Monday, April 16, 2012
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Shift by Jennifer Bradbury
Shift by Jennifer Bradbury is about the long friendship of Chris and Win, their cross-country bike trip following high school graduation, Win’s eventual disappearance, and the consequences of his disappearance. Written from the first-person perspective of Chris, Bradbury creates a familiar, likable voice and a gripping story. Because Bradbury only uses Chris’ perspective, the reader finds out information at the same time as Chris and is asked to make connections and conclusions in real-time with the main character.
Bradbury’s opening chapter of Shift sucks the reader right in and does not let them go until the final page. Chris and Win have a love/hate relationship, stemming from two very different home lives and perceptions of the world. Win is the child of wealthy parents who through money and disappointment his way, but little love and support. Chris, however, comes from a supportive lower-middle class family, proud of their son and willing to make sacrifices to see him happy. Many young people experience this struggle to understand where their friends are coming from and how to support them through those differences. The snappy dialogue between all of the characters makes these attempts to understand probable and engaging.
Between the events of the bike trip and the nervousness around the mystery of Win’s disappearance, Bradbury writes a book that will grip adolescent boys. They will have to read all the way to the end to solve the mystery, while enjoying some male bonding and funny stories along the way.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
Weetzie Bat
Weetzie Bat by Francesca Lia Block, published in 1989, is an interesting book about Los Angeles punks. The book covers some serious themes such as sexuality, parental relationships, pregnancy, and blended families. Block writes a whimsical, fast paced novel that takes you off the beaten track into punk LA. Although the writing is entertaining, it is hard to connect with the characters and their lifestyles. But that's me! I am sure there are some kids out there who will identify with this writing style and yearn for the freedoms. Weetzie Bat reads like a modernized, punk version of On the Road.
Prom Leads to Forever?
In the past week, I read Prom by Laurie Halse Anderson and Forever: A Novel by Judy Blume. While aimed at the same general age groups, these two books could not have been more different in tone and attitude, despite their similar outcomes (Click here for summaries of Forever and Prom).
With thirty years between the two novels, Blume and Anderson have created similarly strong female characters in Katherine and Ashley. They are both seniors in high school feeling unsure about the future and having some clashes with the authority figures in their lives. Beyond these similarities, the two characters are very different - suburban vs. urban, upper-middle class vs. working class, college-bound vs. unsure. While Katherine and Ashley certainly have different world views and experiences, it is their thoughts about sexuality and relationships that are particularly interesting.
In Forever, Blume has created enlightened parents and grandparents who speak freely about sex and believe that a sexually educated daughter is the safest form of birth control. Within the household, there is even a private room with lockable door and a fireplace in which Katherine and her boyfriends could find privacy. Katherine's grandmother senses that Katherine is about to begin a sexual relationship so she casually mails Katherine a package full of information about Planned Parenthood and birth control. When Katherine decides she is ready to have sex, she promptly makes an appointment at Planned Parenthood and surprises her boyfriend with her new package of birth control pills. Their new sexual relationship is explicitly described and is evidently quite a positive experience for both of Michael and Katherine.
Anderson, however, deals with sex in a much more indirect way. First, Ashley's parents never seem to acknowledge the sexual relationship between Ashley and T.J.. It is unclear if their daughter's sexuality it just assumed, if they had a conversation when Ashley was younger, or perhaps it doesn't even occur to them to inquire. Nothing is directly addressed within Ashley's family.
When Ashley is speaking about her relationship wtih T.J., it is obvious that the two are sexually involved and have been for some time. The only references to birth control include the pregnancy of Ashley's classmates (and thus their lack of birth control use), and the giant box of condoms Ashley and her friends try to obtain as prom favors. By the discussions had by Ashley and her friends, the distribution of condoms and shot glasses are the best possible gifts for high school seniors. Their sexual activity and drinking habits are known and accepted. The discomfort of the Principal and Mr. Gilroy shows that the teenagers' comfort with their sexuality does not extend to the authority figures.
The two sets of parents in these books appear to have very different perspectives on serious relationships in high school. While Katherine's parents, particularly her father, fear that Katherine and Michael are getting too serious at too young an age, Ashley's parents, particularly her father, encourage her to be patient with T.J. and let him outgrow his late-teen angst. Katherine's parents are concerned that her relationship with Michael will limit her future prospects, while only Ashley's friends appear to have this concern for Ashley and her relationship with T.J. One set of parents encourages dating around while the other seems to support committed relationships, even at the age of eighteen.
Blume's Katherine clearly undergoes a decision process about what sex is (physical or emotional connection), whether or not to have sex with Michael, and then, if her relationship with Michael should continue. All of these things seem to be deeply considered from every possible angle. Ashley, however, does not seem to have the same deep associations with sex, meaning it does not seem to have been such a big decision for her as everyone around her is also doing it. When she finally breaks up with T.J., it is after some consideration about her future, but mostly due to a loss of temper with his antics. Previous to T.J.'s final infraction, Ashley appears to make excuses for their relationship despite knowing that their future would be difficult.
The role of friends in these books is also of interest. Erica encourages Katherine to have sex and to be in a committed relationship. Ashley's friends are not concerned with the sexual aspects of things, but instead that their friend's boyfriend is dragging her down. Never do Katherine's friends worry that her relationship with Michael will prevent her from succeeding - that is the role of her parents. In Prom, Ashley's friends believe that she can do better for herself and should do so before it is too late. The parents do not seem overly concerned one way or another.
Blume and Anderson, writing thirty years apart from each other, have been and are developing into the writers of a generation. While Blume's writing still holds some truths of adolescence, the world she writes about is almost utopian. Anderson captures a very different reality. One of speed, constant noise and information, increasing responsibilities, feigned apathy, and latent desires to achieve something for the greater good. I do wish, however, that some of Blume's consciousness about the responsibility of sexual relationships and the affect of sexual activity on self-image and self respect would permeate Anderson's Prom. In an age of abstinence education and denial combined with a hyper-sexualized society and people, perhaps that is too much to ask of a contemporary writer.
With thirty years between the two novels, Blume and Anderson have created similarly strong female characters in Katherine and Ashley. They are both seniors in high school feeling unsure about the future and having some clashes with the authority figures in their lives. Beyond these similarities, the two characters are very different - suburban vs. urban, upper-middle class vs. working class, college-bound vs. unsure. While Katherine and Ashley certainly have different world views and experiences, it is their thoughts about sexuality and relationships that are particularly interesting.
In Forever, Blume has created enlightened parents and grandparents who speak freely about sex and believe that a sexually educated daughter is the safest form of birth control. Within the household, there is even a private room with lockable door and a fireplace in which Katherine and her boyfriends could find privacy. Katherine's grandmother senses that Katherine is about to begin a sexual relationship so she casually mails Katherine a package full of information about Planned Parenthood and birth control. When Katherine decides she is ready to have sex, she promptly makes an appointment at Planned Parenthood and surprises her boyfriend with her new package of birth control pills. Their new sexual relationship is explicitly described and is evidently quite a positive experience for both of Michael and Katherine.
Anderson, however, deals with sex in a much more indirect way. First, Ashley's parents never seem to acknowledge the sexual relationship between Ashley and T.J.. It is unclear if their daughter's sexuality it just assumed, if they had a conversation when Ashley was younger, or perhaps it doesn't even occur to them to inquire. Nothing is directly addressed within Ashley's family.
When Ashley is speaking about her relationship wtih T.J., it is obvious that the two are sexually involved and have been for some time. The only references to birth control include the pregnancy of Ashley's classmates (and thus their lack of birth control use), and the giant box of condoms Ashley and her friends try to obtain as prom favors. By the discussions had by Ashley and her friends, the distribution of condoms and shot glasses are the best possible gifts for high school seniors. Their sexual activity and drinking habits are known and accepted. The discomfort of the Principal and Mr. Gilroy shows that the teenagers' comfort with their sexuality does not extend to the authority figures.
The two sets of parents in these books appear to have very different perspectives on serious relationships in high school. While Katherine's parents, particularly her father, fear that Katherine and Michael are getting too serious at too young an age, Ashley's parents, particularly her father, encourage her to be patient with T.J. and let him outgrow his late-teen angst. Katherine's parents are concerned that her relationship with Michael will limit her future prospects, while only Ashley's friends appear to have this concern for Ashley and her relationship with T.J. One set of parents encourages dating around while the other seems to support committed relationships, even at the age of eighteen.
Blume's Katherine clearly undergoes a decision process about what sex is (physical or emotional connection), whether or not to have sex with Michael, and then, if her relationship with Michael should continue. All of these things seem to be deeply considered from every possible angle. Ashley, however, does not seem to have the same deep associations with sex, meaning it does not seem to have been such a big decision for her as everyone around her is also doing it. When she finally breaks up with T.J., it is after some consideration about her future, but mostly due to a loss of temper with his antics. Previous to T.J.'s final infraction, Ashley appears to make excuses for their relationship despite knowing that their future would be difficult.
The role of friends in these books is also of interest. Erica encourages Katherine to have sex and to be in a committed relationship. Ashley's friends are not concerned with the sexual aspects of things, but instead that their friend's boyfriend is dragging her down. Never do Katherine's friends worry that her relationship with Michael will prevent her from succeeding - that is the role of her parents. In Prom, Ashley's friends believe that she can do better for herself and should do so before it is too late. The parents do not seem overly concerned one way or another.
Blume and Anderson, writing thirty years apart from each other, have been and are developing into the writers of a generation. While Blume's writing still holds some truths of adolescence, the world she writes about is almost utopian. Anderson captures a very different reality. One of speed, constant noise and information, increasing responsibilities, feigned apathy, and latent desires to achieve something for the greater good. I do wish, however, that some of Blume's consciousness about the responsibility of sexual relationships and the affect of sexual activity on self-image and self respect would permeate Anderson's Prom. In an age of abstinence education and denial combined with a hyper-sexualized society and people, perhaps that is too much to ask of a contemporary writer.
Friday, February 04, 2011
An Autobiography of Reading
As an assignment for my Young Adult Literature course, I was asked to write an autobiography of reading. For those of you who love to read, or even those who do not, it is a really neat exercise. My thoughts are below. When you write yours, do share!
Some of my earliest memories involve my mother and I sitting on a flowered, 70’s style sofa reading the stories of Thornton Burgess and E.B. White in front of the large windows of our post and beam house. Burgess was a local author from Massachusetts and my mother tells me we frequented the Burgess Museum located in the town in which we lived. In particular from this era, I remember crying with my mother over the death of Charlotte in Charlotte’s Web. Sometimes my mom had trouble continuing to read aloud and we had to take a break to garner strength to go on. I think my mother taught me empathy through her emotional connections with Wilbur, Charlotte, Peter Cottontail, Jimmy Skunk, and many other characters. While these may have been the first times I cried over a book, they were certainly not the last.
At the age of three and a half, I became a big sister. My brother was born very prematurely and was in the hospital for quite some time before he could come home. During this time, my paternal grandparents spent a lot of time with me. Grandpa enjoyed reading me the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. Though the reading of stories did not make me any kinder to my new little brother (I would hit him over the head with my mother’s hair brush when she was not looking), I think reading helped me adjust to the new family dynamics.
According to my mother, we often went to the local library for story hour and regularly checked books out of the library. Along with the books, I frequently listened to musical versions of stories like Cinderella and Snow White on my little record player. My mom says I really loved to read and listen to stories, but I do not have many memories of this. Though they often read to me, my parents did not try to teach me how to read as they were not sure how to do so. They thought my teachers were better prepared for this task.
Jump ahead to the age of seven when I was in first grade and welcoming my second brother. We lived in a small town in Kentucky and I was a student in the class of Mrs. Neuman. It was in Mrs. Neuman’s class that I learned how to read. While I do not remember the process of learning to read, my mother tells me that I picked it up right away and never looked back. By the end of first grade, I was reading chapter books and helping my mom read to my brothers. One particular memory I have from this age is my mother reading E.B. White to my brothers and I, telling us to shut our eyes and imagine what the characters and the settings looked like. She told us the joy of reading was in the freedom to use and develop our imaginations. Given my brothers’ lust for life, these were some of the quieter moments in our household.
At age eight, my family moved again to a town in Massachusetts in the middle of January. I was the new girl in school with buck teeth, glasses and a Kentucky accent. During this adjustment phase, I was reading the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery, and Margeurite Henry. These books took me away from the snowy, new town to places of wonder, beauty, and intrigue. In springtime, I discovered the joys of reading in the shade of the pine grove in our backyard and on the branches of the Weeping Willow just beside our carport – quiet, tranquil places away from my rambunctious brothers.
By third grade, I was well settled in to my new town and had formed a lovely relationship with the school librarian, Mrs. Wolkenbreit. In me, Mrs. Wolkenbreit recognized a voracious, curious reader who was open to many genres and ideas. She told me that I would have the responsibility of helping her choose books for the library’s collection. I needed to report back to her on all the books I was reading so she would know what books to choose for the library. At the time, it was the most wonderful thing anyone could have told me. I do not remember specific authors from that period, but I do know I was exposed to many types of books: novels, biographies, non-fiction, novellas, short stories, memoirs, and more.
The summer of my fourth grade year, I was finally allowed to ride my bike to a branch of the public library and pick out my own books. The librarian there was my summertime Mrs. Wolkenbreit. She remembered what kinds of books I liked to read and would have some selected when she thought I might be visiting her again. She always asked what I thought of the books I was returning and what I might like to read next. Beyond her kindness, I remember her fingers – always dry with paper cuts, but quick to pat me on the back. She was a part of my life for the next five years we lived in Massachusetts.
From fourth grade to seventh grade, I developed a deep curiosity about World War II, the Holocaust, the A-bomb, and the Vietnam War. I began reading books like Memoirs of Auschwitz, Number the Stars, The Devil’s Arithmetic, So Far from the Bamboo Grove, Fallen Angels and others. During this time, I asked a lot of why questions. In sixth grade a classmate of mine asked our teacher, Mr. Noel, how many people he had killed in Vietnam. Mr. Noel immediately sent Charlie to the principal’s office and left the room. This tense moment only fueled my need to understand how human beings could do such damage to each other. Something I think I still seek in the books I read today.
To take a break from these serious themes, I read the Nancy Drew, Babysitter’s Club, Sweet Valley High, and R.L Stine thriller series. Starting in third or fourth grade, I discovered my mother’s stash of Harlequin romance novels kept in paper bags in her closet. I would sneak a few into my room on a regular basis and hunt through them for the “steamy” parts. Much was learned from these books. Now I call these books pallet cleansers – a way to clear away or absorb the taste of the more serious books to prepare for further heavy reading.
In junior high school, I continued my exploration of humanity through John Grisham, Bryce Courtenay (particularly The Power of One), and young adult level romance novels like Dance With Me by Jahnna Beecham. Beyond these few authors, I do not really remember what I read during this period. I do not even remember what books were assigned for summer reading or in English class.
At the age of fifteen, my family moved again, to Rhode Island. Again, I was the new girl only this time I was no longer plagued by buck teeth, glasses or a southern accent. Sadly, that did not make the transition any easier. Instead, I was the “hippy, grunge” girl in a very “preppy” high school. The first year did not go well, with regular snubs from sports teammates and most other people. It was during this adjustment year that I was exposed to Shakespeare for the second time. In ninth grade, at my old school, we had read Much Ado About Nothing and Macbeth and I had really liked them. They were tough, but also really lovely. In tenth grade, at my new school in Rhode Island, we read Julius Caesar and I grew to hate Shakespeare. When we moved on to The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway, I began to wonder if I still liked to read. It seemed like my teacher was killing my love of reading. The Great Gatsby, Heart of Darkness and A Separate Peace, read the following year, began to renew my faith, but only a bit. School reading was just no longer fun.
Outside of school, I do not recall what I was reading in high school, but I know I was always reading. Following the birth of my second brother, I almost always had a book with me. When my family went on road trips, I brought a stack of books with me out of necessity. While my brothers poked, prodded, and tortured each other and my parents, I had my nose in a book. Survival instincts at their best! Sadly, many of those titles now escape me.
College was a time of copious reading. My freshman writing course, “Sex, Love, and the Twentieth Century Novel” introduced me to the likes of Zora Neale Hurston, F. Scott Fitzgerald (beyond The Great Gatsby), and James Baldwin. After the course, I explored more of their writings to my great pleasure. Given my major in Theatre and Dramatic Literature, I soon fell in love with plays while reading Arthur Miller, Shakespeare, Athol Fugard, Paula Vogel, William Wycherley, and many more. I also discovered the works of James Herriot, Barbara Dimmick, and David Sedaris. My junior year of college saw the beginning of my love affair with the Harry Potter series. Friends always asked me how I could read so many books while also maintaining good grades. My secret – reading for pleasure every night before bed, whether it was one page or a whole book.
In my twenties, I began to read much more. Fiction had always been my go-to genre, but some forms of non-fiction caught my eye. I read wonderful books such as Bachelor Girls by Betsy Israel and Confederates in the Attic by Tony Horwitz – non-fiction books that explored history and human nature with humor and wit. In my fiction-reading world, I read Jasper Fforde, Gregory Maguire, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Safran Foer to name a few. During this period, I also decided to read some of the “classics” I had missed in high school and college. I discovered The Grapes of Wrath, On the Road, Brave New World, The Count of Monte Cristo, and the Sherlock Holmes series. Over and over again, books from past and contemporary authors broke my heart, gave me hope, challenged my opinions, and brought me to new, unexplored places. My joy of reading had returned in great force and has not abated since.
In my late twenties and early thirties, I continue to read a variety of authors and genres. Some books that really stick out include On Foot to the Golden Horn by Jason Goodwin, White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, A Map of Home by Randa Jarrar, and most things by Walter Moseley. A good friend of mine also recommended some graphic novels, including Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (for whom I plan to name a daughter, should I have one) and Fables by Bill Willingham. As I move into my thirties, I have developed a deep interest in reading books that have been translated from other languages, or that deal with the migration/immigration experience.
Young adult literature reappeared in my life when I was about twenty-six. My best friend became a school library teacher and reminded me of the joys of young adult literature. I explored classic children’s and young adult authors including Lewis Carol, Roald Dahl, and Frank Baum while discovering new authors such as Markus Zusak, Philip Pullman, Sherman Alexie, Neil Gaiman, Douglas Adams, Suzanne Collins, Meg Cabot, and Scott Westerfeld. The authors listed here are my particular favorites because they transport me into other worlds, question my morals/values/opinions, ask me to dream bigger, command me to feel something, and often make me laugh while doing so. The strong feelings elicited by these authors cause me to rave about them to anyone and everyone I speak with about reading – my topic of choice at parties.
In the past ten years, I have also developed a strong relationship with my pallet cleanser authors. I am currently in passionate relationships with Jennifer Crusie, Mary Kay Andrews, Sue Grafton, Stella Rimington, Janet Evanovich (the Stephanie Plum series), John Le Carré and Kathy Reichs. Jennifer Crusie and Mary Kay Andrews serve as my adult pacifiers, reading them over and over again, particularly in times of great stress or sorrow. They are my friends – knowing just what to say to make everything better.
My reading life has been one of depth and commitment, fluffiness and laughter, and sometimes both. Without books, I am not sure what kind of person I would be or what kind of dreams I would have for myself. Because of reading, I am a more articulate, empathetic, balanced, and creative person. Having traveled all over the world and into many time periods through the experiences of children, teenagers, adults and adults of all ages, fictional and real, I have lived a thousand blessed and full lives.
An Autobiography of Reading
For my first three years of life, I was an only child. Life was peaceful and my parents were doting and engaged. Being the child of two people who love to read and learn meant that they took great pleasure in introducing me to stories, music, libraries, and museums. From the beginning, I was taught that reading was not only a special activity, but also something that could be done everyday to enhance my daily experiences.Some of my earliest memories involve my mother and I sitting on a flowered, 70’s style sofa reading the stories of Thornton Burgess and E.B. White in front of the large windows of our post and beam house. Burgess was a local author from Massachusetts and my mother tells me we frequented the Burgess Museum located in the town in which we lived. In particular from this era, I remember crying with my mother over the death of Charlotte in Charlotte’s Web. Sometimes my mom had trouble continuing to read aloud and we had to take a break to garner strength to go on. I think my mother taught me empathy through her emotional connections with Wilbur, Charlotte, Peter Cottontail, Jimmy Skunk, and many other characters. While these may have been the first times I cried over a book, they were certainly not the last.
At the age of three and a half, I became a big sister. My brother was born very prematurely and was in the hospital for quite some time before he could come home. During this time, my paternal grandparents spent a lot of time with me. Grandpa enjoyed reading me the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. Though the reading of stories did not make me any kinder to my new little brother (I would hit him over the head with my mother’s hair brush when she was not looking), I think reading helped me adjust to the new family dynamics.
According to my mother, we often went to the local library for story hour and regularly checked books out of the library. Along with the books, I frequently listened to musical versions of stories like Cinderella and Snow White on my little record player. My mom says I really loved to read and listen to stories, but I do not have many memories of this. Though they often read to me, my parents did not try to teach me how to read as they were not sure how to do so. They thought my teachers were better prepared for this task.
Jump ahead to the age of seven when I was in first grade and welcoming my second brother. We lived in a small town in Kentucky and I was a student in the class of Mrs. Neuman. It was in Mrs. Neuman’s class that I learned how to read. While I do not remember the process of learning to read, my mother tells me that I picked it up right away and never looked back. By the end of first grade, I was reading chapter books and helping my mom read to my brothers. One particular memory I have from this age is my mother reading E.B. White to my brothers and I, telling us to shut our eyes and imagine what the characters and the settings looked like. She told us the joy of reading was in the freedom to use and develop our imaginations. Given my brothers’ lust for life, these were some of the quieter moments in our household.
At age eight, my family moved again to a town in Massachusetts in the middle of January. I was the new girl in school with buck teeth, glasses and a Kentucky accent. During this adjustment phase, I was reading the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery, and Margeurite Henry. These books took me away from the snowy, new town to places of wonder, beauty, and intrigue. In springtime, I discovered the joys of reading in the shade of the pine grove in our backyard and on the branches of the Weeping Willow just beside our carport – quiet, tranquil places away from my rambunctious brothers.
By third grade, I was well settled in to my new town and had formed a lovely relationship with the school librarian, Mrs. Wolkenbreit. In me, Mrs. Wolkenbreit recognized a voracious, curious reader who was open to many genres and ideas. She told me that I would have the responsibility of helping her choose books for the library’s collection. I needed to report back to her on all the books I was reading so she would know what books to choose for the library. At the time, it was the most wonderful thing anyone could have told me. I do not remember specific authors from that period, but I do know I was exposed to many types of books: novels, biographies, non-fiction, novellas, short stories, memoirs, and more.
The summer of my fourth grade year, I was finally allowed to ride my bike to a branch of the public library and pick out my own books. The librarian there was my summertime Mrs. Wolkenbreit. She remembered what kinds of books I liked to read and would have some selected when she thought I might be visiting her again. She always asked what I thought of the books I was returning and what I might like to read next. Beyond her kindness, I remember her fingers – always dry with paper cuts, but quick to pat me on the back. She was a part of my life for the next five years we lived in Massachusetts.
From fourth grade to seventh grade, I developed a deep curiosity about World War II, the Holocaust, the A-bomb, and the Vietnam War. I began reading books like Memoirs of Auschwitz, Number the Stars, The Devil’s Arithmetic, So Far from the Bamboo Grove, Fallen Angels and others. During this time, I asked a lot of why questions. In sixth grade a classmate of mine asked our teacher, Mr. Noel, how many people he had killed in Vietnam. Mr. Noel immediately sent Charlie to the principal’s office and left the room. This tense moment only fueled my need to understand how human beings could do such damage to each other. Something I think I still seek in the books I read today.
To take a break from these serious themes, I read the Nancy Drew, Babysitter’s Club, Sweet Valley High, and R.L Stine thriller series. Starting in third or fourth grade, I discovered my mother’s stash of Harlequin romance novels kept in paper bags in her closet. I would sneak a few into my room on a regular basis and hunt through them for the “steamy” parts. Much was learned from these books. Now I call these books pallet cleansers – a way to clear away or absorb the taste of the more serious books to prepare for further heavy reading.
In junior high school, I continued my exploration of humanity through John Grisham, Bryce Courtenay (particularly The Power of One), and young adult level romance novels like Dance With Me by Jahnna Beecham. Beyond these few authors, I do not really remember what I read during this period. I do not even remember what books were assigned for summer reading or in English class.
At the age of fifteen, my family moved again, to Rhode Island. Again, I was the new girl only this time I was no longer plagued by buck teeth, glasses or a southern accent. Sadly, that did not make the transition any easier. Instead, I was the “hippy, grunge” girl in a very “preppy” high school. The first year did not go well, with regular snubs from sports teammates and most other people. It was during this adjustment year that I was exposed to Shakespeare for the second time. In ninth grade, at my old school, we had read Much Ado About Nothing and Macbeth and I had really liked them. They were tough, but also really lovely. In tenth grade, at my new school in Rhode Island, we read Julius Caesar and I grew to hate Shakespeare. When we moved on to The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway, I began to wonder if I still liked to read. It seemed like my teacher was killing my love of reading. The Great Gatsby, Heart of Darkness and A Separate Peace, read the following year, began to renew my faith, but only a bit. School reading was just no longer fun.
Outside of school, I do not recall what I was reading in high school, but I know I was always reading. Following the birth of my second brother, I almost always had a book with me. When my family went on road trips, I brought a stack of books with me out of necessity. While my brothers poked, prodded, and tortured each other and my parents, I had my nose in a book. Survival instincts at their best! Sadly, many of those titles now escape me.
College was a time of copious reading. My freshman writing course, “Sex, Love, and the Twentieth Century Novel” introduced me to the likes of Zora Neale Hurston, F. Scott Fitzgerald (beyond The Great Gatsby), and James Baldwin. After the course, I explored more of their writings to my great pleasure. Given my major in Theatre and Dramatic Literature, I soon fell in love with plays while reading Arthur Miller, Shakespeare, Athol Fugard, Paula Vogel, William Wycherley, and many more. I also discovered the works of James Herriot, Barbara Dimmick, and David Sedaris. My junior year of college saw the beginning of my love affair with the Harry Potter series. Friends always asked me how I could read so many books while also maintaining good grades. My secret – reading for pleasure every night before bed, whether it was one page or a whole book.
In my twenties, I began to read much more. Fiction had always been my go-to genre, but some forms of non-fiction caught my eye. I read wonderful books such as Bachelor Girls by Betsy Israel and Confederates in the Attic by Tony Horwitz – non-fiction books that explored history and human nature with humor and wit. In my fiction-reading world, I read Jasper Fforde, Gregory Maguire, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Safran Foer to name a few. During this period, I also decided to read some of the “classics” I had missed in high school and college. I discovered The Grapes of Wrath, On the Road, Brave New World, The Count of Monte Cristo, and the Sherlock Holmes series. Over and over again, books from past and contemporary authors broke my heart, gave me hope, challenged my opinions, and brought me to new, unexplored places. My joy of reading had returned in great force and has not abated since.
In my late twenties and early thirties, I continue to read a variety of authors and genres. Some books that really stick out include On Foot to the Golden Horn by Jason Goodwin, White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, A Map of Home by Randa Jarrar, and most things by Walter Moseley. A good friend of mine also recommended some graphic novels, including Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (for whom I plan to name a daughter, should I have one) and Fables by Bill Willingham. As I move into my thirties, I have developed a deep interest in reading books that have been translated from other languages, or that deal with the migration/immigration experience.
Young adult literature reappeared in my life when I was about twenty-six. My best friend became a school library teacher and reminded me of the joys of young adult literature. I explored classic children’s and young adult authors including Lewis Carol, Roald Dahl, and Frank Baum while discovering new authors such as Markus Zusak, Philip Pullman, Sherman Alexie, Neil Gaiman, Douglas Adams, Suzanne Collins, Meg Cabot, and Scott Westerfeld. The authors listed here are my particular favorites because they transport me into other worlds, question my morals/values/opinions, ask me to dream bigger, command me to feel something, and often make me laugh while doing so. The strong feelings elicited by these authors cause me to rave about them to anyone and everyone I speak with about reading – my topic of choice at parties.
In the past ten years, I have also developed a strong relationship with my pallet cleanser authors. I am currently in passionate relationships with Jennifer Crusie, Mary Kay Andrews, Sue Grafton, Stella Rimington, Janet Evanovich (the Stephanie Plum series), John Le Carré and Kathy Reichs. Jennifer Crusie and Mary Kay Andrews serve as my adult pacifiers, reading them over and over again, particularly in times of great stress or sorrow. They are my friends – knowing just what to say to make everything better.
My reading life has been one of depth and commitment, fluffiness and laughter, and sometimes both. Without books, I am not sure what kind of person I would be or what kind of dreams I would have for myself. Because of reading, I am a more articulate, empathetic, balanced, and creative person. Having traveled all over the world and into many time periods through the experiences of children, teenagers, adults and adults of all ages, fictional and real, I have lived a thousand blessed and full lives.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Get with it, people!
I have recently encountered something so gross and perplexing that I got off my lazy little behind and decided to blog about it. Well, actually, it is more that I decided to sit down on my tired behind and write about it, but those are just details.
Over the past few years, numerous health officials, health advocates, doctors, nurses, scientists, random people who know about germs and medicine have spoken out about the importance of hand washing. They have said that, with few exceptions, the spread of most communicable illnesses could be slowed and even stopped if everyone just washed their hands, especially after using the bathroom. They are not suggesting that we wash our hands all the time, just that we wash them after activities such as: going to the bathroom, riding public transportation, shaking hands with people, touching public computer keyboards, etc. Now, I do not advocate people becoming crazy about this whole thing and washing their hands until their skin comes off, but I do think the advice of washing hands more regularly should be heeded. Sometimes science has a point!
So, here is my issue - the issue that compels me to write today - why do I still see a large number of women walk out of the public restroom without washing hands? And often really smart, savvy women, too! WHY?!? So, you don't buy into the whole washing hands prevents disease thing. Fine. But, when you think about public bathrooms and what you have just done in the public bathroom, shouldn't that be enough to compel you to wash your hands? Do I need to spell it out for you? (POOP!) And, ladies, we also have that pesky little event that happens once a month, adding a whole other element to our public restroom experience. Seriously! Does this not make you feel that washing your hands is a must-do? How can you justify leaving the restroom and nibbling on a snack when you might have someone else's poo, or lord knows what else, on your hands? Really? And, rinsing one hand under the faucet for two seconds does not count as hand washing, but merely hand rinsing. Not the same thing. Soap, water, rub, rinse - that is what I am asking, even begging for. Pleeeeaaase!
And if some of you reading this blog are the perpetrators of this crime, I hope you will reconsider. If not for yourself or the general public, then for me because all I think about when I see you non-washers and hand rinsers is how I will probably touch whatever poo, pee or blood you have on your hand at some point in the near future while fighting back nausea, spoiling my own effort to wash my hands and to have a decent day. It is torturous. I am begging you, appealing to your best self - wash your hands. Please!?! Remember: soap, water, rub, rinse. Thank you!
Over the past few years, numerous health officials, health advocates, doctors, nurses, scientists, random people who know about germs and medicine have spoken out about the importance of hand washing. They have said that, with few exceptions, the spread of most communicable illnesses could be slowed and even stopped if everyone just washed their hands, especially after using the bathroom. They are not suggesting that we wash our hands all the time, just that we wash them after activities such as: going to the bathroom, riding public transportation, shaking hands with people, touching public computer keyboards, etc. Now, I do not advocate people becoming crazy about this whole thing and washing their hands until their skin comes off, but I do think the advice of washing hands more regularly should be heeded. Sometimes science has a point!
So, here is my issue - the issue that compels me to write today - why do I still see a large number of women walk out of the public restroom without washing hands? And often really smart, savvy women, too! WHY?!? So, you don't buy into the whole washing hands prevents disease thing. Fine. But, when you think about public bathrooms and what you have just done in the public bathroom, shouldn't that be enough to compel you to wash your hands? Do I need to spell it out for you? (POOP!) And, ladies, we also have that pesky little event that happens once a month, adding a whole other element to our public restroom experience. Seriously! Does this not make you feel that washing your hands is a must-do? How can you justify leaving the restroom and nibbling on a snack when you might have someone else's poo, or lord knows what else, on your hands? Really? And, rinsing one hand under the faucet for two seconds does not count as hand washing, but merely hand rinsing. Not the same thing. Soap, water, rub, rinse - that is what I am asking, even begging for. Pleeeeaaase!
And if some of you reading this blog are the perpetrators of this crime, I hope you will reconsider. If not for yourself or the general public, then for me because all I think about when I see you non-washers and hand rinsers is how I will probably touch whatever poo, pee or blood you have on your hand at some point in the near future while fighting back nausea, spoiling my own effort to wash my hands and to have a decent day. It is torturous. I am begging you, appealing to your best self - wash your hands. Please!?! Remember: soap, water, rub, rinse. Thank you!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Fantasies
Recently I have found my ability to fantasize about hot celebrity men hampered by rules. Rules that my own conscience has created and seems determined to have me follow. A few years ago, I developed the inability to fantasize about married or seriously involved celebrities. If my dreams started in that direction, some dormant part of my brain leaped to life to create a back story justifying my rendezvous with said actor/athlete/hot guy. Sometimes he would be widowed (morbid, I know). Other times, he and his wife/girlfriend had amicably gone their separate ways, and we had connected after an appropriate grace period. No matter how hard I tried, the fantasy could not continue until one part of my brain had explained to the other part of my brain that my connection with this man was morally acceptable...or at least somewhat acceptable. Frankly, by that time, the hotness had totally vacated the fantasy. What's the point!
Now, I find myself taking into consideration the reputation of the hot guy based solely on what is reported on Perez Hilton, US Weekly or some other gossip/news source. I cannot fantasize about an actor that is known to have shagged his nanny while his wife/girlfriend was off at the market. Or about a man notorious for his womanizing ways. Or an actor known to not shower very often and stir up drama on the set of the movie that made him famous in the first place. If I start having dreams about this kind of celebrity, my brain creates this heart to heart talk with the man where he explains how he is so misunderstood and he is not really like that and that I am the most interesting woman he has ever met so he cannot imagine being with anyone else. Lots of talk and no action. Again, where's the fun in that? Oh, and I never believe the guy.
Now all of a sudden, my conscience has taken its moral code to another level and I can't fantasize anymore. The rules created by my mind have pretty much eliminated every possible man about whom I can fantasize. I mean, can't I just think a guy is hot and imagine him taking me out for dinner and drinks and whatever else without all this other stuff needing to be explained - and sometimes it is really hard to explain. That nanny thing? Rough! We are in a recession for God's sake. I am looking for some free, fun entertainment and my brain will not cooperate. I have always been a little neurotic, but this is really taking to too far. Can't a girl catch a break?
Now, I find myself taking into consideration the reputation of the hot guy based solely on what is reported on Perez Hilton, US Weekly or some other gossip/news source. I cannot fantasize about an actor that is known to have shagged his nanny while his wife/girlfriend was off at the market. Or about a man notorious for his womanizing ways. Or an actor known to not shower very often and stir up drama on the set of the movie that made him famous in the first place. If I start having dreams about this kind of celebrity, my brain creates this heart to heart talk with the man where he explains how he is so misunderstood and he is not really like that and that I am the most interesting woman he has ever met so he cannot imagine being with anyone else. Lots of talk and no action. Again, where's the fun in that? Oh, and I never believe the guy.
Now all of a sudden, my conscience has taken its moral code to another level and I can't fantasize anymore. The rules created by my mind have pretty much eliminated every possible man about whom I can fantasize. I mean, can't I just think a guy is hot and imagine him taking me out for dinner and drinks and whatever else without all this other stuff needing to be explained - and sometimes it is really hard to explain. That nanny thing? Rough! We are in a recession for God's sake. I am looking for some free, fun entertainment and my brain will not cooperate. I have always been a little neurotic, but this is really taking to too far. Can't a girl catch a break?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sweet, sweet adolescence
As a fairly confident, generally happy thirty year old, few things make me feel like an insecure, unbalanced seventeen year old - thankfully. Sadly, however, this past week, I re-discovered my inner, unbalanced seventeen year old and had a complete confidence meltdown. What could make me feel this way? The GREs and young adult fiction. I read quite a few young adult books, but in conjunction with the more adult aspects of my life, such books of teenage angst and insecurity do not adversely affect me. Certainly I feel great amounts of sympathy with the pimply, awkward protagonists, but their high school dramas do not get me down. I know that they too will outgrow that horrid era of high school and move on to better things. But, in combination with my agonizing preparation for the GREs, reading young adult fiction reignited a part of me I thought had disappeared long ago. As a result, I have grown a large pimple on my chin, lashed out at the people I love for no apparent reason (at least to them), and stressed out about things that only a week ago would have slid off my back.
See, taking standardized tests has always been one of my most hated activities, second only to throwing up and maybe hitting my shins. They make us sit in a small, usually windowless room, in an even smaller cubicle with a computer in front of us. We sit here to be judged on our intelligence, or at least, our test taking abilities. The computer provides a tutorial informing us of how the test will proceed. Then, we are on our own. In the upper left corner, a vicious clock counts down the minutes until our time to answer questions is through. In the center of the screen, just barely to the right of the ticking clock, are the tortuous questions with trick answers. The trick answer always standing out a bit brighter from all the rest. And down in the left hand corner are the evil options, telling us we can quit the test or leave the section. What those options do not tell us is that we essentially become a complete failure when we click on them. So, our eyes gravitate back to the center of the screen, with a quick peek at the ever descending numbers of the clock. For some, like my brother, this experience might be exhilerrating, challenging him to beat the system, the man. For others, for me, such a set up breeds sheer panic and a complete evacuation of the brain. All the words, geometric formulas, and reading comprehension skills I learned through years of schooling and weeks of hard core cramming are gone. My brain is a blank. Empty. And then the trick answer glares brighter on the screen. I know it is a trick, but panic tinged with a moth-like fascination take over and suddenly I am compelled to click. And click, and click, until suddenly time runs out. At the end of the computerized test, our scores flip on the screen. For some, elation and/or pride might overwhelm them. For others, for me, a true sense of mediocrity and failure fills my gut. We know we have yet again let the ETS and standardized tests get us down. Even at thirty, such an event is painful, reminding me of the very insecurities I felt thirteen years before taking a similar exam. Always wondering if my grades and hard work would be enough, or if this three hour test would break me.
Add these feelings with a little teenage vampire sexual tension, and I reconnect with that seventeen year old self - the one I so proudly thought I had outgrown. Hubris. Tonight I reacquaint myself with thirty through a French film, red wine and Jane Austen. I'll just have to ignore the pimple.
See, taking standardized tests has always been one of my most hated activities, second only to throwing up and maybe hitting my shins. They make us sit in a small, usually windowless room, in an even smaller cubicle with a computer in front of us. We sit here to be judged on our intelligence, or at least, our test taking abilities. The computer provides a tutorial informing us of how the test will proceed. Then, we are on our own. In the upper left corner, a vicious clock counts down the minutes until our time to answer questions is through. In the center of the screen, just barely to the right of the ticking clock, are the tortuous questions with trick answers. The trick answer always standing out a bit brighter from all the rest. And down in the left hand corner are the evil options, telling us we can quit the test or leave the section. What those options do not tell us is that we essentially become a complete failure when we click on them. So, our eyes gravitate back to the center of the screen, with a quick peek at the ever descending numbers of the clock. For some, like my brother, this experience might be exhilerrating, challenging him to beat the system, the man. For others, for me, such a set up breeds sheer panic and a complete evacuation of the brain. All the words, geometric formulas, and reading comprehension skills I learned through years of schooling and weeks of hard core cramming are gone. My brain is a blank. Empty. And then the trick answer glares brighter on the screen. I know it is a trick, but panic tinged with a moth-like fascination take over and suddenly I am compelled to click. And click, and click, until suddenly time runs out. At the end of the computerized test, our scores flip on the screen. For some, elation and/or pride might overwhelm them. For others, for me, a true sense of mediocrity and failure fills my gut. We know we have yet again let the ETS and standardized tests get us down. Even at thirty, such an event is painful, reminding me of the very insecurities I felt thirteen years before taking a similar exam. Always wondering if my grades and hard work would be enough, or if this three hour test would break me.
Add these feelings with a little teenage vampire sexual tension, and I reconnect with that seventeen year old self - the one I so proudly thought I had outgrown. Hubris. Tonight I reacquaint myself with thirty through a French film, red wine and Jane Austen. I'll just have to ignore the pimple.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Perhaps
I am just an average middle-class white girl - not as pathetic as Bridget Jones, but not as interesting either. I wake up each morning at 7AM, perform my morning toilette, eat breakfast and run to the bus stop. I then take the number 55 bus downtown and walk ten minutes up a huge hill to work. I arrive each day at 8:55. And each day, I heave a huge sigh wondering if things could possibly be more boring.
Now, I realize times are tough for almost everyone in the great USA. Even the guys on Wall Street are having their salaries capped at $500k per year if they are receiving government money. Must be tough! Reminds me of that NBA player from the 1998 players strike who whined on national television about not making enough to pay his car insurance. After some research, I found that the man had five cars, and they were not Hondas. So now, the Wall Street guys will have to cut down to one yacht. Those docking fees can really add up - and no one likes it when the tax payers get angry. Unless of course, you don't know any tax payers - which seems to be the case with these Wall Street and Washington folks.
Given my tendency to listen obsessively to NPR, I should know better than to complain about the rather blah flavor of my life just now. But, just for kicks, I think will indulge anyway. After all, it's free and kills time, so actually, I am doing myself (though not the economy) a favor by complaining. When focused inward, I don't notice the cute clothes I am not buying, or the chocolate cake in the fridge I should not be eating, or the house I should be cleaning. No. When writing about my vanilla life, I have what John Stewart would call my moment of zen.
Why am I so cranky, you ask? Well, I'm bored. After juggling multiple jobs and a full load of graduate courses while commuting four hours everyday, working 9 to 5 feels slow. While in school, my days were usually divided into quarters. First quarter: commute on the train for 1 1/2 hours. Second quarter: work. Third quarter: class. Fourth quarter: commute home for 1 1/2 hours while doing homework. A little variety! Now, I ride the bus, work in a windowless basement with mousetraps everywhere from 9-5 and then go home. Once home, there's dinner to make, of course, but no homework to complete or articles to read. So then what? What's a woman to do? I could rot my brain on television, which I am wont to do from time to time. I could write, but you can see what occurs when I do that. I could read, but after reading all day at work, I am finding the eyes are getting a little tired. I could sew, but my hands and wrists are sore from using the computer all day. (How old am I?) So here I am. The most boring 30-year old EVER!
I usually end up reading which, don't get me wrong, is very enjoyable, despite the fact that it might render me blind in five years. Lately, I have been reading some wonderful non-fiction that amazes me and makes me feel like a lazy, selfish, unmotivated piece of poo. Perhaps I should be out in the world building houses in New Orleans or El Salvador, establishing schools in Pakistan or Tanzania, putting Afghanis and Iraqis to work rebuilding the cities we destroyed - or creating brilliant, unique poetry, writing wonderfully engaging novels or making the next groundbreaking independent film. But I don't do any of this. I go to work and feel sorry for myself for being bored and not having any windows. I come home and feel sorry for myself for no good reason because I have a roof over my head and food to eat and someone to love me. I have caught the Kate Winslet disease - surburban woman feeling trapped by the confines of normal life. I have not yet taken a lover or decided to move to Paris - but given time, I could get there.
Now before you get too disgusted with me, understand that I am also disgusted with myself. I know I am blessed and in all reality have absolutely nothing about which to complain. I won't even have to work in the windowless basement anymore after Friday. So why the malaise? Why the feeling of biding my time?
I was inspired by the mission presented to me in library school and by our new President. I believed I could go out and make a difference each day just by working hard and contributing to the greater good. Each day I think I do that by preserving bits of our country's important past and by making it available to those who choose to explore that past. For some reason, that's not enough. I don't fall asleep at night feeling that pleasant heaviness of accomplishment and satisfaction. Sure. I have all I need and all I could ask for in the practical sense. So how do I satisfy that other need? Get off my butt and go where? Do what? Perhaps my NPR listening, informing me of all that's wrong with the world, makes me wonder where my efforts would be most useful and how the actions of one person could possibly do anything to make the crumbling, melting world a little better. Perhaps I need to turn off the radio and do something - anything - and know that it's enough. Perhaps.
Now, I realize times are tough for almost everyone in the great USA. Even the guys on Wall Street are having their salaries capped at $500k per year if they are receiving government money. Must be tough! Reminds me of that NBA player from the 1998 players strike who whined on national television about not making enough to pay his car insurance. After some research, I found that the man had five cars, and they were not Hondas. So now, the Wall Street guys will have to cut down to one yacht. Those docking fees can really add up - and no one likes it when the tax payers get angry. Unless of course, you don't know any tax payers - which seems to be the case with these Wall Street and Washington folks.
Given my tendency to listen obsessively to NPR, I should know better than to complain about the rather blah flavor of my life just now. But, just for kicks, I think will indulge anyway. After all, it's free and kills time, so actually, I am doing myself (though not the economy) a favor by complaining. When focused inward, I don't notice the cute clothes I am not buying, or the chocolate cake in the fridge I should not be eating, or the house I should be cleaning. No. When writing about my vanilla life, I have what John Stewart would call my moment of zen.
Why am I so cranky, you ask? Well, I'm bored. After juggling multiple jobs and a full load of graduate courses while commuting four hours everyday, working 9 to 5 feels slow. While in school, my days were usually divided into quarters. First quarter: commute on the train for 1 1/2 hours. Second quarter: work. Third quarter: class. Fourth quarter: commute home for 1 1/2 hours while doing homework. A little variety! Now, I ride the bus, work in a windowless basement with mousetraps everywhere from 9-5 and then go home. Once home, there's dinner to make, of course, but no homework to complete or articles to read. So then what? What's a woman to do? I could rot my brain on television, which I am wont to do from time to time. I could write, but you can see what occurs when I do that. I could read, but after reading all day at work, I am finding the eyes are getting a little tired. I could sew, but my hands and wrists are sore from using the computer all day. (How old am I?) So here I am. The most boring 30-year old EVER!
I usually end up reading which, don't get me wrong, is very enjoyable, despite the fact that it might render me blind in five years. Lately, I have been reading some wonderful non-fiction that amazes me and makes me feel like a lazy, selfish, unmotivated piece of poo. Perhaps I should be out in the world building houses in New Orleans or El Salvador, establishing schools in Pakistan or Tanzania, putting Afghanis and Iraqis to work rebuilding the cities we destroyed - or creating brilliant, unique poetry, writing wonderfully engaging novels or making the next groundbreaking independent film. But I don't do any of this. I go to work and feel sorry for myself for being bored and not having any windows. I come home and feel sorry for myself for no good reason because I have a roof over my head and food to eat and someone to love me. I have caught the Kate Winslet disease - surburban woman feeling trapped by the confines of normal life. I have not yet taken a lover or decided to move to Paris - but given time, I could get there.
Now before you get too disgusted with me, understand that I am also disgusted with myself. I know I am blessed and in all reality have absolutely nothing about which to complain. I won't even have to work in the windowless basement anymore after Friday. So why the malaise? Why the feeling of biding my time?
I was inspired by the mission presented to me in library school and by our new President. I believed I could go out and make a difference each day just by working hard and contributing to the greater good. Each day I think I do that by preserving bits of our country's important past and by making it available to those who choose to explore that past. For some reason, that's not enough. I don't fall asleep at night feeling that pleasant heaviness of accomplishment and satisfaction. Sure. I have all I need and all I could ask for in the practical sense. So how do I satisfy that other need? Get off my butt and go where? Do what? Perhaps my NPR listening, informing me of all that's wrong with the world, makes me wonder where my efforts would be most useful and how the actions of one person could possibly do anything to make the crumbling, melting world a little better. Perhaps I need to turn off the radio and do something - anything - and know that it's enough. Perhaps.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Sauna
I recently had the pleasure of visiting my partner's family in Germany for the New Year. While there, we had a brief holiday in a small town in the Austrian Alps. The scenery was lovely. The sledding was AWESOME! The food was delicious. Despite the minor language barrier, even for the Germans, Austria was a restful and relaxing mini-vacation. And what would a relaxing European vacation be without the sauna? Rhetorical.
For those of you who have never been to or seen a sauna, a sauna is a small, closed room, primarily made of wood, intended to be a hot, dry, restful space - a place to sweat, cleanse and meditate. Wooden benches line the walls of the sauna in stadium-seating form accomodating eight to ten people. The key to this whole event, however, is that everyone is naked - buck naked.
Now, I like to think of myself as a worldly, open-minded person, comfortable in my skin. I like to think that I am free and open, happy with my little temple - perhaps in a way not too common in the U.S. of A. But, in Austria, I realized I have been lying to myself all these years. While being naked is something I love in my own home, I really am not a fan of being naked in public. Much to the amusement of my former ultimate teammates, most of whom had no reservations at all about getting naked, I refused to get naked in front of them at parties or on the field. Could be that my aversion stems from my redheadedness, having had more than one stranger ask me if the carpet matches the curtains. Such invasions of privacy may have created my certain knowledge that all eyes will naturally drift downwards with the curiosity of "Is she a real redhead?" too powerful to ignore. Could be that nakedness seems like something private, not to be shared with anyone other than one's partner. Could be sheer fear. Whatever the reason, I will not get naked in a "public" space - making visits to European saunas rather... interesting.
Beyond being naked in public, being naked with one's own family as an adult, or the family of a partner seems even more invasive. Not for the Europeans. Mothers, fathers, daughters and sons enjoy saunas together with no evident discomfort. For this American, such behavior was eye opening on so many levels.
So here is the scenario: Nice relaxing space, wonderfully warm after being outside in 10 degree weather. Children scamper through on their way to the pool to shriek, dive and generally create waterlogged mayhem. I enter and feel immediately comfortable. I let out a deep sigh. Naked adults stroll about, comfortable - even relishing their freedom from clothing - and I am comfortable with their nakedness. There are no roving eyes or lascivious comments. All is well. Then my partner's sister takes off her clothes. Okay, I can handle this. Then my partner's brother-in-law takes off his clothes. Seriously, where do I look? I mean, if my eyes go down then it looks like I am checking out his goods or her hygiene choices. If my eyes stay chest level, then I look like I am checking out her goods. If I look down, then I look like I am ashamed or afraid of their nakedness. If I just close my eyes, I will wipe out and really look like an idiot. So, again, where do I look?
Now I am faced with a dilemma. Do I take off my swimsuit to fit in and seem more worldly than I feel? Do I leave it on, essentially wearing a sandwich board stating, "I am an American, incapable of getting naked even though I was born that way"? Suddenly, this relaxing space became a space of anxiety, fittingly causing me to break a sweat. Not only would I be naked in public, but I would also be naked in front of my partner's family - a serious double whammy. Surely they must be curious if my hair is natural. No, that's ridiculous. Surely they must be asking themselves why their brother (in-law) stays in the U.S. with this American woman. Quit it. Now you are just being paranoid.... Sigh.
I opt for the swimsuit (yeah, wimpy, I know) - and enter the sauna, trying to hold my head up high, but not high enough to see anything I shouldn't. I feel like an idiot. Who wears clothes in a sauna? My friends lie down on the top bench, very naked, and relax, legs bent, parts moving naturally. I, being the mature, capable person that I am, feel severely uncomfortable, wondering what proper eye protocol is and how long I would have to wait until my cultural discomfort eased. My cultural discomfort outlasts my ability to handle the warmth of the sauna and I leave the room redfaced from heat and embarrassment.
Later that evening, we ate dinner in the hotel dining room. As I looked around the room, I saw many faces from my earlier trip to the sauna. I felt oddly smug as I realized I had seen most of them naked earlier that day. Somehow I knew more than I should about each and every one of them. Later, I realized everyone saw everyone else naked that day, too. Took some wind from my smugly whipping sails. Boy, I am pathetic.
Listening to the dinner conversation, I learned that my partner's mother was planning to visit the sauna the following day. I decided I would skip the sauna. Baby steps.
For those of you who have never been to or seen a sauna, a sauna is a small, closed room, primarily made of wood, intended to be a hot, dry, restful space - a place to sweat, cleanse and meditate. Wooden benches line the walls of the sauna in stadium-seating form accomodating eight to ten people. The key to this whole event, however, is that everyone is naked - buck naked.
Now, I like to think of myself as a worldly, open-minded person, comfortable in my skin. I like to think that I am free and open, happy with my little temple - perhaps in a way not too common in the U.S. of A. But, in Austria, I realized I have been lying to myself all these years. While being naked is something I love in my own home, I really am not a fan of being naked in public. Much to the amusement of my former ultimate teammates, most of whom had no reservations at all about getting naked, I refused to get naked in front of them at parties or on the field. Could be that my aversion stems from my redheadedness, having had more than one stranger ask me if the carpet matches the curtains. Such invasions of privacy may have created my certain knowledge that all eyes will naturally drift downwards with the curiosity of "Is she a real redhead?" too powerful to ignore. Could be that nakedness seems like something private, not to be shared with anyone other than one's partner. Could be sheer fear. Whatever the reason, I will not get naked in a "public" space - making visits to European saunas rather... interesting.
Beyond being naked in public, being naked with one's own family as an adult, or the family of a partner seems even more invasive. Not for the Europeans. Mothers, fathers, daughters and sons enjoy saunas together with no evident discomfort. For this American, such behavior was eye opening on so many levels.
So here is the scenario: Nice relaxing space, wonderfully warm after being outside in 10 degree weather. Children scamper through on their way to the pool to shriek, dive and generally create waterlogged mayhem. I enter and feel immediately comfortable. I let out a deep sigh. Naked adults stroll about, comfortable - even relishing their freedom from clothing - and I am comfortable with their nakedness. There are no roving eyes or lascivious comments. All is well. Then my partner's sister takes off her clothes. Okay, I can handle this. Then my partner's brother-in-law takes off his clothes. Seriously, where do I look? I mean, if my eyes go down then it looks like I am checking out his goods or her hygiene choices. If my eyes stay chest level, then I look like I am checking out her goods. If I look down, then I look like I am ashamed or afraid of their nakedness. If I just close my eyes, I will wipe out and really look like an idiot. So, again, where do I look?
Now I am faced with a dilemma. Do I take off my swimsuit to fit in and seem more worldly than I feel? Do I leave it on, essentially wearing a sandwich board stating, "I am an American, incapable of getting naked even though I was born that way"? Suddenly, this relaxing space became a space of anxiety, fittingly causing me to break a sweat. Not only would I be naked in public, but I would also be naked in front of my partner's family - a serious double whammy. Surely they must be curious if my hair is natural. No, that's ridiculous. Surely they must be asking themselves why their brother (in-law) stays in the U.S. with this American woman. Quit it. Now you are just being paranoid.... Sigh.
I opt for the swimsuit (yeah, wimpy, I know) - and enter the sauna, trying to hold my head up high, but not high enough to see anything I shouldn't. I feel like an idiot. Who wears clothes in a sauna? My friends lie down on the top bench, very naked, and relax, legs bent, parts moving naturally. I, being the mature, capable person that I am, feel severely uncomfortable, wondering what proper eye protocol is and how long I would have to wait until my cultural discomfort eased. My cultural discomfort outlasts my ability to handle the warmth of the sauna and I leave the room redfaced from heat and embarrassment.
Later that evening, we ate dinner in the hotel dining room. As I looked around the room, I saw many faces from my earlier trip to the sauna. I felt oddly smug as I realized I had seen most of them naked earlier that day. Somehow I knew more than I should about each and every one of them. Later, I realized everyone saw everyone else naked that day, too. Took some wind from my smugly whipping sails. Boy, I am pathetic.
Listening to the dinner conversation, I learned that my partner's mother was planning to visit the sauna the following day. I decided I would skip the sauna. Baby steps.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
It's been a while...
It has been a long time since I posted anything of note on my blog. In fact, it has been a while since I have written anything other than academic papers. Today, on the bus, I was inspired to start writing again. Public transportation has a way of doing that.
Recently, I have been working as a reference librarian in a small, private library, just to test it out. I thought that going to library school to become a librarian or archivist would straighten everything out and I would then be on an actual career track. After three semesters, I have discovered that the library/archives field is a vast one with much variety. Needless to say, I still have a lot of thinking to do in regards of where I want to go and what I want do. So I am giving the reference thing a try. While my co-workers are wonderful, I am not so sure I enjoy interacting with the public more than is necessary. Maybe this makes me a curmudgeon - or even a stereotypical, reclusive librarian. Either way, the jury is still out on reference work, but the outlook does not look good.
A friend of mine, with whom I discussed this ambivalence about reference, suggested that working with the public is one way to have good stories to tell at parties. I wrote,"I think I would rather converse with my peers than with the public." "The public gives us the best "work" stories to tell!," she replied This possibly being her only argument in favor of working with the public. Well, today, I realized that my argument against doing reference and working with the public is that I rely on public transportation, so I have more than enough exposure just in getting where I need to go.
This afternoon I rode the bus to and from the downtown branch of the public library. On the way there, while desperately trying to focus on my homework, I listened to a young man expound upon the young, hot mamacita he had just hooked up with - in graphic detail. Now I am no prude, but I am not sure I wanted to know so much about other people's sexual preferences while riding the bus and reading The Tao of Computing. On the way home, a woman with a bloody knee and her man friend choose the seats right across from me. They proceed to have a rather long and loud conversation about buying a headstone for a deceased friend. The man talks about how wonderful the woman was, and how much he loved her - and then the conversation became too quiet to hear with any subtlety. I went back to reading The Tao of Computing, only to be interrupted by the man's boisterous pronouncement of his love affair with Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ is his Lord and Savior. In fact, in his mind, and I quote, "Jesus Christ is the THE BOMB." His passion was infectious, and I had to fight the temptation to shout, "Amen! Praise the Lord!" Luckily, his follow up statement brought me back to my senses. What was the follow up, you ask? A snot rocket. Not out the window or into a tissue, but onto the floor - about a foot away from my feet. At that moment, I realized that as long as I ride public transportation, I will not be looking for jobs that deal with that same public. Cynical? Perhaps. But who wants snot on their feet?
Recently, I have been working as a reference librarian in a small, private library, just to test it out. I thought that going to library school to become a librarian or archivist would straighten everything out and I would then be on an actual career track. After three semesters, I have discovered that the library/archives field is a vast one with much variety. Needless to say, I still have a lot of thinking to do in regards of where I want to go and what I want do. So I am giving the reference thing a try. While my co-workers are wonderful, I am not so sure I enjoy interacting with the public more than is necessary. Maybe this makes me a curmudgeon - or even a stereotypical, reclusive librarian. Either way, the jury is still out on reference work, but the outlook does not look good.
A friend of mine, with whom I discussed this ambivalence about reference, suggested that working with the public is one way to have good stories to tell at parties. I wrote,"I think I would rather converse with my peers than with the public." "The public gives us the best "work" stories to tell!," she replied This possibly being her only argument in favor of working with the public. Well, today, I realized that my argument against doing reference and working with the public is that I rely on public transportation, so I have more than enough exposure just in getting where I need to go.
This afternoon I rode the bus to and from the downtown branch of the public library. On the way there, while desperately trying to focus on my homework, I listened to a young man expound upon the young, hot mamacita he had just hooked up with - in graphic detail. Now I am no prude, but I am not sure I wanted to know so much about other people's sexual preferences while riding the bus and reading The Tao of Computing. On the way home, a woman with a bloody knee and her man friend choose the seats right across from me. They proceed to have a rather long and loud conversation about buying a headstone for a deceased friend. The man talks about how wonderful the woman was, and how much he loved her - and then the conversation became too quiet to hear with any subtlety. I went back to reading The Tao of Computing, only to be interrupted by the man's boisterous pronouncement of his love affair with Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ is his Lord and Savior. In fact, in his mind, and I quote, "Jesus Christ is the THE BOMB." His passion was infectious, and I had to fight the temptation to shout, "Amen! Praise the Lord!" Luckily, his follow up statement brought me back to my senses. What was the follow up, you ask? A snot rocket. Not out the window or into a tissue, but onto the floor - about a foot away from my feet. At that moment, I realized that as long as I ride public transportation, I will not be looking for jobs that deal with that same public. Cynical? Perhaps. But who wants snot on their feet?
Reflections on South Africa
As a senior at Wheaton, I had the pleasure and the challenge to act in a student-directed production of My Children, My Africa by Athol Fugard. To play Isabel Dyson, I had to learn about the history and politics of Apartheid in South Africa, but I also had to viscerally and emotionally connect to the struggles of freedom and the need to oppress. Where did an open-minded though ignorant white girl fit into the picture? My only frames of reference at that time were my favorite novel, The Power of One, National Geographic articles and things learned in the classroom. Drawing on the support of my cast mates, the writings of South African authors and documentaries of the American Civil Rights movement, I was able to develop my character. This March, I had the opportunity to visit the place that has haunted my thoughts for so many years. I went to South Africa.
While I was certainly excited to go to South Africa, I must admit, I was also scared. If you follow the news or read the first pages of a travel guide, you will see that South Africa’s daily murder rate closely matches the rate in Iraq. You will see that South Africa has the largest AIDS population per capita in the world. You will see that the rape rate is on the rise, that visitors should hide their money well inside their clothing and should not use public transportation. So much negativity and fear about South Africa populates the pages and reports that reach Americans.
Of course, South Africa has problems and issues to face, but sometimes it is easy to forget that this post-Apartheid South Africa is only 13 years old. It is an adolescent growing into its shoes--struggling to right the wrongs of the past, meet the challenges of the future and assimilate the many cultures now attempting to live in freedom and equality. In these 13 years, South Africans have been trying to understand their history, make amends and move forward as a new, united nation—the Rainbow Nation.
As I walked down the streets of Cape Town and drove down the red dirt roads of Mpumalanga, I wondered at the beauty of the people and the places. Here I had prepared myself for I don’t know what—the place described by the news, I guess—but then I breathed the air, saw the elephants, watched the people and I experienced something else, something peaceful, something hopeful. Even while visiting Robben Island and the townships, the South Africans teaching us about their past and their present were filled with hope. Sure, they struggle and life is not what it could be, but they also spoke of growth, change and improvement.
In the three weeks I was in South Africa, I visited a number of tough places—places where people have endured great injustice and hardship. The men and women I spoke with have a deep, infectious passion for their country. South Africa, to them, is a work in progress with possibilities of greatness. While teaching their people’s tragedy, these men and women spoke with ardor, wit and humor—making me both laugh and cry. I think that most clearly expresses my feelings about South Africa—it made me laugh and cry, and sometimes, it rendered me speechless.
While I was certainly excited to go to South Africa, I must admit, I was also scared. If you follow the news or read the first pages of a travel guide, you will see that South Africa’s daily murder rate closely matches the rate in Iraq. You will see that South Africa has the largest AIDS population per capita in the world. You will see that the rape rate is on the rise, that visitors should hide their money well inside their clothing and should not use public transportation. So much negativity and fear about South Africa populates the pages and reports that reach Americans.
Of course, South Africa has problems and issues to face, but sometimes it is easy to forget that this post-Apartheid South Africa is only 13 years old. It is an adolescent growing into its shoes--struggling to right the wrongs of the past, meet the challenges of the future and assimilate the many cultures now attempting to live in freedom and equality. In these 13 years, South Africans have been trying to understand their history, make amends and move forward as a new, united nation—the Rainbow Nation.
As I walked down the streets of Cape Town and drove down the red dirt roads of Mpumalanga, I wondered at the beauty of the people and the places. Here I had prepared myself for I don’t know what—the place described by the news, I guess—but then I breathed the air, saw the elephants, watched the people and I experienced something else, something peaceful, something hopeful. Even while visiting Robben Island and the townships, the South Africans teaching us about their past and their present were filled with hope. Sure, they struggle and life is not what it could be, but they also spoke of growth, change and improvement.
In the three weeks I was in South Africa, I visited a number of tough places—places where people have endured great injustice and hardship. The men and women I spoke with have a deep, infectious passion for their country. South Africa, to them, is a work in progress with possibilities of greatness. While teaching their people’s tragedy, these men and women spoke with ardor, wit and humor—making me both laugh and cry. I think that most clearly expresses my feelings about South Africa—it made me laugh and cry, and sometimes, it rendered me speechless.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
more South Africa
We have been very busy these couple of days, visiting the Cape of Good Hope and Robben Island. It is hot here, and I have the flaming red nose to prove it. Must remember to re-apply my sunscreen!
Yesterday, we paid a visit to one of the largest colonies of African penguins in Africa at Boulders Beach. These little, lively creatures hang out on the sand with beachgoers, barely blinking an eye at the children building sand castles nearby. I saw hundreds of penguins—hundreds! With the exception of an egg-stealing seagull, my visit with the penguins was peaceful and uplifting.
Following Boulders Beach, we drove to the meeting of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. The sights were magnificent, the wind strong and the sun bright. I could definitely understand why it is a perilous place for boats. It is certainly an awesome place, in the original sense of the word.
While hiking around the cape, we were accompanied by tons of baboons. They just hang out along the roads and trails, sometimes moving for the cars, other times making the cars move for them—a fair trade. All the signs say,” Baboons are dangerous and attracted by food.” Of course, most of the tourists still eat their chips and sandwiches out in the open anyway. One family experienced the baboon in a very direct way when the baboon stole chips right out of the hand of a two-year-old boy. Wide blue eyes followed the baboon’s fur-less butt as he ran to enjoy his booty. I learned a helpful German phrase which I repeated over and over as baboons passed me by,” Langsam weglaufen”—slowly walk away.
That evening, we saw a stunning sunset from Signal Hill, overlooking all of Cape Town and beyond, and enjoyed an ice cream cone. The sunset inspired a fun evening of wine, champagne and conversation.
Today, we visited Robben Island, the island prison of South Africa’s black, colored, and Asian political prisoners—including Nelson Mandela. The island is full of contradictions and dichotomies. Gorgeous scenery and active wildlife give the island a serene feeling, which is immediately displaced when the barbed wire and small jail cells come into view.
Our tour guides today were passionate teachers and informed us of the many injustices the prisoners endured. One of the guides is a former prisoner of 18 years who chooses to teach foreigners like us about this aspect of South African history. He believes that by teaching others about Robben Island, he is preventing the possibility of such things occurring in the future.
In the one week I have been in South Africa, I have been on two tours of tough places—places whose people have endured great hardships and challenges. The three men whose job it is to lead these tours have a deep, infectious passion for their country. South Africa, to them, is a work in progress with possibilities of greatness. While leading us on these tours and teaching their people’s tragedy, these men speak with ardor, wit and humor—making me both laugh and cry. So far, I think that most clearly expresses my feelings about South Africa—it makes me laugh and cry, and sometimes, it renders me speechless.
Yesterday, we paid a visit to one of the largest colonies of African penguins in Africa at Boulders Beach. These little, lively creatures hang out on the sand with beachgoers, barely blinking an eye at the children building sand castles nearby. I saw hundreds of penguins—hundreds! With the exception of an egg-stealing seagull, my visit with the penguins was peaceful and uplifting.
Following Boulders Beach, we drove to the meeting of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. The sights were magnificent, the wind strong and the sun bright. I could definitely understand why it is a perilous place for boats. It is certainly an awesome place, in the original sense of the word.
While hiking around the cape, we were accompanied by tons of baboons. They just hang out along the roads and trails, sometimes moving for the cars, other times making the cars move for them—a fair trade. All the signs say,” Baboons are dangerous and attracted by food.” Of course, most of the tourists still eat their chips and sandwiches out in the open anyway. One family experienced the baboon in a very direct way when the baboon stole chips right out of the hand of a two-year-old boy. Wide blue eyes followed the baboon’s fur-less butt as he ran to enjoy his booty. I learned a helpful German phrase which I repeated over and over as baboons passed me by,” Langsam weglaufen”—slowly walk away.
That evening, we saw a stunning sunset from Signal Hill, overlooking all of Cape Town and beyond, and enjoyed an ice cream cone. The sunset inspired a fun evening of wine, champagne and conversation.
Today, we visited Robben Island, the island prison of South Africa’s black, colored, and Asian political prisoners—including Nelson Mandela. The island is full of contradictions and dichotomies. Gorgeous scenery and active wildlife give the island a serene feeling, which is immediately displaced when the barbed wire and small jail cells come into view.
Our tour guides today were passionate teachers and informed us of the many injustices the prisoners endured. One of the guides is a former prisoner of 18 years who chooses to teach foreigners like us about this aspect of South African history. He believes that by teaching others about Robben Island, he is preventing the possibility of such things occurring in the future.
In the one week I have been in South Africa, I have been on two tours of tough places—places whose people have endured great hardships and challenges. The three men whose job it is to lead these tours have a deep, infectious passion for their country. South Africa, to them, is a work in progress with possibilities of greatness. While leading us on these tours and teaching their people’s tragedy, these men speak with ardor, wit and humor—making me both laugh and cry. So far, I think that most clearly expresses my feelings about South Africa—it makes me laugh and cry, and sometimes, it renders me speechless.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
South Africa: Part 3
For some reason, my computer or Blogger does not feel like uploading photos. I will try later today.
Yesterday, I finally met Alex's family. The big moment finally happened--and it went just fine. They are lovely, friendly and excited to practice their English. So far, most of our conversations involve German, broken English and broken German, but it seems to work out for all of us.
Because of wind, we could not go up Table Mountain yesterday so Alex and I showed his family around Cape Town instead. Later on in the day, Alex, his sister, her husband, and I climbed the Lion's Head. The climb was awesome, but similar to New Zealander, the South Africans perception of "easy" is quite different from us Americans. Still, the climb was a bit of a challenge and great workout. When I can post my pcitures, I will--they are worth seeing.
That evening, we all went out for seafood. They don't get much of that in Germany so it was a great treat for them. The prawns here are to die for! Then, for Alex's mom's birthday, we drank champagne and red wine, continuing our dual-language chat.
All in all, a good day. Today, we are heading to the Cape of Good Hope. Hopefully, penguins and dolphins are in the near future!
Yesterday, I finally met Alex's family. The big moment finally happened--and it went just fine. They are lovely, friendly and excited to practice their English. So far, most of our conversations involve German, broken English and broken German, but it seems to work out for all of us.
Because of wind, we could not go up Table Mountain yesterday so Alex and I showed his family around Cape Town instead. Later on in the day, Alex, his sister, her husband, and I climbed the Lion's Head. The climb was awesome, but similar to New Zealander, the South Africans perception of "easy" is quite different from us Americans. Still, the climb was a bit of a challenge and great workout. When I can post my pcitures, I will--they are worth seeing.
That evening, we all went out for seafood. They don't get much of that in Germany so it was a great treat for them. The prawns here are to die for! Then, for Alex's mom's birthday, we drank champagne and red wine, continuing our dual-language chat.
All in all, a good day. Today, we are heading to the Cape of Good Hope. Hopefully, penguins and dolphins are in the near future!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Cape Town is fascinating. I am still gathering my thoughts about it so I am not going to share too much now, but this place is really amazing. Yesterday, Alex and I walked all over the city, taking in gardens, museums and people. Cape Town is full of people, full of life, full of variety. There are 11 national languages--all of which you can choose from when at the ATM! Walking around, I have seen people of all shapes, sizes and colors. It is a lovely thing to see but sadly, so very foreign to me.
Today, we visited a couple of townships outside of Cape Town. There is a tour company in Cape Town that offer tours to the townships, using its profits to give back to those communities. I have never, ever seen anything like it. Some of you have traveled around the world and have seen what I saw today, but this was my first time. I was moved--still processing it all, so for now, here are my photos from the day.
These tenement type buildings are refered to as hostels. The above hostels are brand new and much more spacious for the families. One family per unit where they actually have a bathroom, and multiple rooms. The below hostels are really stunning. Each unit houses up to SIX famillies. The unit has six rooms (one for each family), a common space used for cooking, sleeping and eating and a washroom. The unit we visited held an unknown number of people, but we do know that one family had ELEVEN members living in ONE room!
The "informal" township is a shanty town. Oddly enough, the shanties are more spacious for the families. There is a large building project happening in the townships where they are razing the shanties to be replaced with small huts, very similar to those built by Habitat for Humanity.
This kindergarten was formed by the funds provided by Grassroutes Tour Company, our guide for the day. These little people were brimming with life and just a joy to be with.
This is Tavern Alley in Langa Township. Our tour guide brought us to a local pub owned by three lovely women. We sat in a circle and tried the local beer made from corn, milk, wheat...or some combination similar.
Sheep heads are serious business in Langa and other townships. Women who own these shops rise early to purchase the heads of sheep. They then spend the day cooking the skulls and selling the meat from the heads.
Today, we visited a couple of townships outside of Cape Town. There is a tour company in Cape Town that offer tours to the townships, using its profits to give back to those communities. I have never, ever seen anything like it. Some of you have traveled around the world and have seen what I saw today, but this was my first time. I was moved--still processing it all, so for now, here are my photos from the day.
These tenement type buildings are refered to as hostels. The above hostels are brand new and much more spacious for the families. One family per unit where they actually have a bathroom, and multiple rooms. The below hostels are really stunning. Each unit houses up to SIX famillies. The unit has six rooms (one for each family), a common space used for cooking, sleeping and eating and a washroom. The unit we visited held an unknown number of people, but we do know that one family had ELEVEN members living in ONE room!
The "informal" township is a shanty town. Oddly enough, the shanties are more spacious for the families. There is a large building project happening in the townships where they are razing the shanties to be replaced with small huts, very similar to those built by Habitat for Humanity.
This kindergarten was formed by the funds provided by Grassroutes Tour Company, our guide for the day. These little people were brimming with life and just a joy to be with.
This is Tavern Alley in Langa Township. Our tour guide brought us to a local pub owned by three lovely women. We sat in a circle and tried the local beer made from corn, milk, wheat...or some combination similar. 
Sheep heads are serious business in Langa and other townships. Women who own these shops rise early to purchase the heads of sheep. They then spend the day cooking the skulls and selling the meat from the heads. 
Okay, so these images are out of order but I just can't stomach fixing them AGAIN. So, I am swallowing my perfectionist tendencies for now.
Anyway, our travels to South Africa were long...let's just put it this way, they fed us four meals while on the plane--dinner, breakfast, lunch and dinner again. Alex slept the whole way, me, not so much. Yesterday was rough, but today is much better. Especially when I can eat breakfast on this cute little terrace each morning. This is the patio of our hotel.
This is the view from our balcony. We can also see Table Mountain from our room. I am sure I will get some good photos of Table Mountain tomorrow when I hike it!
To celebrate our vacation, surviving the flights and Alex's promotion, we ate cheese and crackers and sipped champagne on our balcony last night. Needless to say, I was sound asleep shortly thereafter. Champagne and jet lag are not a good pair...but it was fun nonetheless.
Alex and I visited the South African National Library to see a little exhibit there. While inside, I saw a large card catalog and could not pass it by without taking a photo. The library is stunning! Lots of natural light!
Table Mountain and the the National Gallery of South Africa. Lovely.
Alex decided it would be a good idea to take a photo while sitting in JFK waiting for our flight. Here it is. If only we knew what we were in for!
One would think that this sweet mask is the secret to sleeping on the plane. For my little sleeping beauty, apparently it did the trick. For me, not so much, though the toothbrush and toothpaste they gave us sure came in handy.
Embarking on our final plane. Only two more hours to go and of course, on this plane I fell asleep. Yay two hours of sleep!
Our room at the Fritz Hotel in Cape Town. It is a breezy, bright room. Very Euro, so Alex is right at home and so am I. I think I like this Euro thing.
Alex enjoying our balcony pre-champagne.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Knowledge is power and poverty-inducing
When the new year began, I had every intention of writing on a daily or at least every other day basis--and then life revealed alternative plans. Planning for Africa, starting my Library Science program, continuing at my job, mourning the loss of a friend and thinking about the future of my relationship all at the same time makes a girl just a bit crazy. Sometimes writing helps me deal with the stresses and thoughts that crowd my mind and other times those same stresses and thoughts create a log jam. The thing that jams me up most is money....the saddest but truest thing I have admitted of late.
Starting school on January 29th was a wonderful and horrible thing. I love it! I love the subject of my courses, the professors are cool and my classmates seem lovely. The downside is watching my debt grow by a large amount. When will the bleeding stop? People keep saying I should put it out of my mind and just focus on getting through the program. While I admire, and somewhat worry about, people who can just go into denial about the massive amounts they will owe six months post graduation, I am not one of those people. The weight of it almost drowns me and I feel totally overwhelmed by the fact that I may struggle to make ends meet when I graduate. Shadows of debt will follow me for many, many years because I am not going into a field that pays lots but I am at a school that takes lots. It is so very frustrating to work hard, to be frugal and to still feel behind the eight ball. Will I ever be able to pay my bills without concern? Will I be able to own a house, buy a car or go on vacation (without freaking out)?
I feel whiny because I have so many gifts like shelter, clothing, loved ones, and so many more, but this money thing plagues me. It sits in the back of my mind and in the pit of my stomach weighing me down. Is there a better way? If I go part-time and perhaps got a job at the school for full reimbursement, then I will not graduate for about 4 to 5 years. That would be 4 or 5 years doing work that is not the work I want to do. If I go full-time, I accrue a greater amount of debt but will finish in 2 years allowing me to begin my career much, much sooner. It's a conundrum and I am not the only one trying to figure it out.
So many in my generation struggle financially because these days it takes a graduate degree to get a "good" job, but the cost of education has skyrocketed and the "good" jobs don't really pay well enough to counteract that debt. To some, it may seem that my generation is obsessed with money and, in a way, we are, but not for the reasons it may seem. Many of us are constantly doing math, checking and double checking that if we take job x, we can afford to pay our debts and afford the necessities. Parents of my generation who choose to assist the children are also experiencing a financial drain. They are still financially supporting their 28 year old children, who are working hard but cannot seem to make ends meet, sometimes instead of saving for retirement. Struggle is not a new phenomena, and I don't mean to suggest it is, but this particular struggle between education and cost of living seems more pronounced in the 21st century. Hopefully, Congress will address this issue for future generations, but for mine, I think we are on our own.
Starting school on January 29th was a wonderful and horrible thing. I love it! I love the subject of my courses, the professors are cool and my classmates seem lovely. The downside is watching my debt grow by a large amount. When will the bleeding stop? People keep saying I should put it out of my mind and just focus on getting through the program. While I admire, and somewhat worry about, people who can just go into denial about the massive amounts they will owe six months post graduation, I am not one of those people. The weight of it almost drowns me and I feel totally overwhelmed by the fact that I may struggle to make ends meet when I graduate. Shadows of debt will follow me for many, many years because I am not going into a field that pays lots but I am at a school that takes lots. It is so very frustrating to work hard, to be frugal and to still feel behind the eight ball. Will I ever be able to pay my bills without concern? Will I be able to own a house, buy a car or go on vacation (without freaking out)?
I feel whiny because I have so many gifts like shelter, clothing, loved ones, and so many more, but this money thing plagues me. It sits in the back of my mind and in the pit of my stomach weighing me down. Is there a better way? If I go part-time and perhaps got a job at the school for full reimbursement, then I will not graduate for about 4 to 5 years. That would be 4 or 5 years doing work that is not the work I want to do. If I go full-time, I accrue a greater amount of debt but will finish in 2 years allowing me to begin my career much, much sooner. It's a conundrum and I am not the only one trying to figure it out.
So many in my generation struggle financially because these days it takes a graduate degree to get a "good" job, but the cost of education has skyrocketed and the "good" jobs don't really pay well enough to counteract that debt. To some, it may seem that my generation is obsessed with money and, in a way, we are, but not for the reasons it may seem. Many of us are constantly doing math, checking and double checking that if we take job x, we can afford to pay our debts and afford the necessities. Parents of my generation who choose to assist the children are also experiencing a financial drain. They are still financially supporting their 28 year old children, who are working hard but cannot seem to make ends meet, sometimes instead of saving for retirement. Struggle is not a new phenomena, and I don't mean to suggest it is, but this particular struggle between education and cost of living seems more pronounced in the 21st century. Hopefully, Congress will address this issue for future generations, but for mine, I think we are on our own.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Women and wine...
According to The Today Show and NBC, women having ONE glass of wine with their girlfriends in front of their children makes them lushes AND bad mothers. Hmmmm.....What about dad's drinking beer with each other while watching a football game while their kids watch, too? Does that make them bad fathers? And, is it okay for mothers to have a glass of wine at a barbecue when men are around to patrol their consumption?
(For a frame of reference, view this clip: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16818362/. Then read: http://www.suburbanbliss.net/. This is the woman they invited on the show to "interview." She gives her side of the story on her blog.)
Why am I writing about this when I, myself, am not a mother? Because this stuff affects future mothers as much as it does current. It makes future mothers question if motherhood is the right choice for them and not just because we may like to have a drink or two every now and then. By the major news media telling women that we need to be chaste, devoid of pleasure and devoted only to mommy-hood to be a good "woman" (which really means good mother, in their language), it makes women who are spunky, mouthy, feisty and fun loving feel that perhaps they are not cut-out for this role of mother. This NBC article suggests that women who enjoy their other roles in life--such as as wife, lover, friend and socialite which may involve a single, responsible drink--are somehow lesser mothers. I think that is downright scary.
In this country, we seem to enjoy turning healthy drinking or healthy sexuality into something bad. If mothers have a glass of wine or a beer in front of their children, they are showing their children that drinking an alcoholic beverage can be done in moderation with pleasure. I feel the same way about sexuality. We rate movies with passionate love scenes between two people who are "in-love" R and rate movies where people blow each other's heads off with little consequence PG-13. Nice example to set! Kids watch porn--that is just the reality of our times-- and by eliminating any visual examples of healthy sexuality while refusing to talk about healthy sexuality, our kids are left with one example, porn. If we keep telling ourselves that being honest with our kids about our smart drinking habits and healthy sex lives is a bad thing, then where do these kids turn to get their answers? Frankly, I find the answer to that question a lot scarier than having watched my mom have a beer while I played in the sandbox.
(For a frame of reference, view this clip: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16818362/. Then read: http://www.suburbanbliss.net/. This is the woman they invited on the show to "interview." She gives her side of the story on her blog.)
Why am I writing about this when I, myself, am not a mother? Because this stuff affects future mothers as much as it does current. It makes future mothers question if motherhood is the right choice for them and not just because we may like to have a drink or two every now and then. By the major news media telling women that we need to be chaste, devoid of pleasure and devoted only to mommy-hood to be a good "woman" (which really means good mother, in their language), it makes women who are spunky, mouthy, feisty and fun loving feel that perhaps they are not cut-out for this role of mother. This NBC article suggests that women who enjoy their other roles in life--such as as wife, lover, friend and socialite which may involve a single, responsible drink--are somehow lesser mothers. I think that is downright scary.
In this country, we seem to enjoy turning healthy drinking or healthy sexuality into something bad. If mothers have a glass of wine or a beer in front of their children, they are showing their children that drinking an alcoholic beverage can be done in moderation with pleasure. I feel the same way about sexuality. We rate movies with passionate love scenes between two people who are "in-love" R and rate movies where people blow each other's heads off with little consequence PG-13. Nice example to set! Kids watch porn--that is just the reality of our times-- and by eliminating any visual examples of healthy sexuality while refusing to talk about healthy sexuality, our kids are left with one example, porn. If we keep telling ourselves that being honest with our kids about our smart drinking habits and healthy sex lives is a bad thing, then where do these kids turn to get their answers? Frankly, I find the answer to that question a lot scarier than having watched my mom have a beer while I played in the sandbox.
Friday, January 19, 2007
I only have a few moments before I catch my bus, train, bus and plane to Pittsburgh for Mike's memorial service. Today has been a flurry of activity, getting things in order before leaving town for the weekend. While I was in the shower after going to the gym, the fire alarm went off...luckily it was just a drill because I was covered in soap and shampoo and it's pretty chilly here. That certainly created a flurry!
Anyway, I think this should be a sad but lovely weekend celebrating the life of a friend. More upon my return.
Anyway, I think this should be a sad but lovely weekend celebrating the life of a friend. More upon my return.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
South Africa....in 6 weeks, 2 days and counting
So in six weeks, two days and a few hours, I will be on a plane to South Africa with my lovely German boyfriend for three whole weeks. Once in Cape Town, we will have three days together before his family arrives--and by his family I mean, his mother, father, sister and brother-in-law. This three week jaunt to Africa will be our first meeting as they live in Deutschland and, well, I live stateside. They speak German, and I try and rarely succeed at speaking German.
Okay, so just to state the situation clearly: I am going on my first trip to Africa (one which I can't really afford)-- and my first vacation with my boyfriend--to meet his parents, who speak German, for the first time on a three week vacation. Don't get me wrong, if you heard a little fear or dread in that statement you are hearing correctly, but I am also really excited. Really, I am...it just hasn't hit me yet. Finagling finances, re-learning German (yeah, re-learning--I used to be fluent, and of course, now that I date a German, I am not--go figure), meeting the parents, traveling for three weeks--it feels like a lot.
But then, then I look at the images of Cape Town and Kruger National Park. I look at the penguins, hippopotomi, rhinoceroses, elephants and gazelles and I feel so lucky to have this opportunity. Now is the time to turn off the uber-practical part of my brain and allow myself to daydream about what a great experience this will be, how his parents will love me, the penguins will want to have their photos taken and the beaches will be warm and sunny.
Oh, by the way, did you know that hippopotomi make their own sunscreen? It's true! They just excrete it through their skin and they are good to go. Now if only they could teach this redhead how to do that!
Okay, so just to state the situation clearly: I am going on my first trip to Africa (one which I can't really afford)-- and my first vacation with my boyfriend--to meet his parents, who speak German, for the first time on a three week vacation. Don't get me wrong, if you heard a little fear or dread in that statement you are hearing correctly, but I am also really excited. Really, I am...it just hasn't hit me yet. Finagling finances, re-learning German (yeah, re-learning--I used to be fluent, and of course, now that I date a German, I am not--go figure), meeting the parents, traveling for three weeks--it feels like a lot.
But then, then I look at the images of Cape Town and Kruger National Park. I look at the penguins, hippopotomi, rhinoceroses, elephants and gazelles and I feel so lucky to have this opportunity. Now is the time to turn off the uber-practical part of my brain and allow myself to daydream about what a great experience this will be, how his parents will love me, the penguins will want to have their photos taken and the beaches will be warm and sunny.
Oh, by the way, did you know that hippopotomi make their own sunscreen? It's true! They just excrete it through their skin and they are good to go. Now if only they could teach this redhead how to do that!
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