train of thought for too long without periodically forcing it into words. Thus their thoughts became less profound, less unique, less interesting. They had to endure each other’s talk and its increasingly limited originality (“Look at that blue sky.” “You like boar’s meat? So do I!”).
Maybe we inherit this burden when we are born. Our parents rush us towards our first word and then announce it with pride to anyone who will listen. We are inured to the drone of the human voice by hordes of relatives gooing in our faces, we are trained to blather by the T.V. Though we’ve forgotten the original intentions or the value of this never-ending talk, it’s become instinctual in most of us. Children who are slow to talk, or who prefer sounds other than their own voice, inherit the plight of Neanderthal kids who didn’t like to hunt, of Spartan children with delicate constitutions—threatening to become burdens, selfish solitary walkers living on the welfare of talker’s hard work, they are exiled. Questions like, “Why are you so shy?” “Why won’t you talk?” are well-intentioned, but anyone who has heard these questions has felt and probably retreated from their inherent aggression and accusation. In school, it's not long before a quiet kid loses his or her name and becomes known only as “the quiet kid,” one to be subtly shunned. She’s pretty easy to ignore—it’s not like you’re going to miss out on a great joke or anything.
Maybe not.
***
Here’s where it’s worth really thinking about why we quiet kids don’t talk much. Here’s also where I get personal. I’m not quiet because I’m too busy philosophizing to speak. It’s not that I’m stupid, and it’s not that I’m smart. It’s not because I don’t find people interesting, or because I don’t want to know them or be known by them. The best explanation I can think of is sheer exhaustion. The amount of mental editing I have to do in order to feel safe in a conversation is grueling. Maintaining these conversations is exactly like laboring over an essay in school—and even if you do like to write, you couldn’t do it all day, every day.
This editing that dries up the conversation—this must be something that many of us who live on the margins do. There are places where a conversation must not go for us, because we fear that it is the territory in which our difference will be revealed, or spotlighted. This, we fear, will make people uncomfortable, exceedingly polite, and ultimately cut off from us. Camaraderie is ruled out, real connections are closed down, and courtesy takes the place of sincerity. In order to avoid this, we have to be careful in a casual conversation. And conversation being what it is—winding roads of free-association—it’s a minefield. Editing your way through it is a rigorous mental exercise: Anticipate the possible paths of every possible topic of conversation. Home in on the ones that have little chance of triggering a question that might lead to scary territory, then speak. It takes too long, and it leaves us with pretty boring, or pretty obscure, topics.
When we first discover the feeling of a crush, our little hearts give us volumes to talk about. This might be the moment that I began editing—finding myself in the awkward position of having that first, terrible crush on someone who was out of bounds, I silenced myself in those conversations. Perhaps I could have been very brave; perhaps other children are very brave, talking and enduring the playground consequences, but I was not brave. I became quiet. I thought about my crushes as much as anyone, but I never spoke the feelings, and therefore I was not a player in the most frequent conversations among friends. The thing is, it’s got to be nearly impossible for pre-teen girls to talk for more than thirty seconds without the conversation veering inevitably towards boys:
“Did you watch The Dukes of Hazzard last night?”
“Of course. Who do you think is cuter: Bo or Luke?”
“Let’s lip sync ‘Islands in the Stream’ again.”
“Okay. I’m going to dedicate it to Chris Bonino this time. Who are you dedicating it to?”
“Can we watch a movie on your Betamax player?”
“Oooh—yeah. I want to watch Tom Cruise dance in his underwear some more. Isn't he gorgeous?”
Figuring this out, eventually, I began to manufacture crushes on the athletic and good-looking boys, pinning my feelings for the athletic and good-looking girls onto Kevins and Christophers and Shanes. This gave me things to talk about, and people to dedicate lip sync performances to. For a while. As my friends grew out of the all-talk, no action phase, they increasingly gathered deeds to back up their talk—first kisses, tacky but symbolic jewelry, visits to each metaphorical base—and my fountain of talk quickly ran dry. I had no experiences to describe, I didn’t particularly wish for those experiences, and I did my best editing in hopes of preventing the conversation from going to the place where I admitted either fact.
By ninth grade, I had edited myself into virtual silence. It became too much trouble to participate in most conversations. Not wanting to talk to anyone, I took refuge in another identity: the nerd. Being naturally shy and dorky, not to mention having a string of profoundly bad haircuts, I played the role masterfully. I was helped by Molly Ringwald, of course, who added a bit of glamour to the condition of nerdy datelessness. I had found a well-trodden, socially acceptable, she’ll-grow-out-of-it territory. I wasn’t asked to explain myself or my silence, and as long as I was scribbling popular boys’ initials in hearts on my notebooks, I avoided being asked about it. Inevitably, friends grew out of their phases and gathered their deeds. For my part, I maintained the bad haircuts, but they turned out to be thin armor, really.
Throughout high school, I actively avoided talking outside of the classroom. I’d seen what was done to kids who didn’t edit themselves, and I much preferred being called “the quiet girl” to becoming a victim of my conformity-enforcing peers. Besides, a touch of black lipstick and a Morrissey t-shirt made my silence look like an accessory to a fashion statement. It made me look outspoken. Out spoken. True enough: if talk was a race, I had been out spoken, fair and square.
Eventually, I was filtered out as something more than just nerdy, not quite abject enough to be gothic. Coming out, I was shocked to find myself in good company—not the creepy gym teachers or girls with rat tails I’d imagined would be my only friends. It felt good—it felt unbelievable—to speak, unabashedly, without fear. I could talk, and talk freely, and stop editing—and I did, for a while. I did my best to fill any space I walked into with my words.
***
Now, I am a school teacher. And I am back, full circle, to painstaking editing of myself, to retreating from personal conversations in the lounge, to being the quiet kid on the faculty. My personal life doesn’t belong in the classroom, of course, and I’m more than happy to keep the two well apart. Yet I’m exhausted, again, by the editing I do, talking to colleagues, fearing gossip mills, parents' anger, the ugliness that might follow if I let anything slip. I’m afraid, again, of well-intentioned questions:
“When are you going to have children of your own?”
“Don’t you have a husband yet?”
“Just haven’t found the right man, huh?”
I tell myself that this is a necessary part of doing what I’ve chosen to do, that this is not the battle I am here to fight. I am a good teacher, and that is my armor now. I have answers to the questions, even if I don’t say them aloud. Still, I’m surprised to find myself quiet again.
“How’d you get so shy?”
“She's just stuck-up.”
“Why don’t you speak up?”
“Why don’t you like anyone?”
“Can’t you say anything? Say something for us.”
Why quiet folks are singled out for this interrogation is beyond me, given that we probably constitute a near-majority. Maybe it’s just to give more garrulous folks something to talk about when they run out of anecdotes. I’m regularly awe-struck by how much people can talk. We build walls with our talk, and whenever there is the slightest chink to be filled in the wall—a speaker’s pause for breath, the few seconds between songs on a CD—we spackle it with talk. We spackle over places that don’t need it, where there is really no room for extra conversation at all: movies, classes, concerts, crowded & noisy hallways. It’s as if silence is a thing to be feared and avoided at all costs—and silent people pose a problem to be solved. I’ve always wondered why being talkative was so highly rated. I’ve also wondered what my answer to people’s intrusive questions would be. So here goes.
***
Maybe people unconsciously think of talk as a campfire built with the last match—you can’t let it go out, because you could never get it started again. Maybe, thousands of years ago, a group of our ancestors developed their grunts into words and began a conversation. They liked it. Being able to confirm their observations was comforting( “is the sky what you would call ‘blue?’ Or is it closer to ‘azure?’”). Being able to speak a thought helped alleviate uncomfortable and dull rumination (“I’m anxious about our dwindling supply of boar’s meat.”). Their fear of losing the conversation soon transformed it into a curse. It became an obligation, a thing to be constantly tended to. They could no longer go for solitary walks without being accused of dodging their duty to keep the conversational flame burning. They couldn’t follow their own train of thought for too long without periodically forcing it into words. Thus their thoughts became less profound, less unique, less interesting. They had to endure each other’s talk and its increasingly limited originality (“Look at that blue sky.” “You like boar’s meat? So do I!”).
Maybe we inherit this burden when we are born. Our parents rush us towards our first word and then announce it with pride to anyone who will listen. We are inured to the drone of the human voice by hordes of relatives gooing in our faces, we are trained to blather by the T.V. Though we’ve forgotten the original intentions or the value of this never-ending talk, it’s become instinctual in most of us. Children who are slow to talk, or who prefer sounds other than their own voice, inherit the plight of Neanderthal kids who didn’t like to hunt, of Spartan children with delicate constitutions—threatening to become burdens, selfish solitary walkers living on the welfare of talker’s hard work, they are exiled. Questions like, “Why are you so shy?” “Why won’t you talk?” are well-intentioned, but anyone who has heard these questions has felt and probably retreated from their inherent aggression and accusation. In school, it's not long before a quiet kid loses his or her name and becomes known only as “the quiet kid,” one to be subtly shunned. She’s pretty easy to ignore—it’s not like you’re going to miss out on a great joke or anything.
Maybe not.
***
Here’s where it’s worth really thinking about why we quiet kids don’t talk much. Here’s also where I get personal. I’m not quiet because I’m too busy philosophizing to speak. It’s not that I’m stupid, and it’s not that I’m smart. It’s not because I don’t find people interesting, or because I don’t want to know them or be known by them. The best explanation I can think of is sheer exhaustion. The amount of mental editing I have to do in order to feel safe in a conversation is grueling. Maintaining these conversations is exactly like laboring over an essay in school—and even if you do like to write, you couldn’t do it all day, every day.
This editing that dries up the conversation—this must be something that many of us who live on the margins do. There are places where a conversation must not go for us, because we fear that it is the territory in which our difference will be revealed, or spotlighted. This, we fear, will make people uncomfortable, exceedingly polite, and ultimately cut off from us. Camaraderie is ruled out, real connections are closed down, and courtesy takes the place of sincerity. In order to avoid this, we have to be careful in a casual conversation. And conversation being what it is—winding roads of free-association—it’s a minefield. Editing your way through it is a rigorous mental exercise: Anticipate the possible paths of every possible topic of conversation. Home in on the ones that have little chance of triggering a question that might lead to scary territory, then speak. It takes too long, and it leaves us with pretty boring, or pretty obscure, topics.
When we first discover the feeling of a crush, our little hearts give us volumes to talk about. This might be the moment that I began editing—finding myself in the awkward position of having that first, terrible crush on someone who was out of bounds, I silenced myself in those conversations. Perhaps I could have been very brave; perhaps other children are very brave, talking and enduring the playground consequences, but I was not brave. I became quiet. I thought about my crushes as much as anyone, but I never spoke the feelings, and therefore I was not a player in the most frequent conversations among friends. The thing is, it’s got to be nearly impossible for pre-teen girls to talk for more than thirty seconds without the conversation veering inevitably towards boys:
“Did you watch The Dukes of Hazzard last night?”
“Of course. Who do you think is cuter: Bo or Luke?”
“Let’s lip sync ‘Islands in the Stream’ again.”
“Okay. I’m going to dedicate it to Chris Bonino this time. Who are you dedicating it to?”
“Can we watch a movie on your Betamax player?”
“Oooh—yeah. I want to watch Tom Cruise dance in his underwear some more. Isn't he gorgeous?”
Figuring this out, eventually, I began to manufacture crushes on the athletic and good-looking boys, pinning my feelings for the athletic and good-looking girls onto Kevins and Christophers and Shanes. This gave me things to talk about, and people to dedicate lip sync performances to. For a while. As my friends grew out of the all-talk, no action phase, they increasingly gathered deeds to back up their talk—first kisses, tacky but symbolic jewelry, visits to each metaphorical base—and my fountain of talk quickly ran dry. I had no experiences to describe, I didn’t particularly wish for those experiences, and I did my best editing in hopes of preventing the conversation from going to the place where I admitted either fact.
By ninth grade, I had edited myself into virtual silence. It became too much trouble to participate in most conversations. Not wanting to talk to anyone, I took refuge in another identity: the nerd. Being naturally shy and dorky, not to mention having a string of profoundly bad haircuts, I played the role masterfully. I was helped by Molly Ringwald, of course, who added a bit of glamour to the condition of nerdy datelessness. I had found a well-trodden, socially acceptable, she’ll-grow-out-of-it territory. I wasn’t asked to explain myself or my silence, and as long as I was scribbling popular boys’ initials in hearts on my notebooks, I avoided being asked about it. Inevitably, friends grew out of their phases and gathered their deeds. For my part, I maintained the bad haircuts, but they turned out to be thin armor, really.
Throughout high school, I actively avoided talking outside of the classroom. I’d seen what was done to kids who didn’t edit themselves, and I much preferred being called “the quiet girl” to becoming a victim of my conformity-enforcing peers. Besides, a touch of black lipstick and a Morrissey t-shirt made my silence look like an accessory to a fashion statement. It made me look outspoken. Out spoken. True enough: if talk was a race, I had been out spoken, fair and square.
Eventually, I was filtered out as something more than just nerdy, not quite abject enough to be gothic. Coming out, I was shocked to find myself in good company—not the creepy gym teachers or girls with rat tails I’d imagined would be my only friends. It felt good—it felt unbelievable—to speak, unabashedly, without fear. I could talk, and talk freely, and stop editing—and I did, for a while. I did my best to fill any space I walked into with my words.
***
Now, I am a school teacher. And I am back, full circle, to painstaking editing of myself, to retreating from personal conversations in the lounge, to being the quiet kid on the faculty. My personal life doesn’t belong in the classroom, of course, and I’m more than happy to keep the two well apart. Yet I’m exhausted, again, by the editing I do, talking to colleagues, fearing gossip mills, parents' anger, the ugliness that might follow if I let anything slip. I’m afraid, again, of well-intentioned questions:
“When are you going to have children of your own?”
“Don’t you have a husband yet?”
“Just haven’t found the right man, huh?”
I tell myself that this is a necessary part of doing what I’ve chosen to do, that this is not the battle I am here to fight. I am a good teacher, and that is my armor now. I have answers to the questions, even if I don’t say them aloud. Still, I’m surprised to find myself quiet again.
Monday, July 3, 2006
querencia
Jo's Coffee, South Congress Street, Austin
Austin has a talent for offering this kind of ethereal warm welcome. Sometimes the gesture is elaborate—as it was last spring, when Jo’s Easter Pet Parade welcomed us to town as if it were specially designed to amuse the hell out of us. A drum major and a sousaphone player in musty thrift-store uniforms led a proud line of two dozen costumed pets. Their inordinately proud and unselfconscious owners marched, smiling, and I couldn't tell how much they were serious, how much tongue-in-cheek. They stalled four lanes of traffic, a testament to the power of silliness in this place.
More often, as this morning, the welcome is nothing more than a very friendly and instantly warm conversation with a stranger—where he parks his baby right next to you and walks to the counter to get napkins (this makes you feel awfully good—it tells you that in this place, you’re not suspect or freakish, but kind and decent; the world at large and you agree about your character, here—it’s the ultimate gesture of a stranger’s trust in your goodness). This, after your eyes met and you gave your standard smile—you imagine that it’s shy-but-sufficiently-friendly, but you’ve never seen what it actually looks like—and he replies with a beam and a “how’s it going?” that is actually, astonishingly, followed by a pause indicating that he hopes for a real answer. You remind yourself that you have to get out of the habit of replacing “hey” with a “how’s it going,” that lacks this pause and eye contact. So he parks the baby, asking your indulgence, which you gladly give and feel very friendly and gracious for doing. You make lame-but-nice comments about the baby, he asks you what you’re reading; just as he’s spooning applesauce into the baby’s mouth, his order is called out and set on the counter; you offer to get it for him. He refuses, but does a double take and introduces himself, offering a hand to shake.
This is a gesture that I love and that I need to master: not the double-take, the warm and authentic introduction. The gesture that tells a person she has moved beyond small talk and into the possibility of genuine fondness, that she is the kind of person you’d like to know. Giving your name like a gift to some stranger, pulling them a little bit closer to you, sticking out your hand to be shaken. It’s powerful, perhaps because it is the first risk in polite conversation between strangers: the hand could be refused, one’s name withheld. Maybe your offer to get the latte was the first risk, maybe that’s why it struck him and prompted the introduction. Either way, after that point, you feel comfortable going back to reading instead of chatting, knowing that you no longer need to be polite, only real—speaking when you have something worth saying, or asking questions that stem from genuine curiosity. Soon, with applesauce finished, latte fetched, stroller packed, Tobin & son were gone. Nothing terribly profound, just Austin saying, “I’m glad you’re here—” which is profound enough, really.
Thanks, Freetaco, for the photo of the exact spot I'm talking about (it was at www.flickr.com)! What're the chances?
Thursday, March 30, 2006
LEAP into oblivion
I'm trying to type quietly so I don't distract the five students who are hunched in too-small desks over test booklets. Those bubble-in answer sheets must look like Magic Eye optical illusions to them at this point, three days into this I-LEAP test. My 9th graders with learning disabilities and mild mental disabilities are giving everything they've got to this test. All week I have been fighting off the bleak knowledge that it won't be good enough. All week I have been searching for ways to protect them from realizing the same. I preach reality and the real world all the time to my students; now, suddenly, I have my fingers in the dam, trying to prevent reality from leaking into this room.
These five students have worked very, very hard this year. Between them, they have fewer than 5 absences. That's including the young lady who has lived in six different towns since the hurricane. Four of them have done their homework faithfully since August. All of them are active participants in their classes. Several of them have gone from being nearly expelled last year to having a clean discipline record this year. The others have never been suspended. The point I'm making is that these are five good students, five kids who have held up their end of the education bargain.The other side of this reality is that none of these students are going to pass this test, nor will they pass it in 10th grade or 11th grade. They will not get a high school diploma at the end of their 12 years of good faith and hard work. They may or may not get a "certificate of achievement" instead--a piece of paper not recognized by colleges or most employers--depending on a state decision in the coming months. Their parents have signed papers acknowledging this, and the students have been told about it, coated in plenty of sugar so that the abject injustice of it doesn't fully sink in. If it did, they would probably stop coming to school--and how could we persuade them otherwise? As much effort as it takes for them to do what they struggle to do--read and write--every single day, what is the incentive, the reward, the carrot at the end of the stick? When it comes to students in special education, we only have the stick. We believe that they will fail, so we don't even have a meaningful reward for those who make it. We prod and we preach, we teach the same standards and we give the same tests, but we expect failure, and it's hardly surprising when we get it.
You probably think I'm pessimistic and cynical, and that I have given up on my students. I believe--and desperately hope--that this is not true. I have not given up on their ability to excel, to grow by giant steps, to build fulfilling lives, to be leaders in their communities, to leave their mark on the world. That's what we work toward every day. These students have pulled themselves from a 1st or 2nd grade reading level up to a 4th or 5th in the past 8 months; that is remarkable growth that results from remarkable effort. A test on a high school level, however, is just not within their reach, yet.
I'm not blaming the test, and I'm not saying that students with special needs shouldn't be held to high expectations or tested. The problems are farther- and deeper-reaching than that: The problem is that they are promoted to 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th grade without their 2nd grade reading level ever changing. The problem is that they do the same worksheets from the same textbook for all 4 years of high school science, that neither they nor their teachers have access to a reading or math program that meets their needs, that their "Individual Education Plans" all look the same, that they are bored or confused in most of their classes, and have been for the past 10 years, that they have never been asked to read a novel or write an essay, never been taught algebra, never used the scientific method to investigate a real question. The problem is that I'm sitting here writing on a blog with a circulation of 4, instead of raising my voice and fighting. The problem is that nobody knows what to do about it.
The kids are still hunched over their test booklets. They have brand-new, neatly sharpened pencils lined up next to them. They have packed granola bars and little bottles of water in their booksacks for sustenance, as if they are on a long and demanding hike. They are, I suppose, and I'm their guide--and I have no idea where this trail leads or whether we are anywhere near the right path. Every year during testing week, I can't help but feel like we've been here before. We've spent the year walking in a very long circle, and we are lost in these woods.
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