The New York Times ran an article about Lou Dobbs, an anchor on otherwise subdued CNN (which cut the debate show Crossfire, because its viewers want facts and not opinions), who expresses his opinions in no uncertain terms. Slate points to Anderson Cooper whose ratings rose after he gave Louisiana senator Mary Landrieu a tongue-lashing for not doing enough after Hurricane Katrina. And Robert Fisk, British journalist and author, said in a talk at Columbia last year that journalists would be better off shedding the veneer of objectivity, and pointed out that papers on the other side of the Atlantic are already adopting this approach, successfully.
The American media has come under much criticism for being too credulous of the current White House and for leaving holes in the reporting of several issues related to this administration. The argument is that the majority of the media didn't look hard enough, didn't examine the statements made by the government closely enough, because doing so would have made them seem opposed to the administration, instead of passive observers. All too often, journalists do hide behind the excuse of objectivity to avoid hard-hitting journalism.
In the Columbia Journalism Review, Brent Cunningham argues that "objectivity" leads journalists to become passive recipients of news, rather than active analysers. For example, he writes, when Bush announced divident tax cuts, because he said people shouldn't be taxed on the same income twice, most of the media covered the story, but reported pretty much just what he said. Very few actually went deeper to find that there are several other taxes that could also apply to the same income, and actually questioned why he was proposing cuts only on dividend taxes and not on other taxes.
Cunningham points out that, often, editorials are much better researched because the editorial writer has to know and understand the subject well to be able for form an opinion. Thus, if this need for objectivity didn't exist, then journalists would be forced to examine the issues they write about in greater depth, and thus raise more potent questions. http://www.cjr.org/issues/2003/4/objective-cunningham.asp
I think the answer to this problem lies in the approach a journalist takes. When starting out, and when reporting a story, the reporter should approach it with no bias, with no preconceived notions. They must ensure that every angle is covered, and every side has a say. Then, when they are fully educated about the subject and understand it clearly, and begin the writing process, the opinion - well-researched and educated - can come in.
Particularly with the onslaught of blogs and other non-traditional media, news media do need to change the way they operate to compete effectively. These new forms of communication are changing the way people view and receive news, and makes them more receptive to opinions in their news. In fact, I think the way mainstream media can compete with bloggers and other sources today is to use their vast resources and already-established credibility (which relatively few blogs still have) to offer well-researched stories that do offer some well-informed opinion. But they also need to beware of leaning too far to the other side, and become vehicles of rants for or against an issue.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
A dorkess on the loose in New York City. . .
I learned a valuable New York City lesson today -- when you take a yellow cab, you wave vigorously (jumping and with both hands if possible), leap into the back seat as soon as one pulls up and tell the driver in no uncertain terms where he is to take you. You don't stand off to the side and wave timidly, go up to the driver of the fifth cab that's driven past and only stopped out of pity, and quietly ask if he'll take you to 72nd and Park.
How did you come to learn this magnificant lesson, Ini, you might ask.
Good reader, let me enlighten you. . .
I had an appointment this morning at 11:30 with a neurosurgeon, after waiting for a week (it was just for an interview, there's nothing wrong with me -- nothing, anyway, that a neurosurgeon can help with; then again. . . perhaps there is). But anyway, I digress. . .
I got off work at 10:30 and took the subway to 72nd Street with half an hour to get to the east side -- plenty of time. It was such a beautiful day that I decided to walk through Central Park, instead of taking the crosstown bus. Disastrous decision, I should have known -- no one with my sense of direction should attempt to walk through any place that doesn't have roads that form right-angled geometric shapes.
But, blissfully chosing to ignore this knowledge, I proceeded, with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Twenty minutes later, I was still in Central Park, still walking, minus the smile and spring. Panic began to set in. I was not going to make it by 11:30, and you don't keep a busy neurosurgeon waiting. I pictured myself telling him why I was late ("Ummm, I'm really sorry, doctor, but I got lost in Central Park) and started walking even faster.
Finally, at 11:30, I emerged on the other side of the park, and saw a sign saying "Fifth Avenue." Oh thank God! But I immediately realized that I had thanked the Almighty too soon. I looked at the cross street -- 59th Street.
I decided to take a cab, and it took me another ten minutes to figure out which direction I needed to go in, that the cabs were all going in the opposite direction because I was on a one-way street going the wrong way. I got my bearings, sprinted over to the right street, and finally, after missing five cabs because I was too timid to stand up and WAVE, one pulled over.
As I climbed in and collapsed, the driver turned around and with a stern look, gave me my first lesson in New York City Cab Hailing.
How did you come to learn this magnificant lesson, Ini, you might ask.
Good reader, let me enlighten you. . .
I had an appointment this morning at 11:30 with a neurosurgeon, after waiting for a week (it was just for an interview, there's nothing wrong with me -- nothing, anyway, that a neurosurgeon can help with; then again. . . perhaps there is). But anyway, I digress. . .
I got off work at 10:30 and took the subway to 72nd Street with half an hour to get to the east side -- plenty of time. It was such a beautiful day that I decided to walk through Central Park, instead of taking the crosstown bus. Disastrous decision, I should have known -- no one with my sense of direction should attempt to walk through any place that doesn't have roads that form right-angled geometric shapes.
But, blissfully chosing to ignore this knowledge, I proceeded, with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Twenty minutes later, I was still in Central Park, still walking, minus the smile and spring. Panic began to set in. I was not going to make it by 11:30, and you don't keep a busy neurosurgeon waiting. I pictured myself telling him why I was late ("Ummm, I'm really sorry, doctor, but I got lost in Central Park) and started walking even faster.
Finally, at 11:30, I emerged on the other side of the park, and saw a sign saying "Fifth Avenue." Oh thank God! But I immediately realized that I had thanked the Almighty too soon. I looked at the cross street -- 59th Street.
I decided to take a cab, and it took me another ten minutes to figure out which direction I needed to go in, that the cabs were all going in the opposite direction because I was on a one-way street going the wrong way. I got my bearings, sprinted over to the right street, and finally, after missing five cabs because I was too timid to stand up and WAVE, one pulled over.
As I climbed in and collapsed, the driver turned around and with a stern look, gave me my first lesson in New York City Cab Hailing.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Need a hole in the head? Just might!
I had quite an interesting interview the other day. . .
I'm working on a story on people who have drilled holes in their heads to increase the blood flow to the brain. I wanted to talk in particular to one man who runs a web site that advocates this practice and that links to writings and publications that support the theory that doing this gives a person a "permanent high," a completely altered consciousness, and a general feeling of clarity and happiness. When I first started working on this story, I called him, and he absolutely refused to talk to me, because he assumed the story was going to contain opinions of people who called people who do this a bunch of kooks and his role would be to refute them. I managed to convince him otherwise, and, as he was going out of town, arranged to talk to him on his return.
I called him last week to do the interview, and he was more than forthcoming with the information, which surprised me, given the fact that he initially refused to talk and pretty much hung up on me. But halfway through the two-hour interview, he said suddenly: "I had a dream about you last night."
"Oh?" This was a new twist. What kind of dream? Should I hang up now?
"Yeah," he went on. "I didn't know it was of you though until you called this morning."
"Oh."
"Yes, it was a good dream. . .I mean, it had a good feeling."
"Oh."
"Yes, it definitely was a good dream."
"So. . ." I ventured. "What was it about?"
"I dreamt that there was this person who had a tumour in their brain. And they had a hole drilled and the tumour was removed and they were fine," he said.
"Oh."
And then, "And you think that was me?" I asked.
"Yes, I do," he said. "I mean, I didn't know until you called, like I said, but now I know it was you. But, not that you have or will get a tumour or anything. But just that you would get it, get what this practice is all about."
"Oh."
"You do get it, right?"
"Ummm." I thought about it for a little while. And I realized that, in some strange way, I did get it. I mean, I'm not going to run out a drill a hole in my head -- not unless his dream actually comes true. But, after talking to him and three others, and reading all the literature about it, it actually does seem to make sense. At least I'm at a point now that I don't think they're all a bunch of crazy people. But I'm also not a die-hard advocate. Which means that I'm completely objective, which is a good thing to be when writing a story like this.
And, if his dream ends up coming true, I can point to yet another benefit of drilling a hole in the head!
I'm working on a story on people who have drilled holes in their heads to increase the blood flow to the brain. I wanted to talk in particular to one man who runs a web site that advocates this practice and that links to writings and publications that support the theory that doing this gives a person a "permanent high," a completely altered consciousness, and a general feeling of clarity and happiness. When I first started working on this story, I called him, and he absolutely refused to talk to me, because he assumed the story was going to contain opinions of people who called people who do this a bunch of kooks and his role would be to refute them. I managed to convince him otherwise, and, as he was going out of town, arranged to talk to him on his return.
I called him last week to do the interview, and he was more than forthcoming with the information, which surprised me, given the fact that he initially refused to talk and pretty much hung up on me. But halfway through the two-hour interview, he said suddenly: "I had a dream about you last night."
"Oh?" This was a new twist. What kind of dream? Should I hang up now?
"Yeah," he went on. "I didn't know it was of you though until you called this morning."
"Oh."
"Yes, it was a good dream. . .I mean, it had a good feeling."
"Oh."
"Yes, it definitely was a good dream."
"So. . ." I ventured. "What was it about?"
"I dreamt that there was this person who had a tumour in their brain. And they had a hole drilled and the tumour was removed and they were fine," he said.
"Oh."
And then, "And you think that was me?" I asked.
"Yes, I do," he said. "I mean, I didn't know until you called, like I said, but now I know it was you. But, not that you have or will get a tumour or anything. But just that you would get it, get what this practice is all about."
"Oh."
"You do get it, right?"
"Ummm." I thought about it for a little while. And I realized that, in some strange way, I did get it. I mean, I'm not going to run out a drill a hole in my head -- not unless his dream actually comes true. But, after talking to him and three others, and reading all the literature about it, it actually does seem to make sense. At least I'm at a point now that I don't think they're all a bunch of crazy people. But I'm also not a die-hard advocate. Which means that I'm completely objective, which is a good thing to be when writing a story like this.
And, if his dream ends up coming true, I can point to yet another benefit of drilling a hole in the head!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
With apologies to the Bart. . .
Ok, I know I'm dangerously close to becoming the crazy cat lady. . . but I had to put these up. I only have the little guy with me for two more months, so have to gather as much evidence of the "awwwww" moments as possible before then. . .
Good night. . . it's time for my
beauty sleep. . .
Look what they're selling in shoe stores now
. . . apparently he's an 8W!
Good night. . . it's time for my
beauty sleep. . .
Look what they're selling in shoe stores now
. . . apparently he's an 8W!
Seek and ye shall find? Maybe not. . .
Over the past few days, one message has been hammering away at me - don't obsessively seek and you will find. First it was in church - yes, the pastor did say DON'T seek, and Jesus did say DO seek, but I'll get to that . . . which I've been mulling over, and today, in an email that was forwarded to me, and in the events of my life over the past couple of weeks.
This is a good message for me - because I am an extremely impatient person. I am not really used to getting my own way all the time, but for some reason, when I have consciously gone after something, I want to see the effects of that action right away and sometimes go to great, even embarassing lengths to find them.
So in church, Pastor Tim told us that we shouldn't seek what we want, but rather, something greater than what we desire. "If you seek joy, you won't get joy. But if you seek God, you will get both God and joy. If you seek blessings, you won't get blessings. But if you seek to be righteous, then you will get both righteousness and blessedness."
In other words, if you seek selfishly, you will not get what you are seeking. But if you are selfless, if you look for something greater, something that transcends your smaller desire, that will ultimately have a much larger impact than the selfish thing you are seeking, you will achieve both.
And I realized that I have spent a lot of time seeking that good job, those (seemingly) perfect people in my life and that ever-ellusive perfect happiness. But, if I focus on serving God, a job that will make a difference (or at least not obsess so much about a job, period), and reaching out to people who need me, those things I am tempted to seek will come by themselves.
So what does this have to do with my impatience and need to have and know what I want NOW, NOW and NOW? Well, this need in me, I think, satisfies a small goal - will I get that internship I want? Or will that person I'm waiting to hear from write? Or will that one great connection I have do something to get me a good job? My impatience stems from my need to stay in control of my life, to have no unknown variables. Instead, if I learn to live with the unknowns, and aim for the things mentioned above, then the other things will fall into place.
Or so I hope anyway. . . because it takes a big person and lots of moral discipline to strive for such noble goals. . .
This is a good message for me - because I am an extremely impatient person. I am not really used to getting my own way all the time, but for some reason, when I have consciously gone after something, I want to see the effects of that action right away and sometimes go to great, even embarassing lengths to find them.
So in church, Pastor Tim told us that we shouldn't seek what we want, but rather, something greater than what we desire. "If you seek joy, you won't get joy. But if you seek God, you will get both God and joy. If you seek blessings, you won't get blessings. But if you seek to be righteous, then you will get both righteousness and blessedness."
In other words, if you seek selfishly, you will not get what you are seeking. But if you are selfless, if you look for something greater, something that transcends your smaller desire, that will ultimately have a much larger impact than the selfish thing you are seeking, you will achieve both.
And I realized that I have spent a lot of time seeking that good job, those (seemingly) perfect people in my life and that ever-ellusive perfect happiness. But, if I focus on serving God, a job that will make a difference (or at least not obsess so much about a job, period), and reaching out to people who need me, those things I am tempted to seek will come by themselves.
So what does this have to do with my impatience and need to have and know what I want NOW, NOW and NOW? Well, this need in me, I think, satisfies a small goal - will I get that internship I want? Or will that person I'm waiting to hear from write? Or will that one great connection I have do something to get me a good job? My impatience stems from my need to stay in control of my life, to have no unknown variables. Instead, if I learn to live with the unknowns, and aim for the things mentioned above, then the other things will fall into place.
Or so I hope anyway. . . because it takes a big person and lots of moral discipline to strive for such noble goals. . .
Monday, March 20, 2006
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Letting my hair down. . . or not
After promising Ficali for weeks that I would go to Keats to see what this Irish bar to beat all Irish bars was all about, I finally decided to make good on that promise last night.
So I joined her, Ilajna and Doobie at Keats, smack bang in the middle of the drunken revelry of St. Patrick's Day - and Karaoke Night. By the time I got there, the three of them, and a few friends of theirs, had already been there for several hours, belted out at least three songs and imbibed a signicant amount of alcohol. So, when I, a "karaoke virgin," as one of the staff of Keats christened me, arrived on the scene, stone sober and not inclined to making a fool of myself, Ficali seriously informed me: "You know we've been here since 5:00. So, you'd better gulp down your beer quickly so you can catch up with us."
"Oh ok," I said.
But, as the evening progressed, I could not get down more than a couple of beers in my efforts to "catch up." And, I could not bring myself to get up on stage even once, or loosen up more than to move a little bit to the music, and let out the occasional "whoo!" I'm not particularly conscious about my voice - I've sung in school productions, choirs and have even taken private singing lessons. But I just couldn't bring myself to even open my mouth, even from the floor - even to Ficali's plea of "One line, please, just one line."
I still had fun - I laughed a lot, which I hadn't done for a while, I was tickled pink by some of the performers (not excluding Ficali, Ilajna and Y, who certainly didn't share my trepidation) and I had an interesting coversation in the loo line with a blind drunk Indian social work student from NYU.
But I couldn't let go.
On my way back home, I reflected on this, and I came to the conclusion that I'm an observer. Whether by choice or otherwise, I am unable to lose myself in situations, no matter how intense or engrossing. On almost every occasion when others around me let go and throw all caution to the winds, I find myself an onlooker - part of the proceedings, but still somehow detached from what is going on around me, almost giving myself a running commentary on what is happening. I still enjoy myself, but much like one would enjoy a movie: looking on, enjoying what is happening on screen, but not participating.
I can only remember one instance - which, I must admit, involved a significant amount of alcohol - when I came anywhere near forgetting myself, and letting go completely. One time! And I've lived a quarter of a century!
I am very disturbed by this knowledge. Why am I so unable to let go? Why do I always feel the need to step back and be an observer, rather than participate? Why am I so unable to lose myself, to completely let go, and be willing to get totally into a situation? Is it because I'm boring? Uptight? Self-conscious? Old? Or do I just plain not drink enough? Any budding shrinks want to take a stab?
So I joined her, Ilajna and Doobie at Keats, smack bang in the middle of the drunken revelry of St. Patrick's Day - and Karaoke Night. By the time I got there, the three of them, and a few friends of theirs, had already been there for several hours, belted out at least three songs and imbibed a signicant amount of alcohol. So, when I, a "karaoke virgin," as one of the staff of Keats christened me, arrived on the scene, stone sober and not inclined to making a fool of myself, Ficali seriously informed me: "You know we've been here since 5:00. So, you'd better gulp down your beer quickly so you can catch up with us."
"Oh ok," I said.
But, as the evening progressed, I could not get down more than a couple of beers in my efforts to "catch up." And, I could not bring myself to get up on stage even once, or loosen up more than to move a little bit to the music, and let out the occasional "whoo!" I'm not particularly conscious about my voice - I've sung in school productions, choirs and have even taken private singing lessons. But I just couldn't bring myself to even open my mouth, even from the floor - even to Ficali's plea of "One line, please, just one line."
I still had fun - I laughed a lot, which I hadn't done for a while, I was tickled pink by some of the performers (not excluding Ficali, Ilajna and Y, who certainly didn't share my trepidation) and I had an interesting coversation in the loo line with a blind drunk Indian social work student from NYU.
But I couldn't let go.
On my way back home, I reflected on this, and I came to the conclusion that I'm an observer. Whether by choice or otherwise, I am unable to lose myself in situations, no matter how intense or engrossing. On almost every occasion when others around me let go and throw all caution to the winds, I find myself an onlooker - part of the proceedings, but still somehow detached from what is going on around me, almost giving myself a running commentary on what is happening. I still enjoy myself, but much like one would enjoy a movie: looking on, enjoying what is happening on screen, but not participating.
I can only remember one instance - which, I must admit, involved a significant amount of alcohol - when I came anywhere near forgetting myself, and letting go completely. One time! And I've lived a quarter of a century!
I am very disturbed by this knowledge. Why am I so unable to let go? Why do I always feel the need to step back and be an observer, rather than participate? Why am I so unable to lose myself, to completely let go, and be willing to get totally into a situation? Is it because I'm boring? Uptight? Self-conscious? Old? Or do I just plain not drink enough? Any budding shrinks want to take a stab?
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
How can you not love him?!?!?!
My Columbia News Service (CNS) prof has officially become my favourite. This is the email he sent out to editors of newspapers who use our stories. . .(the first line is to the students)
Dear CNS Crew--Wouldn't you be moved? bp
Begin forwarded message:
TO: FEATURE EDITORS
FROM: COLUMBIA NEWS SERVICE
SUBJECT: PLEASE REMEMBER TO SEND BACK CLIPS
SOME OF YOU HAVE EARNED PERMANENT PLACES IN THE HEARTS OF COLUMBIA STUDENTS FOR RESPONDING TO OUR PLEAS TO SEND BACK TEAR SHEETS OF CNS STORIES THAT RUN IN YOUR PAPER.
FOR THE OTHERS, WE ARE RESERVING A PLACE FOR YOU IN THEIR HEARTS, BUT WE HAVE YET TO RECEIVE ANY CLIPS!!
DON'T YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST BY-LINE? THE THRILL OF SEEING YOUR NAME IN PRINT? HOW LARGE IT LOOMED IN YOUR LIFE?
SO, PLEASE, REMEMBER THOSE WITHOUT CLIPS AT THIS JOB-HUNTING TIME OF THE YEAR. AND TEAR OUT THE CNS STORY AND PICTURE WHEN THEY RUN IN YOUR PAPER, SLAP A STAMP ON THE ENVELOPE AND RETURN IT TO ME.
OUR STUDENTS WILL REMAIN ETERNALLY GRATEFUL.
And some people are as enamoured of the class. . . clearly
>>>>
Dear CNS Crew--Wouldn't you be moved? bp
Begin forwarded message:
TO: FEATURE EDITORS
FROM: COLUMBIA NEWS SERVICE
SUBJECT: PLEASE REMEMBER TO SEND BACK CLIPS
SOME OF YOU HAVE EARNED PERMANENT PLACES IN THE HEARTS OF COLUMBIA STUDENTS FOR RESPONDING TO OUR PLEAS TO SEND BACK TEAR SHEETS OF CNS STORIES THAT RUN IN YOUR PAPER.
FOR THE OTHERS, WE ARE RESERVING A PLACE FOR YOU IN THEIR HEARTS, BUT WE HAVE YET TO RECEIVE ANY CLIPS!!
DON'T YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST BY-LINE? THE THRILL OF SEEING YOUR NAME IN PRINT? HOW LARGE IT LOOMED IN YOUR LIFE?
SO, PLEASE, REMEMBER THOSE WITHOUT CLIPS AT THIS JOB-HUNTING TIME OF THE YEAR. AND TEAR OUT THE CNS STORY AND PICTURE WHEN THEY RUN IN YOUR PAPER, SLAP A STAMP ON THE ENVELOPE AND RETURN IT TO ME.
OUR STUDENTS WILL REMAIN ETERNALLY GRATEFUL.
And some people are as enamoured of the class. . . clearly
>>>>
Monday, March 13, 2006
I'm not cut out for this kind of work. . .
This semester is proving to be a real trial. Frankly, I'm enjoying the classes a lot more, and it's so much less work than last semester, when I had to go down to my extremely fun and happening beat in Jamaica, Queens - or the ends of the earth as I prefer to call it - constantly. Add to that classes during the day, and work, all of which took up huge chunks of time, allowing me very little time to actually go down to Jamaica. So, I was constantly running around like crazy, staying up till 2 or 3, and then waking up at about 7 again the next morning, trying to catch up, and always feeling like I was behind. My source of stress last semester was that I had more work than I could keep up with.
This semester is a completely different story. I have three classes, all of which are in the evenings, and one of which requires minimal work outside of class. The other two do have a significant amount of work, but most of it is done on the phone or by email. Which means that, aside from the about 15 hours I spend at my job, I'm sitting at home in front of the computer. I don't dare move more than a six foot radius away from my computer, for fear that I might get abducted by aliens and never return and thus not meet my deadlines. I am afraid to step outside even to do some reading for class, for fear that I'll lose my precious "reporting time". The problem is that there are a lot of down times when I'm waiting for someone to call me back, or when I literally don't have much to do. But, neurotic as i am, I'm afraid that if I use this time to do other things, then I'm wasting my "reporting time" on things that can be done outside of the 9-5 slot when my sources will be at work, and thus accessible. My stress this semester, therefore, comes from the fact that I feel like I am not busy enough - surely I should be tearing my hair out, since that was what I was doing at this time last semester (remember, Emio?!?!)
This is not fun. I am an introvert and I like my "me" time, but there is also only so much of "me" that I can take - and frankly "me" is starting to get on me nerves. And all this is resulting in posts like the one about Google chat, which I felt so stupid about that I felt compelled to take down.
Save me from myself!!
This semester is a completely different story. I have three classes, all of which are in the evenings, and one of which requires minimal work outside of class. The other two do have a significant amount of work, but most of it is done on the phone or by email. Which means that, aside from the about 15 hours I spend at my job, I'm sitting at home in front of the computer. I don't dare move more than a six foot radius away from my computer, for fear that I might get abducted by aliens and never return and thus not meet my deadlines. I am afraid to step outside even to do some reading for class, for fear that I'll lose my precious "reporting time". The problem is that there are a lot of down times when I'm waiting for someone to call me back, or when I literally don't have much to do. But, neurotic as i am, I'm afraid that if I use this time to do other things, then I'm wasting my "reporting time" on things that can be done outside of the 9-5 slot when my sources will be at work, and thus accessible. My stress this semester, therefore, comes from the fact that I feel like I am not busy enough - surely I should be tearing my hair out, since that was what I was doing at this time last semester (remember, Emio?!?!)
This is not fun. I am an introvert and I like my "me" time, but there is also only so much of "me" that I can take - and frankly "me" is starting to get on me nerves. And all this is resulting in posts like the one about Google chat, which I felt so stupid about that I felt compelled to take down.
Save me from myself!!
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Am I an ESL student?
The other day, as I left my Computer-Assister Reporting class, I found myself marching down the stairs in step with the professor who teaches that class. It was an awkward moment - I've never spoken to him outside of class, and was not sure whether to try to make conversation or continue on silently. I decided on the former, especially since he kept glancing my way, as if expecting me to say something.
"I think I'm starting to get it," I said, referring to what we were learning in the class. Now, this might seem like a strange thing to say out of the blue, but I've been a little confused in that class, and he knew it, so it didn't startle him too much.
"Well. . ." he ventured. "That's good."
I decided to plunge ahead. "Yeah, I know. I think I just needed some practice. Sometimes, the problem was that I'd look away from what you were doing, and then I wouldn't know what to do and then not be able to keep up after that. But now, I get it more, so I can figure it out."
"Hmmmm," he said. Then, perhaps sensing that that wasn't enough, and he needed to express more sympathy for a struggling student, he plowed on. "Well, if I had to learn all this in a second language, I would have a hard time too."
It took a second for that comment to sink in. When it did, it took another one for me to react, to decide whether to be angry or amused. It's been a while since I have received comments on my "surprisingly good English", and while I used to laugh and shrug it off before, I was shocked to find that the comment bothered me more than it ever had.
Not knowing how to respond, I continued walking down quietly. Sensing the awkward silence, he seemed to realize that what had been intended as a sort of compliment had somehow gone awry. "Or is it your third or fourth language?" he stumbled on.
Now I felt a little sorry for him. "Well," I said, "I speak a couple of other languages, not very well. But English is more like my first language. I've been speaking it almost all my life and know it better than my own language."
"Oh," he said. "But still. . ." He gave up and changed tactics. "I know a little Russian," he went on. "But only the bad words."
I laughed politely.
Mercifully, we'd reached the outside of the building by now, and we both beat hasty retreats in opposite directions after hurried goodbyes.
As I walked home, I played that conversation, and my reaction to it, over in my mind. I generally laugh off incidents like this, but I was shocked at the anger I had felt at his assumption that I had difficulty understanding English because my accent is not American. Is it because I have become more insecure about my own identity? Or because I expected better from a professor at Columbia University - and a New York Times reporter, no less? Or was it simply because I have become more sensitive - and less forgiving - in the time that has elapsed since my college days? Or perhaps a mix of all three?
I feel like I did overreact, but I also think that, especially in today's increasingly globalized world, people like me are more entitled to become angry at assumptions like this. And people like him, especially reporters (that part probably annoys me more than anything else) need to stop putting people in boxes and labeling them based on the way they look or speak.
I had the same class again yesterday, and perhaps because I'm finally getting what we're learning, or perhaps because of a determination to show him that I am not lacking in English skills, I found myself speaking up a lot more - both answering and asking questions more boldly than I have done so far. So I guess some good came out of that:-)
But it will be a while before I forget this incident, and my own surprising reaction to it.
"I think I'm starting to get it," I said, referring to what we were learning in the class. Now, this might seem like a strange thing to say out of the blue, but I've been a little confused in that class, and he knew it, so it didn't startle him too much.
"Well. . ." he ventured. "That's good."
I decided to plunge ahead. "Yeah, I know. I think I just needed some practice. Sometimes, the problem was that I'd look away from what you were doing, and then I wouldn't know what to do and then not be able to keep up after that. But now, I get it more, so I can figure it out."
"Hmmmm," he said. Then, perhaps sensing that that wasn't enough, and he needed to express more sympathy for a struggling student, he plowed on. "Well, if I had to learn all this in a second language, I would have a hard time too."
It took a second for that comment to sink in. When it did, it took another one for me to react, to decide whether to be angry or amused. It's been a while since I have received comments on my "surprisingly good English", and while I used to laugh and shrug it off before, I was shocked to find that the comment bothered me more than it ever had.
Not knowing how to respond, I continued walking down quietly. Sensing the awkward silence, he seemed to realize that what had been intended as a sort of compliment had somehow gone awry. "Or is it your third or fourth language?" he stumbled on.
Now I felt a little sorry for him. "Well," I said, "I speak a couple of other languages, not very well. But English is more like my first language. I've been speaking it almost all my life and know it better than my own language."
"Oh," he said. "But still. . ." He gave up and changed tactics. "I know a little Russian," he went on. "But only the bad words."
I laughed politely.
Mercifully, we'd reached the outside of the building by now, and we both beat hasty retreats in opposite directions after hurried goodbyes.
As I walked home, I played that conversation, and my reaction to it, over in my mind. I generally laugh off incidents like this, but I was shocked at the anger I had felt at his assumption that I had difficulty understanding English because my accent is not American. Is it because I have become more insecure about my own identity? Or because I expected better from a professor at Columbia University - and a New York Times reporter, no less? Or was it simply because I have become more sensitive - and less forgiving - in the time that has elapsed since my college days? Or perhaps a mix of all three?
I feel like I did overreact, but I also think that, especially in today's increasingly globalized world, people like me are more entitled to become angry at assumptions like this. And people like him, especially reporters (that part probably annoys me more than anything else) need to stop putting people in boxes and labeling them based on the way they look or speak.
I had the same class again yesterday, and perhaps because I'm finally getting what we're learning, or perhaps because of a determination to show him that I am not lacking in English skills, I found myself speaking up a lot more - both answering and asking questions more boldly than I have done so far. So I guess some good came out of that:-)
But it will be a while before I forget this incident, and my own surprising reaction to it.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Thinking in emoticons. . .
You know you’ve been spending too much time online when you make a face in your head in reaction to something, and you find yourself picturing one of those little IM smileys -- like the :-S or :-D or the :-( or even the :-/. Or you hear or think something funny or silly, and the first thing that pops into your head is “LOL”.
Of course I don’t think like this. I’m just saying. . .
Of course I don’t think like this. I’m just saying. . .
Thursday, March 02, 2006
The last sign of Christmas. . .
I was walking down Columbia's College Walk today, from Broadway, where I live, to Amsterdam Avenue, where I work, and noticed a couple of workers taking down the Christmas lights that have been up on the trees (the tree trunks to be precise, since there are no leaves), since a couple of weeks before Christmas. I felt a twinge - of sadness, nostalgia, I'm not sure, as I saw the last holdout from the holidays disappearing. It's silly really, considering that Christmas was over two months ago, but in some way seeing those lights as I walk through school gave me some comfort, representing as they did the last reminders of the Christmas spirit and cheer.
As I watched them come down, I thought back to my past Christmases. I know March is a little late to be reminiscing about Christmas, but for most of us, the hustle and bustle of the holidays don't allow for much thinking at the time itself.
When I was living in India, I used to watch American and British shows, and always feel that our Christmas celebrations weren't adequate, weren't real. There was no snow, no Christmas lights in shops and gaily wrapped presents in store windows, no need for wandering around in coats, hats, boots and scarves. We had our different celebrations: setting up a tree - albeit a pretty scraggly one most of the time (one time Nev and I dubbed it "our Christmas branch"), getting out the little creche my father had built himself when I was about six or seven years old, and the tiny statues of baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph and the shepherds and the Wise Men and the animals, many with limbs and other body parts broken off and glued back together.
But when I moved to the U.S., I realized how wrong I'd been to translate the outer signs of Christmas as representative of Christmas itself. I had all that - the snow (too much of it, in fact - it was Minnesota, after all), the Christmas lights and presents, the coat, hat, boots, scarf. But my family wasn't here, and in most of the celebrations, I realized that the real reason for Christmas was absent as well - was, in fact, taboo.
I was never alone at Christmas. Especially from my second year onwards, I had my host family, who went completely out of their way to wrap me in love, and include me in all their family traditions, so I would experience both the real American Christian Christmas and deal with being away from home at the time when it bites the most. And in London, there were always my cousins and aunt to spend Christmas with.
But as grateful as I am for their openness and generosity, and happy as I was to finally have what I'd always considered the ideal Christmas, I always felt a little like the outsider, that I was looking in at someone else's family Christmas. I had a picture in my head - I think it came from reading The Little Match Girl when I was little - standing outside in the cold looking into other people's warm homes, and their happy Christmas celebrations. I'm being completely melodramatic here, because my life was perfect compared to hers, but I felt a little bit like her, like this was all fascinating, but that I wasn't supposed to be a part of it. . .
Despite what seemed to be lacking, however, that time of year still holds a special place - particularly because I've realized how precious the Christmases at home were, and how much people went out of their way for me here and in London. So, as I watched the lights come down, and the little bit of the security I'd felt - that even after the Christmas presents and Christmas trees were long gone, there was still this one reminder - evaporated, I realized that it really is time to get on. After all, it is Lent now, and I suppose it is a little inappropriate to have Christmas lights up at this time. And I also realized that, for the lights to go up again, they have to come down first. . .
As I watched them come down, I thought back to my past Christmases. I know March is a little late to be reminiscing about Christmas, but for most of us, the hustle and bustle of the holidays don't allow for much thinking at the time itself.
When I was living in India, I used to watch American and British shows, and always feel that our Christmas celebrations weren't adequate, weren't real. There was no snow, no Christmas lights in shops and gaily wrapped presents in store windows, no need for wandering around in coats, hats, boots and scarves. We had our different celebrations: setting up a tree - albeit a pretty scraggly one most of the time (one time Nev and I dubbed it "our Christmas branch"), getting out the little creche my father had built himself when I was about six or seven years old, and the tiny statues of baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph and the shepherds and the Wise Men and the animals, many with limbs and other body parts broken off and glued back together.
But when I moved to the U.S., I realized how wrong I'd been to translate the outer signs of Christmas as representative of Christmas itself. I had all that - the snow (too much of it, in fact - it was Minnesota, after all), the Christmas lights and presents, the coat, hat, boots, scarf. But my family wasn't here, and in most of the celebrations, I realized that the real reason for Christmas was absent as well - was, in fact, taboo.
I was never alone at Christmas. Especially from my second year onwards, I had my host family, who went completely out of their way to wrap me in love, and include me in all their family traditions, so I would experience both the real American Christian Christmas and deal with being away from home at the time when it bites the most. And in London, there were always my cousins and aunt to spend Christmas with.
But as grateful as I am for their openness and generosity, and happy as I was to finally have what I'd always considered the ideal Christmas, I always felt a little like the outsider, that I was looking in at someone else's family Christmas. I had a picture in my head - I think it came from reading The Little Match Girl when I was little - standing outside in the cold looking into other people's warm homes, and their happy Christmas celebrations. I'm being completely melodramatic here, because my life was perfect compared to hers, but I felt a little bit like her, like this was all fascinating, but that I wasn't supposed to be a part of it. . .
Despite what seemed to be lacking, however, that time of year still holds a special place - particularly because I've realized how precious the Christmases at home were, and how much people went out of their way for me here and in London. So, as I watched the lights come down, and the little bit of the security I'd felt - that even after the Christmas presents and Christmas trees were long gone, there was still this one reminder - evaporated, I realized that it really is time to get on. After all, it is Lent now, and I suppose it is a little inappropriate to have Christmas lights up at this time. And I also realized that, for the lights to go up again, they have to come down first. . .
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