Quixotic

I'm Done

Really, I am.

Goodbye 2007.

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Misogynists

Actually, there's not a lot you mommies can do about it because they mostly learn it from their daddies.

I was thinking the only way to eradicate misogyny once and for all is to freeze a bunch of sperm from a suitably varied gene pool, kill off the all the men, and then repopulate.  It's a perfect plan, except for the killing part.  And I could probably get over that with enough chocolate.

-/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-

You know what I like?  The name Tom.  It goes with any last name.  Tom Green.  Tom Baker.  Tom Parker.  Tom Ford.  It works with anything.  I like that. 

-/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-/-/-/--/-

Speaking of names, I was reading that the most common surname in America is Smith.  No surprise there.  The most common male first name is James.  But I never met a James or Jim Smith. 

The most common female name is Mary, which occurs over twice as often as the second most common name, Patricia.  This is shocking.  I never knew any Mary Smiths. 

Maybe I'll change my name to Mary Smith.  That would be cool. 

El Colegio

I was okay until the singing started.  Now I'm not so sure.

I have not wanted to admit this, but I am struggling a little with the fact that my daughter has been attending a catholic school.  It is referred to as a semi-private colegio, which (as the name implies) is also semi-public.  It used to be a private school, but somehow they did this thing a few years back where they absorbed all these private schools into the public school system but retained the religious aspects.  Hence, it has a "chapel" on the grounds - a name which calls to mind a little churchy outbuilding, doesn't it? - and I thought this was endearing until I saw the monstrous ampitheatre with its full circumference packed with stained glass images of biblical tableaus. 

But in a fit of self-righteousness I decided that my liberal attitude extends also to the religious peoples of the world: that they have as much right as anyone to believe in whatever they choose to believe, even if it includes saints and miracles and resurrection and rosaries and the original sin.  Besides, I live in a catholic country, and someone needs to educate my child about all "that stuff", and it sure as heck is not going to be me.

Then the singing began.  It started like this:

Su madre se llama María,      (His mother is called María)

su padre se llama José,     (His father is called José)

Y el pequeño bebe es Jesus...   (And the little baby is Jesus...)

Ya llegó Navidade...     (Christmas has arrived...)

(repeat with more verses about Magis and etceteras)

This, in itself, didn't bother me much.  I even rationalized that she is learning the "real" story of xmas and not just the Santafied version.  A history lesson, of sorts.  But then, the next song came:

El día, la noche     (The day, the night...)

Las estrellas, y el sol     (The stars, and the sun...)

Todo, todo, todo ha regalado por Dios     (Everything, everything, everything is given by God)

Everything is given by God?!  Everything and everything?  This was starting to rub me the wrong way, but it was still vaguely justifiable; until she came home with this one:

Hola Dios, estoy aqui.     (Hello God, I am here.)

Gracias a ti para dar-me la vida...     (Thank you for giving me life.)

I looked at her singing her little song and wanted to say, No, Isabel... God didn't give you life... I gave you life... there were eggs and sperm involved and a good deal of gestating... and then a hospital and breastmilk and diapers and keeping you warm and safe... and life - your life - requires quite a bit of care and responsibility so you need to know how to swim and how to look both ways before you cross the street and to always use your seatbelt and about a thousand other things that have nothing whatsoever to do with sacraments and holy communions, so how about reciting those ABC's so you can read the warning labels printed on the bottles of household cleaners one of these days, hmm?

But, no, I couldn't bring myself to say it because I don't want to be *that* kind of mother, or *that* kind of citizen; not to mention all those practical reasons that involve three-year-olds and teachers and sex education and religious beliefs held for over two thousand years.  Instead, I clapped my hands and smiled broadly and said, "Muy bien, mi hija, tú es una buena cantadora." 

She has only been attending el colegio for 2-1/2 months.  What will become of her after a few years of this?

And let's not mention to anyone that she has never been baptized.  I have at least 4 more years until I have to think about a first communion; I'll figure something out by then. 

Something.

Something Worth Celebrating

I did not go to Portugal this weekend because it looks like next weekend is a better candidate due to the holiday on Thursday, which is Spanish Constitution Day.  Many people take off on Friday and turn it into a four-day weekend, so that might make more sense.  Maybe. 

It is amazing to think that Portugal and Spain were under dictatorship until 1974/1975.  Francisco Franco was the Spanish Head of State for 36 years, and Salazar was the dictator in Portugal for 38 years.

In Italy, Benito Mussolini was the prime minister for 21 years early last century.  Saddam Hussein was the President of Iraq for 24 years until he was deposed, captured, imprisoned, and brutally executed last year.  Fidel Castro ruled Cuba for 47 years before transferring responsibilities to his younger brother last year. 

We may joke or grumble about the Bush family in the presidency for a combined 12 years, but we Americans really don't have a clue what it must be like to live under the same regime, in the same political atmosphere for years and years and years.  Since I was born, there have been eight U.S. Presidents.  Each transfer of power was non-violent and the result of a democratic process.  We know that no matter what, George W is leaving in about a year and someone else will step in.  For me there is something comforting in this: that our country is structured for change, and that this change will come peaceably.

With all the tapas and tourists and the booming economy, I tend to forget that Spain is still relatively new to modern democracy.  In fact, you could even say that it has surpassed America in its approach to certain social issues.  Same-sex marriages have been legal here for over two years, and allows full adoption rights to gay couples. 

Now that's something to celebrate.

Dirty Thirty

Here we are: 30 days, 30 posts.  I would love to keep this up forever but it seems I may be dashing off to Portugal this weekend to check in on someone who is sick.  It will be cold and sad and internetless.  Which is sort of sad, too. 

I thought posting everyday would pose some sort of challenge but it turns out to be easy peasy.  Logistically speaking, it was a bit tricky there when I was in Belgium and Germany, but besides that it was a cinch.  I'm built for stamina.  So, in celebration of this new achievement (which is seriously no big deal, especially when you do not have to adhere to any silly self-imposed standards of "quality" or "cheekiness"), I will now talk about sex.  That's right: sex.  Ess-ee-ex.  That spells sex.

Do I have your attention now?  Good, because what I really want to talk about is Derrida and post-structuralist theory.  I was just using sex to grab your attention.  The old bait-and-switch.  Heh.  Nah, not really.  Don't worry, I'm not going to go there again.  Although, he is sort of cute.  I mean, you know, when he was alive and all.

And who could resist a name like Jacques?  Hoo.  I would do him.

...

(I would like to take this opportunity to point out something truly startling: there are no search results when you Google "sex with dead philosopher".  Really, I'm feeling very alone at this moment.)

It's Magic

My daughter, Isabel, she's great.  Our favorite game goes like this:

Her:  Let's play Abracadabra.

Me:  Sure.  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  A lion!

Me:  Okay, a lion.

Her (in an attack stance):  ROWR!

Me:  Ahhh!  Okay... okay... Abracadabra, you are... a kitten!

Her (on all fours):  Mew, mew.  (licks her paw)

Me:  Abracadabra, you are... a pirate!

Her (brandishing a sword):  Arrrgggghhh!

Me:  Good one!  Abracadabra, you are... a little bird.

Her (flapping arms and running):  Piu-piu, piu-piu.

Me:  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  A lion!

Me:  No... not again...

Her:  A chiquitita (little-bitty) lion?

Me:  Okay, a chiquitita lion.

Her:  rowr!

Me:  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  rowr!

Me:  You are a...

Her:  rowr! ...rowr! 

Me:  No, no more lions!  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  It's my turn.

Me:  Your turn?  Okay, um...

Her:  Abracadabra, you are... a bookcase.

Me:  ...

Her:  ...

Me:  It's my turn again.  Abracadabra, you are... a monkey.

Her (scratching underarms and making doofy faces):  Oooh-oooh, Oooh-oooh-oooh.

Me: Excelente!  Now...

Her:  ROWR!

And so on.

I can't imagine that any age is going to be as much fun (for me) as this 3-year-old stage. 

The Corporate Saussure

I'm all wrapped up in work today, so I thought I would share a little of that.  Here is an email I composed today to a subcontractor who informed me after he completed the fieldwork that (a) he did not have the support he needed, and (b) that the presence of our field engineer/supervisor was "not required":

Dear ****,

With regard to your remarks, I have a few observations:

We understand your requirement for a helper and we had communicated this to the customer at both *(site1)* and *(site2)*.  In both cases the customer provided ***** personnel to support your specialists.  I admit, at *(site1)*  this was more difficult to accomplish due to a shortage of personnel; however, *(site2)* consistently provided support.  If, as you say, this was not sufficient, it is the first time I am hearing about it.  In the future, if you find that the support you receive is not to your satisfaction, I hope we can have a candid conversation about it during the field work and resolve it promptly.

Mr. *(ourperson)* was present at *(site2)* during this period to coordinate and supervise the work, interface with the customer, ensure communication despite the language barriers, and lend his assistance for troubleshooting.  This is his role on our projects.  There are several problems with the *(site2)* systems as I am sure you are aware.  Our scope of work requires an evaluation of the systems, which includes but is not limited to the *(yourareaofexpertise)*.  I am finding the information I received from you for the *(site1)**  project to be a bit incomplete, in terms of an "evaluation".  This is something I need to address with you soon so that I can finalize a report of that work.  *(Site2)* is a different situation, and here we have two operating systems with minor problems which do not have a serious impact on the functionality of the systems (as was the case at *(site1)*).  At any rate this work is not simple, not standardized, and no template currently exists for how to best perform a systems evaluation of this nature, so I expect that we will work together to achieve the stated objectives to everyone's satisfaction.  I have no firm preconceptions about how this should be best performed, except that I think the types of tests performed should be similar to a system commissioning during a startup.  Certainly this is something we need to discuss and improve further as this type of "specialized maintenance event" becomes (hopefully) more routine.

I believe a mutual understanding is important to accomplish this type of work, so please feel free to express your concerns to me and you can expect my sincere attention to the matter.

Also, I would like to point out that *(mycompany)* has extended a generous amount of trust in *(yourcompany)* by pre-paying for the work at *(site2)*  This is a huge exception to our policy, paying for services months in advance of receiving them.  However, I am happy to extend my trust to *(yourcompany)* based on your reputation in the industry, even though I have no previous direct working experience with you.  I expect that you and your staff extend a certain amount of trust to *(mycompany)* as well, and that includes open communication about issues and problems.

Having said all this, I would like to add that I look forward to our continued working relationship.

Best Regards,

*(me)*

I just realized that this probably makes no sense at all without the backstory and with all those dang ****'s.  But that's what I have today.  I don't know, folks: seventeen years in this business and I am still shocked by the games people play.  Naívete dies hard.

What I find useful about this exchange is that I finally understand what it means to be a "transparent" company.  This buzzword has been thrown around corporate circles recently and I have been trying to decipher the meaning of it; I even brought it up in a recent management meeting. I asked, What does transparency mean? (apparently I take the "no such thing as a stupid question" proverb literally, and a bit far sometimes).  No one rushed forth to tackle that question, but eventually I gathered that it has something to do with communication and visibility.

Now I have this subcontractor who serves as a tangible example of an extremely non-transparent company.  I have defined something by what it is not.  Saussure did that, and if this method was good enough for a 19th-century french linguist, it's good enough for me.  Actually, he just did it with words; I'm doing it with corporations.  In the future I think I'll start referring to myself as "the Corporate Saussure" in management meetings and see their reaction.

In fact, it's not fair of me to say that these are merely games that people play.  These projects require the involvement of Germans, Americans, Spaniards, and Portuguese all working together, typically using english as the common language.  It's only natural that clouds of doubt and a fog of confusion are muddling up our cherished transparency.  This is the fundamental human condition: that no one of us is ever truly visible to the other.  When cultural and language barriers are added on top of that, we have some major obstacles to overcome just to understand each other on the most basic level.  More and more, I am learning that it is something I really, really have to work at.

 

Powerless

I arrived to my office this morning to discover that there was no power.  The circuit breakers all appeared to be working.  I briefly wondered if it is possible that our power had been cut off by the electric company, but that didn't seem possible because our payments are automatically withdrawn from the bank account.  So I called the landlord. 

Now the problem seems to be that our office is in a flat which is identified as 3-Der-B.  That means 3rd floor (which is actually the 4th floor, in Euro-speak), Derecha (right side), and we are the "B".  Except that there is nothing indicating that we are "B", or that the other apartment here is "A".

The current theory is that we have been paying our neighbor's electric bill these past few months, and their bill has been unpaid because they haven't received it.  Or something like that.  Anyhow, extension cords have been run through windows and along floors and we are functioning, but no lights or air conditioning.  The result?  Peeing in the bathroom is very, very dark... and my fingers are cold.  So cold.

Brrr.

I'm still trying to decide what I think about this posting-every-day thing.  I don't know.  There is certainly a tendency to just jump in and put down whatever crap is rolling around in the noodle.  Which, I suppose, is the point of the exercise.  Hmmm.  Time and distance will have to judge this one.  Until then, I am powerless.

Because It's Good for Your Karma

Would anyone like to do my job for me while I screw around for the next few weeks?  I am prepared to reward you with karma points.  Lots and lots of happy, happy karma points.  Additional karma points can be earned by cooking hot meals and serving them to me while I am piled beneath warm, cozy blankets on the couch. 

Cold hard cash will be paid to anyone who invents a book holder/pageturner which does not require the use of my hands, or a mouse that points and clicks simply by blinking one's eyes.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It's hard to type the word karma without recalling an incident some years ago which involved a former hippyish friend and her little boy.  (clarification: former friend, probably still hippyish.)

The boy was running around tearing up my house in classic wild-child style, when suddenly he fell down and started crying.  She leaned over him and said, You see?  Do you see what karma does to you!?

We weren't friends for much longer after that. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Which brings me to a grammatical question: if hippies are the plural form, is the singular form a hippie or a hippy?  Or are there no single hippies, preferring to congregate in groups? 

I'd like to think that the hippies wouldn't mind either spelling.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I think it's easy to see how my desire for rest and repose quickly degenerated into a discussion of hippies and karma.  Let me show you the math:

{(My)(Comfort)/x} = {(Your)(Karma)/x}

where x represents a real number, positive integer, or fraction thereof:

(%percent)(x) is a function of:   {(hippies)/(friendship)} + {1/(grammatical doubts)}

where, as friendship decreases, this value approaches infinity; however, if the number of hippies similarly decreases, this value approaches one.  It's what we in the biz call an inverse relationship.

Got it?  Therefore, hippies are mathematically proven to be bad for your karma.  Grammatical doubts, however, have very little impact.

Now, some pumpkin soup would be nice.  Or some sort of chowder.  A bisque would also be delightful.

Your next life is going to be great; I'm certain of it.

Groundwork

A tenacious red bouganvillea used to reside in my front yard. Over the years, I waged many battles against the large and prickly bush.  I have never known a plant with such a desire to live.

I tried to kill it any number of times: hacking it all the way to the ground, to a bare knob.  It thrived in spite of many amputations.  I cut it down until it was hardly a splintery nub, whacked its roots with a machete; but each time it grew back stronger and more recalcitrant.

It returned sweetly, inoffensively, as a tiny shoot with harmless new-green leaves; then before I knew it, more substantial branches would emerge, tentacles inching their way forward with each wet summer day.

After many thwarted attempts I finally I took a shovel and dug it up, a more difficult task than it first seemed.  I followed every tendril back and back until I had removed each one.  Sprays of dirt showered down on me as I tugged and pryed its roots.  Nevertheless, I attacked it with cold and methodical determination.  It took me hours, an entire day, to completely unearth it.

Afterward, a mound of tangled and misshapen limbs lay in the yard on a bed of heart-shaped leaves.  Having left no trace of it in the ground, I finally felt satisfied it would never recover.

I stood there covered in sweat and earth, leaning against the shovel, my palms sore and my legs torn from dozens of tiny wounds, and I stared at the spot where it used to be.  The ground was now stripped bare and starkly revealed the shabbiness of the front walkway.  I paused, trying to adjust my mind to this new reality, wondering how I would fill this emptiness, how I could distract one's eyes from this pitiful entryway toward something more presentable.

Finally I shook my head, exhausted from the day's efforts.  Something low-maintenance, I thought, watching a lizard scurry up the stucco wall, presumably in search of new quarters after I had leveled his residence.  I inspected my arms, covered in pinpricks.  Something without thorns.

I still dream about it, that it has grown too big, that I am cutting it with large clippers, shorning it.  The branches fall around me, their prickly thorns grazing my skin, scratching me lightly.

And when I awake, I strain to remember if it is still there, if perhaps a bit has survived, if tiny shoots are still stirring, somewhere, in the ground.

Harsh

I was late returning books to the library.  Very late, almost a month. 

The punishment?  My library card is suspended until 29 March 2008. 

I asked the librarian, How does that work?

She shrugged and said, It's not me, it's the computer that decides how long your card is suspended.

Some days it's not surprising that the Inquisition thrived here for so many years.

Tautological Post

In my mind, I think that the basic fundamentals of a living conciousness still continue to perplex me, but this is limited only to feeling emotionally confounded at 2 am in the morning.

(I inanely composed that dreadful monstrosity of repetitive tautology for no good reason.)

(And that one as well.)

(This could go on for a while.)

Would anyone else like to attempt composing a sentence with 7 or more instances of redundancy?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

In other news, I am here to impart knowledge which I have scrupulously gathered from the internets: today I learned that vegetarians who eat fish but not meat may be referred to as demi-vegetarians, or pescatarians.  Alternatively, you could say, I am a vegetarian who eats fish. 

Also?  A group of butterflies is called a rabble.  Or you could say a group of butterflies. 

Either way.

And for those of you keeping score at home, the exchange rate is now at 1.483 USD/Euro.

At the moment, that's all I have right now.

(And so on, etc.)

Art... in Context

In the past few weeks Isabel has created scores of drawings which all contain the same elements: sun, grass, flowers, clouds (sometimes referred to as "birds"), girl, and house. 

I always enjoy the sense of proportion and scale in these pictures.  As portrayed in this archetypical example of her art, the flowers are invariably larger than the girl, the sun, the clouds, and the house (shown in blue, bottom left, and yes I had to ask what it was).  After viewing dozens of these mini-masterpieces, I realized at long last that if one were to include tangerine trees and marmalade skies, we would have an adequate representation of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. 

Anyway.

Several months ago I read this fascinating piece about how violin virtuoso Joshua Bell decided to conduct an interesting social experiment.  He dressed up in jeans and a t-shirt and played the role of a street performer one morning to pedestrians in busy downtown DC.  How do you suppose these roughly 1,100 people who passed by during his 47-minute performance reacted to an acclaimed concert violinist passionately performing his art?  How would you react? 

The article raises a lot of questions about whether ordinary people can recognize genius, or appreciate beauty, when encountered out of context. 

Let's just say that this gave me a lot to ponder.  As an adoring mother I can clearly see the beauty in Isabel's crude illustrations.  After all, I have optimum conditions for appreciation of her efforts.  And street performers?  I find myself stopping more often now to hear them play, paying more attention, and being considerably more generous. 

In Neutral

I will never understand driving in this city.

Even in the most desperate parking situations, I cannot bring myself to double-park.  I know, everybody does it; apparently it's legal as long as you leave your vehicle in neutral.  At least once a week I have to push someone's car out of the way so I can exit my parking spot.  Then push it back. 

You wouldn't believe it.  I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe it. 

In other news:  Linear thinking has temporarily been restored to this blog. 

Don't hold your breath, though.

Doubt

On the tree, on the branch, the nest tries to unravel itself; its twigs intertwined, a construct of things and places and events.  Only a bird would find this bit of straw so useful.  Only a bird, I say.  The nest, still intact, falls to the ground.  The hatchlings have flown away.  It is no longer a nest.

Another day comes.  An unendlessness for the living.  Three billion heartbeats, wasting away.  I count and re-count them, then factor them into solar days: the least common denominator.  We all must sleep.  And then, another day.

In the theatre, in the orchestra pit, I write the proof; the logic is flawless.  It is flat, all the way to the curvature of the horizon.  n = ab.  It is circular and perfect, except for the assumptions.  They are hanging lifelessly from a rope, from the rafters.  I strike them with a rod and they collapse, phantoms in a French opera.  They break into three billion tiny beetles and scurry away.  The variables tumble to the floor but the equal sign hangs in the air, glowing and gold.  The proof is gone, but the equal sign remains.

How can I deny existence of a God when this equal sign is glowing?  I must pull these pieces together; there will be gaps, there will be holes, but we can still recognize it, we can still hold onto it.  It is not gone.  It is my proof.  It still exists, and existence is essential.  It is the part that remains that matters, I am convinced.  The n is dented but still recognizable.  I sweep up the beetles, writhing on the floorboards.  I pull back the red velvet curtain from her face; two long pigtails with golden braided ropes.  The equal sign is where her eyes should be.  I must fix it.  Everything should be where it should be.

I am missing some of my heartbeats.  They rolled along the floor and bounced down the stairs and fell into the gutter.  Kneeling on the concrete, I peer through the slotted grate, watching them disappear in the current of sewage.  I sit up, imagining them pouring from some outfall, into a basin or ditch.  They turn into pearls and are swallowed by frogs.  That, as they say, is the end of that.

Alongside the gutter, alongside the curb, lies a castaway mesh of twigs and grass.  I think: it used to be something.  But what was it?  It used to be pieces and then it was something and now it isn't.  Now, I should say, it is something else.  An ant figure skates along it, tracing a celtic knot.  I spy a bit of straw, put it in my pocket.  Only a bird, I say.

And I recalculate.

Unlocking the Secrets of the Gifted Class

Even before I begin to write, I am already thinking of a way to talk about this without sounding snotty, or pretentious, or overprivileged, or proud.  And that is part of it, I think.  That is part of what we learned: humility.

A hard lesson to learn, that one.  But not so hard as the lessons that the other people had to learn.  No, not so hard. 

That is because I am educated and I am American and I am white.  My demographic is the center of the world, just ask us. 

A little background is in order.  My elementary school - the place where I was first identified as gifted - was predominantly black and poor.  A small population of white kids were bussed in from the next town over.  Integration, they called it.  I was not one of those, though; I happened to live in the school's district.  I was one of the few.

In my mind I cannot separate the experience of being in the gifted class from its beginnings, those early days when we ten or twelve students attended class in a "portable", physically removed from the rest of the school.  There were only a few of us from each grade so they mixed us together.  We made breakfast and our teacher played guitar and read The Hobbit and engaged us in competitive games like, Who Can Find this Word in the Dictionary the Fastest?  And I - always the competitive one - would strive to be the first to solve the riddle, or score the highest, or complete the tasks to utmost perfection.  A perfectionist, I was, but I am no longer.  Not like that.  I've let it go.  I'm embarrassed to even think about it.

Gifted class was unstructured, everything was posed as a game.  We had almost no rules, no rote learning methods.  It was spontaneous.  It included exercises like donning blindfolds and walking around the playground in order to imagine what it must be like to be blind.  We made a rocket.  We learned disco dancing.

I don't remember any books in there, not until I was ten.  Just the dictionaries.

I do remember feeling that what we did in gifted class was somehow secret, that it was so unconventional that we should not mention our activities to anyone outside of the class.  When questioned about what we did during those hours, we would invariably say that we learned grammar and arithmetic.  We would never mention how we sat in a circle - eyes closed - and imagined being a cougar, or a wolf; imagined our hands transforming into paws and racing on all fours through the woods.  We would never have admitted that we secretly thought it was possible to turn into a bird and fly away, if only we concentrated hard enough.

You might suppose that we thought of ourselves as special or elite, but that wasn't it, not exactly.  We felt as though our activities were not truly sanctioned and, therefore, we were getting away with all this free play at school.  Perhaps we felt we were frauds.

One of the boys in my class was black - my best friend in the third grade, Elliott Fuller - and I always loved his name for all of its double consonants - but everyone else in gifted class was white. 

If I was ever hated or ostracized for being white, I never noticed it.  It's entirely possible that I was.  Everyone is a racist.  Not everyone is a hateful racist, but we are all birds with our respective feathers: blacks, whites, asians, north americans, europeans... gays, rich folks, intellectuals, potheads, Nascar fans.  We are each a certain way.  If you deny it, you are lying.  Let's not pretend to be the same.  It may make you feel less alone or more human or gratifyingly liberal, but in the end we are different.  If we pretend to be alike, it will be just one more secret between us. 

So I was white and American and - starting in the second grade - I was in the gifted class.  The Gifted Class.  This is because I scored well on exams, possessing a preternatural gift for finding the correct answer on test questions.  I never agonized over the answers like some of my classmates; to me, each question was invented by someone who put one correct response and three false answers on the sheet, and it was simply a matter of identifying the proper one.  I remember being aware of this even in the first grade.  It had little to do with actual knowledge, believe it or not; and if you don't believe it, ask anyone who was in gifted class and they will tell you the same thing.  I guarantee it.

At this point I did not notice any difference between us and the others: the ones in regular, non-gifted classes.  I didn't even notice I was white.  I should say, it didn't occur to me at that point that we were white and black.  These observations came later, in middle school.  The only time it crossed my mind was in the fifth grade, when a black boy taunted me.  James, that was his name, and he was large for his age.  One day he picked me up in the hallway and turned me upside-down until my dress fell down around my head and my panties showed.  I was upset about it: the raw physical contact, the embarrassment of it all.  I was called into the counselor's office and questioned about it.  About the black boy.  James.  What did he do to you? they wanted to know.  I didn't want to admit what happened, didn't want anyone to get into trouble, but there were too many eyewitnesses and eventually I caved. 

The boy apologized; he never touched me again.  He even tried to be nice to me.  I forgave him easily.  The truth was, I was shaken up for a few hours afterward but I didn't feel threatened or horribly upset about it, not in the way that I did after the wanker exposed himself to me when I was all alone on the road after school.  But that was much later, that was in high school.  And he was an adult, that wanker fellow, a very bad man who knew exactly what he was doing. 

James was just a child.  We both were children.  It didn't mean anything,

In this day and age, I know it would have been labeled a racial incident, but I never knew why he did that, if it was because I was white, or because I was in gifted class, or because I was a girl.  It may have even been that he was flirting with me, in a ten-year-old kind of way, that it was not a hostile act at all. 

I know one thing: it was harder for him than it was for me.  Like everything, I suppose.  After all, he was not gifted or white.  For me, it was not so hard.

No, not so hard at all.

Behind the 1070

I followed a bus the other day.  It was not intentional, not at first.  After noticing that I had been behind the monstrous vehicle for several blocks, I decided to follow it, if such an act could be called a decision.

I allowed myself to be swept along, a minnow in an afternoon tide.  We stopped in front of the University, then again at the Betis stadium. 

There I was in my own vehicle, free to do as I wanted, and I chose to follow the prescribed route and schedule of the city bus. 

In that moment of irony, if we can call it such a thing, I felt an extraordinary calm. 

Eventually, I lost it.  The bus turned and I stayed behind at a stoplight. 

Woken from my dream, I turned to the task at hand.

In a certain way, I think this explains a lot about me.

...

In Perspective

Since I started blogging every day in November, someone I know had a baby.  Someone else I know has been diagnosed with cancer.  Another person is in severe physical pain.  One person I know - no, make that two people - are emotionally depressed.  Two people I know are in the process of moving to new cities, new houses, and new jobs.  One person I know is taking care of her sick mother, another person is taking care of his sick father.  Another person's child is recovering from surgery.  A child of an acquaintance here fell off her veranda and has been in the hospital. 

And I ask myself, what the hell am I doing, writing all this nonsense?

On a side note, I don't think I could ever work in a place that has mannequins.  It would creep me out.

In Which I am Humbled by the Wisdom of The Internets

About two years ago Amazon.com told me to read a novel called Gilead.  This was not, I should say, a polite suggestion.  They (if you can refer to Amazon as a they) put it at the top of my recommended reading list.  They sent me emails about it.  It was on the first screen every time I went to the website.  It was getting ridiculous.

'Look, it's about an old preacher in Kansas,' I said, 'I'm not interested.' 

'Oh, yes you are,' they responded, 'We know what you like.'

I moved it to my shopping cart, thinking it would shut them up, but they were relentless.

'Really, this is not my thing,' I told them, 'It's about God and faith.  Come on, that's not me.'

'Have we ever led you wrong before?' they asked.

I ignored them, hoping that in time other recommendations would push it down the list until it would finally disappear into oblivion, but they insisted.

'I seriously think you should check your programming,' I said, 'This is about fathers and sons.  I am so not interested.  Do you see my use of italics there?  On the so?  That's because I'm not.  Interested.'

'But we know what you like,' they repeated, 'This is definitely you.'

'I highly doubt that,' I retorted.

'I highly doubt that,' they mimicked. 

I was fed up.  Enough was enough.  I bought it, shipped it, and placed it finally on my bookshelf, where it sat for months.  Until one day, I opened it. 

And I read. 

I had not read a novel in this way for so, so long.  Each page put me in a deep, pensive state.  What's more: it made me reach.  I felt my mind reaching.  It was strange to me, in the literal sense of the word: it was about God and the Bible and honoring thy father and... it was about finding grace.  It was philosophy, fictionalized in a way that allows us to see how the concepts take shape. 

I think what surprised me the most about it was its unconventional approach to storytelling.  That is to say, I think we read most novels and we identify - or hope to identify - with the protagonist.  But who can identify with a 76-year old, dying, small-town preacher?  The effect is that I recognized almost nothing of myself in this person except for his humanity; and that, let me tell you, is a powerful thing.

There were two ideas in the novel which especially stayed in my mind because, I suppose, they struck me as completely new concepts.  One was about the Ten Commandments, in which he (the main character, because the author is a woman) remarks that it seems to him that the first five have to do with the proper worship of God (thou shalt have no other gods, remember the Sabbath, etc.) and the last five have to do with right conduct towards other people (thou shalt not murder, commit adultery, steal, bear false witness, or covet thy neighbor's house/wife).  I had never thought of them in quite this way, but to be honest, I also could not name more than 3 or 4 Commandments prior to reading Gilead.

The other idea - the one that floored me - was contained in a long discourse about the Fifth Commandment, the one that instructs us to Honor Thy Father and Mother.  Ultimately, he concludes that a parent must love a child - this is what a parent owes to the child - whereas the child must simply exist.  To exist is sufficient, it is enough. 

I cannot express how this idea filled me with a certainty of its truth, and how accurately this describes my feelings for my own daughter. 

And how, in this tiny book, I remembered that reading is not about intellectualizing ideas; it is about finding something in the story, in the text, that reminds us of who we are.  That is grace, and it is remarkable.

Thank you, Amazon, you stubborn bastards.

Flat Vanessa

 

Dear Skyler,

Vanessa arrived last week after her long, first-class trip to Spain.  As I removed her from her suitcase, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Finally!" she said, "What took you so long?"

"I was in Belgium, Vanessa.  I just returned.  Did you have a nice trip?"

"It was long," she moaned, "and it's cramped in that envelope." 

I flattened her out on my desk and adjusted her necklace.  "Well, you are here now and we are going to do a little sightseeing here in Seville.  Do you speak any Spanish?"

"A little," she replied, "I can count to 10,000 and I know a few phrases."

"That's an excellent start, Vanessa.  Spanish is the third most-spoken language in the world.  It's a good one to learn."

"What's the first most-spoken language?  English?"

"No.  It's Mandarin Chinese, spoken by about a billion people.  English is the second most-spoken language."

"Oh.  I should probably learn some Chinese, then."

"It's not a bad idea," I observed.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

As the week passed, I sort of forgot about Vanessa.  "Things" got in the way.  She waited for me, though.  Finally, I picked her up off my desk.

"Well, today's the day, Vanessa.  Let's go see Seville!"

"It's about time," she grumbled.

I cast my eyes downward, "I know, Vanessa, and I'm really sorry.  Really, I am."  My apology hung in the air between us.  Vanessa said nothing.

"Can we go now?" I asked.

"Sure.  Let's do this," she responded.  Then, after a moment she vented her frustration, "It's just that I want to be someone special, I want to do something important with my life.  I want to leave my mark on the world."

"You are special, Vanessa.  I've... I've never known anyone quite like you."

"I need to do this," she repeated, "If not, I may do something... drastic."

"You wouldn't..." my voice trailed off as I quietly locked the cabinet where the scissors are kept.

"I might..." she said, "But don't worry: if I do, I'll be sure to recycle myself."

I was stunned.  Frankly, I was unprepared for this.  What do you say to a paper doll undergoing an emotional crisis?  I did not know, so I did what anyone would do in my situation: I changed the subject.

"Um, okay.  Let's go!" I said, but inwardly I knew that things were not right between us.  Perhaps a day in the pleasant sunshine of southern Spain would brighten her mood. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Vanessa and I spent a fabulous day together in Seville.  We toured the historic center, sat in the shade of a cool Spanish courtyard.

We admired the lovely dresses of the Flamenco dancers.

We passed by the massive cathedral, with the emblematic tower we know as La Giralda.

We basked in the Spanish architecture, so lovely, so European...

Finally, we came home.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The next day, Vanessa was in a better mood. 

"You look happy," I remarked.

"Oh, I most certainly am," she replied, "I thought of a way to leave my mark on this world."

"Well, that's great.  What do you have in mind?"

And then it hit me. 

I looked around my office and I saw it:

"No, Vanessa, you didn't..."

I knew it even before I saw the evidence: she had cloned herself.

Vanessa flashed her smile at me in obvious self-satisfaction.  "I think the next time I'm going to make a color copy," she remarked, more to herself than to me. 

"Oh, Vanessa..."

"Anyway, it doesn't matter.  I'm going out now."

"Going out?"

"Yes, with that nice flamenco guitar player we met on the street yesterday."

"The guitar player?"

She looked at me with a gleam in her eye.  "Sí, él es muy agradable y toca la guitarra muy bien."

"I see you have been practicing your Spanish."

"Por supuesto," she replied as she slipped out the door, leaving me alone with her clone. 

"Heh-heh, alone with the clone... that rhymes!" said the clone.

I sighed.  There's no one quite like you, Vanessa.

Love, Sue