Do I look like everybody's idea of a shop assistant?
I know most people, at some point in their life, have been approached while browsing in a shop by someone and asked if they work there. To most it's happened, once, maybe twice, rarely three times. Less than the fingers on one hand for sure. But to me, IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME!!! I can count them on one hand -- about four times over!
Just in the past two weeks, I've been approached by two people in two different stores, and asked if I work there -- and both times, it was in stores that even have uniforms. Ok, so I was wearing a blue top the second time, the same colour as the uniform. But it was a distinctly different shade of blue, and a different kind of top!
Now I know I'm not the sharpest dresser out there, and I don't always look like the elegant, sophisticated journo that I am. But still. . . that's no excuse! If you see someone wearing a handbag, clutching a box of cat food, and seriously contemplating the choice of cereals in the food section of a drug store, you DO NOT go up to them and ask if they work there!
Now I don't mean any disrespect to sales assistants, though I have my own beef with many of them; at least those in the unfriendly New York City anyway. But, if I'm unsure of whether or not someone works at a store where I'm shopping, I at least surreptitiously observe them for a few minutes before approaching them cautiously. When I get to within speaking distance, I usually stand there, staring at them, to see if they respond. If they don't, or if they look at me suspiciously and hold their shopping and their money closer, I slink away.
Why doesn't everyone do that? Surely it beats barging into someone's serious shopping experience and demanding that they help you instead!
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
A morning toe ritual
Weds and I have a little ritual we perform every morning. (I don't let him sleep in my room at night, for fear that I'll wake up the next morning minus parts of my feet, which he has a penchant for nibbling on).
I get out of bed, walk to the door, and stick my toes out through the half-inch space between the door and the floor. He sleeps just outside the door, so I know he's there. I wait only about a second before I feel a gentle furry nudge, as it dawns on him -- every day -- that the seemingly disjointed toes are actually a part of my anatomy. He excitedly prods at my toes for a bit, enjoying this unexpected diversion, before starting to nibble on them.
Some days, the ritual is slightly different. If I'm moving around in my room, it's not very long before a little white paw sneaks in under the door. I often respond by placing my foot on top of the paw, at which point, a second paw shoots out from under the door, ecstatic at having received a response to his seeking. I play footsie with the two bodiless paws for a bit, before giving in and opening the door.
In either scenario, what follows next is always the same -- the little guy is lying by the door stretched out contentedly, enjoying this game -- and he seems just as excited by it each morning, as if playing it for the first time every time. As soon as I open the door, he gets up, and trots in, rubbing himself against my legs and purring in contented glee.
And I invariably start my day in a good mood, smiling widely, always amazed by how little it takes to make the little guy happy.
I get out of bed, walk to the door, and stick my toes out through the half-inch space between the door and the floor. He sleeps just outside the door, so I know he's there. I wait only about a second before I feel a gentle furry nudge, as it dawns on him -- every day -- that the seemingly disjointed toes are actually a part of my anatomy. He excitedly prods at my toes for a bit, enjoying this unexpected diversion, before starting to nibble on them.
Some days, the ritual is slightly different. If I'm moving around in my room, it's not very long before a little white paw sneaks in under the door. I often respond by placing my foot on top of the paw, at which point, a second paw shoots out from under the door, ecstatic at having received a response to his seeking. I play footsie with the two bodiless paws for a bit, before giving in and opening the door.
In either scenario, what follows next is always the same -- the little guy is lying by the door stretched out contentedly, enjoying this game -- and he seems just as excited by it each morning, as if playing it for the first time every time. As soon as I open the door, he gets up, and trots in, rubbing himself against my legs and purring in contented glee.
And I invariably start my day in a good mood, smiling widely, always amazed by how little it takes to make the little guy happy.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
A bed. . . and a job offer!
So, after weeks of sleeping on a mattress and on the futon in the living room when the bedroom got too messy, I finally assembled my bed over the weekend.
It shouldn't have taken me 6 weeks to do it. But the person I bought it from had unassembled it, and in doing so, had made the holes the screws went into much larger. And when I tried to put them back, they just wouldn't stay in. So, I had to redrill the holes -- and my drill died about five times in the middle, and the drill bits were too small for the screws. AND, although I had about 20 different Philips and straight screw driver bits, the screws had square heads -- as in, the hole on the screw that the screwdriver head fits into was square. Who does that?!?!? So trying to put square headed screws into holes that were too small with Philips-head screw drivers turned out to be much more difficult that I'd anticipated.
But in the end, I did it! And I managed to lift the extremely heavy flat pieces of wood that the mattress rests on and put them on the frame without doing any permanent damage -- I think anyway. So, I'm just the teensiest, weensiest bit proud of myself. And I'm convinced that I'll be fine if I end up single. Geez, who needs a man when you can build your own furniture!
And, yes, the second part of that title. I got a job offer, but it's a trade magazine, and I'm about to turn it down. Coz I'm a snob, and I don't want to work at a trade magazine -- because that's what I was doing pre-Columbia, and what's the point of this past year if I just go back to doing what I was doing before? So, still no job. And still waiting for a decision from that wire I really wanted. So, everyone who's promised to cross anything, continue to keep 'em crossed!
It shouldn't have taken me 6 weeks to do it. But the person I bought it from had unassembled it, and in doing so, had made the holes the screws went into much larger. And when I tried to put them back, they just wouldn't stay in. So, I had to redrill the holes -- and my drill died about five times in the middle, and the drill bits were too small for the screws. AND, although I had about 20 different Philips and straight screw driver bits, the screws had square heads -- as in, the hole on the screw that the screwdriver head fits into was square. Who does that?!?!? So trying to put square headed screws into holes that were too small with Philips-head screw drivers turned out to be much more difficult that I'd anticipated.
But in the end, I did it! And I managed to lift the extremely heavy flat pieces of wood that the mattress rests on and put them on the frame without doing any permanent damage -- I think anyway. So, I'm just the teensiest, weensiest bit proud of myself. And I'm convinced that I'll be fine if I end up single. Geez, who needs a man when you can build your own furniture!
And, yes, the second part of that title. I got a job offer, but it's a trade magazine, and I'm about to turn it down. Coz I'm a snob, and I don't want to work at a trade magazine -- because that's what I was doing pre-Columbia, and what's the point of this past year if I just go back to doing what I was doing before? So, still no job. And still waiting for a decision from that wire I really wanted. So, everyone who's promised to cross anything, continue to keep 'em crossed!
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Eerily quiet day
I am working in ghost town today - for a week, starting today, in fact. It is the first day of "dead week," the second week after a double issue, when there's no magazine to put out for the following week. Everybody -- including my boss, my boss' boss, my psuedo-bosses (when you're at the bottom of the food chain, EVERYBODY's your boss or pseudo-boss) have all left.
Or are trying to, at any rate. This morning's bomb threats have turned the long-awaited holidays of many here into airport nightmares. My editor, always attached to the office by an invisible umbilical cord, called me this morning from the airport, to make sure everything was ok. Everything's fine, I reassured him. He wasn't so fine. He was stuck at the airport, trying to get to the south.
It's something between a lazy and a productive day. It's been pretty quiet, and, with no deadlines, I haven't been too motivated to work. But I have actually been somewhat productive - even if it's not a work-related productive. I've updated my serious blog which I'm learning is a lot of work. And I've been reading, and actually concentrating, without the usual jumble of voices around me.
Plus it's the official good bye cocktail day for the interns -- only it looks like the interns will be the only ones around. I am not leaving, so the good byes don't apply to me. But I plan to go anyway. To have some human company for the first time today. Of course, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the free drinks!
Or are trying to, at any rate. This morning's bomb threats have turned the long-awaited holidays of many here into airport nightmares. My editor, always attached to the office by an invisible umbilical cord, called me this morning from the airport, to make sure everything was ok. Everything's fine, I reassured him. He wasn't so fine. He was stuck at the airport, trying to get to the south.
It's something between a lazy and a productive day. It's been pretty quiet, and, with no deadlines, I haven't been too motivated to work. But I have actually been somewhat productive - even if it's not a work-related productive. I've updated my serious blog which I'm learning is a lot of work. And I've been reading, and actually concentrating, without the usual jumble of voices around me.
Plus it's the official good bye cocktail day for the interns -- only it looks like the interns will be the only ones around. I am not leaving, so the good byes don't apply to me. But I plan to go anyway. To have some human company for the first time today. Of course, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the free drinks!
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Return of the Internet
Dear sweet Internet. How I've missed you!And now that you've arrived, I feel as if a part of me that I'd lost has returned to me!
And so, dear reader, I've created a new blog -- mostly because I want to write more seriously and on topics of more gravity than I have been in this one. Not that I will necessarily succeed, but I want to at least try.
I created this blog because I wanted to make myself read and think and form opinions. I take in what I read, but I find that unless I make myself, I don't always think about them or form opinions. The latter especially, I find especially difficult to do.
I feel like I have not particularly succeeded in my aim with this one. And since it has taken a different direction altogether, I thought it might be easier to start again, rather than try to change course now. So my new blog, The Musings ofNichola is an attempt to awaken my brain. And, while I'm aware that I am probably not the most informed or knowledgable person on most topics, I do hope that some good will come of it, somewhere, somehow.
What about this blog, I hear you ask, betraying the sinking feeling of losing something you absolutely cannot do without:P Fear not, dear reader, this blog will still continue, as the place where I vent, where I mutter and muse (???) about my own life. So, please continue to visit. . .
And so, dear reader, I've created a new blog -- mostly because I want to write more seriously and on topics of more gravity than I have been in this one. Not that I will necessarily succeed, but I want to at least try.
I created this blog because I wanted to make myself read and think and form opinions. I take in what I read, but I find that unless I make myself, I don't always think about them or form opinions. The latter especially, I find especially difficult to do.
I feel like I have not particularly succeeded in my aim with this one. And since it has taken a different direction altogether, I thought it might be easier to start again, rather than try to change course now. So my new blog, The Musings ofNichola is an attempt to awaken my brain. And, while I'm aware that I am probably not the most informed or knowledgable person on most topics, I do hope that some good will come of it, somewhere, somehow.
What about this blog, I hear you ask, betraying the sinking feeling of losing something you absolutely cannot do without:P Fear not, dear reader, this blog will still continue, as the place where I vent, where I mutter and muse (???) about my own life. So, please continue to visit. . .
Friday, August 04, 2006
Job news jitters
If it’s not the aftermath of a mediocre date, it’s the aftermath of a mediocre job interview. The staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario takes on many forms these days. The date says, “I’ll call you,” and you sit and wait, biting your fingernails, wondering if your phone has developed an aversion to ringing for some unfathomable reason. The job interviewer says “I’ll call you,” and it’s the post-mediocre-date scenario all over again.
In the past few weeks – the past many weeks actually – I’ve been waiting for my phone to ring – from a prospective employer, not a prospective love of my life – though the former might morph into the latter, given the way things are going with me. It is a financial news wire, and I want the job for several reasons – because I want to work for a wire, because I want to work on daily, or even hourly, deadlines, to better understand financial news, to work for an international news organization and one that sponsors foreign employees.
Things haven’t gone as smoothly as I expected. I had a trial and a second interview exactly a month ago tomorrow. As I thanked the interviewer after a very intense three days, I was told that they would contact me in a week. Remembering that it took them longer than that to get back to me after my first interview, I took this information with a pinch of salt.
So when the first week came and went with no news, I didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. As the second week inched to its close, though, I started to worry. The earnings season was starting, and they had warned me that it would be a busy time. I knew there would be no news for a long time after. So I called. I called the editor, her assistant, left messages and emailed both. I heard not a peep.
And then the first earnings week arrived and my faith started to ebb. I waited till the end of the week, and called again. This time I got the editor. Had they made a decision yet? Sort of. Apparently, my test had been “on the fence,” not good enough to make me a shoo-in, but not bad enough to send me off into the newswire netherworld either. “Call back in a week,” she said.
And so I did. This morning. “I’ll call you back this afternoon,” she said.
So, here I am, back to the staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario all over again.
In the past few weeks – the past many weeks actually – I’ve been waiting for my phone to ring – from a prospective employer, not a prospective love of my life – though the former might morph into the latter, given the way things are going with me. It is a financial news wire, and I want the job for several reasons – because I want to work for a wire, because I want to work on daily, or even hourly, deadlines, to better understand financial news, to work for an international news organization and one that sponsors foreign employees.
Things haven’t gone as smoothly as I expected. I had a trial and a second interview exactly a month ago tomorrow. As I thanked the interviewer after a very intense three days, I was told that they would contact me in a week. Remembering that it took them longer than that to get back to me after my first interview, I took this information with a pinch of salt.
So when the first week came and went with no news, I didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. As the second week inched to its close, though, I started to worry. The earnings season was starting, and they had warned me that it would be a busy time. I knew there would be no news for a long time after. So I called. I called the editor, her assistant, left messages and emailed both. I heard not a peep.
And then the first earnings week arrived and my faith started to ebb. I waited till the end of the week, and called again. This time I got the editor. Had they made a decision yet? Sort of. Apparently, my test had been “on the fence,” not good enough to make me a shoo-in, but not bad enough to send me off into the newswire netherworld either. “Call back in a week,” she said.
And so I did. This morning. “I’ll call you back this afternoon,” she said.
So, here I am, back to the staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario all over again.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
More to come soon!
Oh my poor neglected blog! Yes, I am aware that I have not blogged in a long time. But I will get Internet connection in my apartment on Saturday, and it will write lots after that!
And, I'm starting a new blog! More on that to come later! Watch this space! :)
And, I'm starting a new blog! More on that to come later! Watch this space! :)
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Bloggers v. journos
While doing some research for a story, I came across some references to the time when Wal-Mart sent out "blog releases" written in the informal language of blogs, to bloggers. Some bloggers posted these releases on their blogs without attributing them to Wal-Mart.
In the ensuing drama (it is Wal-Mart, after all), those supporting what the bloggers did said they did nothing wrong, as they had no duty to reveal their sources, just like journalists don't have to reveal their sources. And my first reaction was "What?!?!?"
Who said journalists don't have to reveal their sources? And even if journalists can hide sources, who said they don't have to reveal the sources of press releases?!?!?
We see a lot of anonymous sources used in stories, but at most publications worth their salt, journalists have to make every attempt to get something on the record, and can use anonymous sources if all else fails, i.e. 1. when the information they are getting is a fact, not opinion 2. when nobody in the know is willing to speak on the record and 3. when it can be verified by a number of (at least 3) other reliable anonymous sources.
If a journalist is sent a press release from a company, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY he/she can use it without saying where it came from. In most publications, a journalist cannot even use a release word for word, unless he/she makes it clear it is a direct quote and attributes the quote. And definitely not without getting other, maybe opposing, voices into the story.
The bloggers in the Wal-Mart case were simply propogating Wal-Mart's side and hiding the fact that they were doing so. They had no reason to withhold the source of the information, but they did, in the process misleading their readers. But, the thing is, bloggers have minimal responsibilities and standards, unless they are self-imposed, so they can get away with doing so. Journalists can never do the same thing that these bloggers did, unless they work for a complete rag. So to compare these bloggers to journalists who use anonymous sources is farfetched and misleading.
In the ensuing drama (it is Wal-Mart, after all), those supporting what the bloggers did said they did nothing wrong, as they had no duty to reveal their sources, just like journalists don't have to reveal their sources. And my first reaction was "What?!?!?"
Who said journalists don't have to reveal their sources? And even if journalists can hide sources, who said they don't have to reveal the sources of press releases?!?!?
We see a lot of anonymous sources used in stories, but at most publications worth their salt, journalists have to make every attempt to get something on the record, and can use anonymous sources if all else fails, i.e. 1. when the information they are getting is a fact, not opinion 2. when nobody in the know is willing to speak on the record and 3. when it can be verified by a number of (at least 3) other reliable anonymous sources.
If a journalist is sent a press release from a company, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY he/she can use it without saying where it came from. In most publications, a journalist cannot even use a release word for word, unless he/she makes it clear it is a direct quote and attributes the quote. And definitely not without getting other, maybe opposing, voices into the story.
The bloggers in the Wal-Mart case were simply propogating Wal-Mart's side and hiding the fact that they were doing so. They had no reason to withhold the source of the information, but they did, in the process misleading their readers. But, the thing is, bloggers have minimal responsibilities and standards, unless they are self-imposed, so they can get away with doing so. Journalists can never do the same thing that these bloggers did, unless they work for a complete rag. So to compare these bloggers to journalists who use anonymous sources is farfetched and misleading.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Overwhelmed :(
With everything that's been happening over the past few days, I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed.
For one, I didn't get a fall internship I applied for. Which is fine, because I didn't really want it in the first place. But now, I'm panicing about the other job I've applied for, which I really want, and which I was counting on when I signed a one-year lease for my apartment. And just about the general fact that I don't have a job when I finish my internship in a month, and what I will do about my apartment if I don't find something in the New York area (I know, it was a stroke of genius to move without a job lined up).
The move itself has been really draining, and this weekend, I went back to my storage unit to pick up the rest of my things. Now I have six huge boxes sitting in my living room that I have neither the energy or the inclination to unpack, mostly because I don't know what to do with the stuff in it. So I just sit there, staring at them, trying to figure out how I managed to accumulate so much in less than a year.
My finances are a complete mess, mostly because of the huge fiasco of a move that ended up costing me a lot more than I'd anticipated. And in typical Ini fashion, I haven't managed to get up the nerve to deal with it.
I picked up Wednesday yesterday and brought him home, but he's in a bit of a mess, because he did the big job on the way to my place in his pet carrier, and I need to clean him up. But for one he won't stay put long enough for me to do so, and two, I'm not really sure how to go about doing it. And I'm worried that he hasn't yet discovered his litter box, and that I'll go back home to discover. . . I won't spell it out (how WILL I deal with having kids?!?!?!)
I have a host of DIY projects piling up that I haven't dared to attempt, so I have bits and pieces of furniture in various stages of impending collapse sitting around my apartment.
And for some reason, my new address seems non-existent, and I haven't gotten any mail (except for good ol' Netflix) since I moved, despite the fact that I've changed my address both with all the credit card etc. companies and the post office. So, I'm worried that I have bad credit piling up somewhere that I'm blissfully unaware of.
And, in general, New Jersey seems a world away from my few friends, and it's lonely out there:( And, without internet access at home, I feel even more cut off from the world.
These are all silly, shallow concerns, especially in light of what's happening in the world right now. But please forgive my self-absorbedness, at least this once. Next time, you can tell me to suck it up and deal with it.
For one, I didn't get a fall internship I applied for. Which is fine, because I didn't really want it in the first place. But now, I'm panicing about the other job I've applied for, which I really want, and which I was counting on when I signed a one-year lease for my apartment. And just about the general fact that I don't have a job when I finish my internship in a month, and what I will do about my apartment if I don't find something in the New York area (I know, it was a stroke of genius to move without a job lined up).
The move itself has been really draining, and this weekend, I went back to my storage unit to pick up the rest of my things. Now I have six huge boxes sitting in my living room that I have neither the energy or the inclination to unpack, mostly because I don't know what to do with the stuff in it. So I just sit there, staring at them, trying to figure out how I managed to accumulate so much in less than a year.
My finances are a complete mess, mostly because of the huge fiasco of a move that ended up costing me a lot more than I'd anticipated. And in typical Ini fashion, I haven't managed to get up the nerve to deal with it.
I picked up Wednesday yesterday and brought him home, but he's in a bit of a mess, because he did the big job on the way to my place in his pet carrier, and I need to clean him up. But for one he won't stay put long enough for me to do so, and two, I'm not really sure how to go about doing it. And I'm worried that he hasn't yet discovered his litter box, and that I'll go back home to discover. . . I won't spell it out (how WILL I deal with having kids?!?!?!)
I have a host of DIY projects piling up that I haven't dared to attempt, so I have bits and pieces of furniture in various stages of impending collapse sitting around my apartment.
And for some reason, my new address seems non-existent, and I haven't gotten any mail (except for good ol' Netflix) since I moved, despite the fact that I've changed my address both with all the credit card etc. companies and the post office. So, I'm worried that I have bad credit piling up somewhere that I'm blissfully unaware of.
And, in general, New Jersey seems a world away from my few friends, and it's lonely out there:( And, without internet access at home, I feel even more cut off from the world.
These are all silly, shallow concerns, especially in light of what's happening in the world right now. But please forgive my self-absorbedness, at least this once. Next time, you can tell me to suck it up and deal with it.
Monday, July 10, 2006
An incident
As I was standing at the corner of 23rd Street and I Avenue, waiting for my movers to arrive last Friday, I witnessed something that horrified and shocked me -- although, knowing this city, it should have done neither.
I half saw a little old man in a wheelchair that was crisscrossed with shopping bags on the back, slowly wheeling himself along the pavement. I looked away, and, when I looked back, one of the bags, a paper one, had split under the weight of a gallon can of water. The can lay open on the ground, water splattered across the sidewalk, and the bottom of the bag gaped precariously open, ready to spill its remaining contents.
I watched him for a bit, unsure of whether to approach him and offer my help, or to pretend not to have seen him. My good side finally took over, and I inched towards him.
“Do you need help?” I asked him, stopping a few feet away.
“No, no,” he replied gruffly, looking at me suspiciously. “I don’t need help.”
He seemed so averse to the idea of anyone lending a hand that I backed off, although I continued watching him from the corner of my eye.
He painstakingly took the bag down, placed it on the pavement, and slowly proceeded to make space in his other bags for its contents. He was standing partially hidden by a telephone booth to anyone approaching from the opposite direction, but the torn brown bag was further off to his left, closer to the center of the pavement.
As I watched, a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an insolent, purposeful look on his face, walked down the sidewalk towards the man and the bag. In one swift motion, he kicked the bag, scattering its contents – a mini-TV, some crossword puzzles, various bits and pieces. The TV rolled down the pavement and came to a rest a few feet away, still within reach of his feet. He kicked it hard again, and it rolled away again.
The old man looked up at him with a blank face, almost as though he was unsurprised by what was happening. I, perhaps more naïve than the old man, who had clearly learned a lot from a harsh life in this city, gaped after the youth, my jaw hanging, too shocked to even say anything. Even if I hadn’t been so stunned, I’d probably have been too afraid to confront him, for fear that he might pull a gun on me.
The TV finally landed outside his reach, and he continued walking without so much as breaking his stride. The TV lay near me, so I picked it up and walked up to the old man, and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”
As I tried to gather his things, another woman, wheeling a little cart, stopped. “You need another bag,” she informed the man.
“No, no,” he insisted. “I’ve plenty of bags. I’m fine.”
She fished out a bag from her cart anyway and held it out to him, but he adamantly refused to take it.
She put it back and bent down to help gather his things.
“Please, just leave me alone. I can handle it. I’m fine,” the old man insisted.
We left his few belongings in a pile and stepped away. And, as I continued watching him, and saw him slowly finish reorganizing his belongings, sit back in the wheelchair and move away, I thought back to the look on the face of the man who had so purposefully done such a small but hateful act – how uncaring it was, how hard and cold and dark. And I wondered what would make someone’s heart so black – that, in walking by, he could have either stopped to offer to help the old man, or he could have done what he did. What made him choose to do what he did?
In the large scheme of things, this is not a life-changing act, and maybe he was just having a bad day. But, his face seemed to say otherwise – he had the cold, cruel face of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. And the person who kicks over a vulnerable person’s few possessions today might go on to take a life tomorrow. And then what?
I half saw a little old man in a wheelchair that was crisscrossed with shopping bags on the back, slowly wheeling himself along the pavement. I looked away, and, when I looked back, one of the bags, a paper one, had split under the weight of a gallon can of water. The can lay open on the ground, water splattered across the sidewalk, and the bottom of the bag gaped precariously open, ready to spill its remaining contents.
I watched him for a bit, unsure of whether to approach him and offer my help, or to pretend not to have seen him. My good side finally took over, and I inched towards him.
“Do you need help?” I asked him, stopping a few feet away.
“No, no,” he replied gruffly, looking at me suspiciously. “I don’t need help.”
He seemed so averse to the idea of anyone lending a hand that I backed off, although I continued watching him from the corner of my eye.
He painstakingly took the bag down, placed it on the pavement, and slowly proceeded to make space in his other bags for its contents. He was standing partially hidden by a telephone booth to anyone approaching from the opposite direction, but the torn brown bag was further off to his left, closer to the center of the pavement.
As I watched, a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an insolent, purposeful look on his face, walked down the sidewalk towards the man and the bag. In one swift motion, he kicked the bag, scattering its contents – a mini-TV, some crossword puzzles, various bits and pieces. The TV rolled down the pavement and came to a rest a few feet away, still within reach of his feet. He kicked it hard again, and it rolled away again.
The old man looked up at him with a blank face, almost as though he was unsurprised by what was happening. I, perhaps more naïve than the old man, who had clearly learned a lot from a harsh life in this city, gaped after the youth, my jaw hanging, too shocked to even say anything. Even if I hadn’t been so stunned, I’d probably have been too afraid to confront him, for fear that he might pull a gun on me.
The TV finally landed outside his reach, and he continued walking without so much as breaking his stride. The TV lay near me, so I picked it up and walked up to the old man, and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”
As I tried to gather his things, another woman, wheeling a little cart, stopped. “You need another bag,” she informed the man.
“No, no,” he insisted. “I’ve plenty of bags. I’m fine.”
She fished out a bag from her cart anyway and held it out to him, but he adamantly refused to take it.
She put it back and bent down to help gather his things.
“Please, just leave me alone. I can handle it. I’m fine,” the old man insisted.
We left his few belongings in a pile and stepped away. And, as I continued watching him, and saw him slowly finish reorganizing his belongings, sit back in the wheelchair and move away, I thought back to the look on the face of the man who had so purposefully done such a small but hateful act – how uncaring it was, how hard and cold and dark. And I wondered what would make someone’s heart so black – that, in walking by, he could have either stopped to offer to help the old man, or he could have done what he did. What made him choose to do what he did?
In the large scheme of things, this is not a life-changing act, and maybe he was just having a bad day. But, his face seemed to say otherwise – he had the cold, cruel face of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. And the person who kicks over a vulnerable person’s few possessions today might go on to take a life tomorrow. And then what?
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A nightmare move!
Hello Dear Reader,
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
First press briefing!
I went to my first press briefing today as a bonafide member of the New York press corps. It was a relatively laidback event, and not even something we would do a story on. I knew what it was about, but I took it pretty lightly, and sauntered over to the place which was just a few blocks from where I work.
I reached there and made it up to the room where the briefing was. Standing in the elevator, I realized there was another reporter in the elevator with me. As we introduced ourselves and said which magazines we were from, a wave of panic hit me. "OMG," I thought. "That magazine has sent a real reporter, and my magazine sent ME? The Rock should have come! What was he thinking!?!?!?"
I calmed down somewhat, but as each real reporter walked in, I sank just a little more in my chair. Then another wave of panic. "OMG, I have to ask questions at the end. I have to establish that I'm a serious journalist. The whole reputation of my magazine is at stake here. If I don't ask questions, they'll all think of my magazine as the one that sent that stupid intern who didn't know anything and didn't ask any questions."
I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to follow the presentation, and in an attempt to avert such tragedy, I kept my eyes glued to the presenter, taking them off only to jot down notes, as if by boring my eyes into her, I could absorb what she was thinking and saying by sheer osmosis, if by nothing else. She finished her presentation, and I realized that I had understood most of what she'd been talking about -- maybe not to confidently write a story about it, if I had to, but in my mind her message was clear. I didn't ask questions, but neither did some of the other reporters there, so I felt a load lift -- if I wasn't the only one that didn't ask questions, then they wouldn't remember just me, I convinced myself.
Then came the dreaded socializing. I was tempted to just leave under the pretext of moving apartments in a couple of days and needed to pack, but forced myself to stay, telling myself sternly that I needed to make contacts. And I was hungry. So I helped myself to some food and drink and moved out onto the rooftop.
And I was pleasantly surprised to find the whole small talk thing much easier than I did about two years ago when I endured multiple excruciating social events, sometimes for days when I was covering conferences, feeling like a complete wallflower and wishing almost without exception that I could disappear. I am still not very good in group situations, but I realized that I wasn't questioning myself a dozen times before making a simple comment or contributing to the general flow of the conversation. I even stayed longer than I'd intended to!
So, my first press briefing went pretty well. And I realized that, while in moments of panic, I might question my decision to leave a mediocre job in London, where I was, nevertheless, happy and move to New York, doing so did give me opportunities I'd never have had -- because now, I am a very tiny fish in a huge pond, nay, in an ocean, but better that than to be a big fish, even the ONLY fish, in a tiny pond. Because a big fish in a tiny pond isn't going anywhere unless it leaves the pond, but a tiny fish in an ocean has plenty of room to grow.
I reached there and made it up to the room where the briefing was. Standing in the elevator, I realized there was another reporter in the elevator with me. As we introduced ourselves and said which magazines we were from, a wave of panic hit me. "OMG," I thought. "That magazine has sent a real reporter, and my magazine sent ME? The Rock should have come! What was he thinking!?!?!?"
I calmed down somewhat, but as each real reporter walked in, I sank just a little more in my chair. Then another wave of panic. "OMG, I have to ask questions at the end. I have to establish that I'm a serious journalist. The whole reputation of my magazine is at stake here. If I don't ask questions, they'll all think of my magazine as the one that sent that stupid intern who didn't know anything and didn't ask any questions."
I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to follow the presentation, and in an attempt to avert such tragedy, I kept my eyes glued to the presenter, taking them off only to jot down notes, as if by boring my eyes into her, I could absorb what she was thinking and saying by sheer osmosis, if by nothing else. She finished her presentation, and I realized that I had understood most of what she'd been talking about -- maybe not to confidently write a story about it, if I had to, but in my mind her message was clear. I didn't ask questions, but neither did some of the other reporters there, so I felt a load lift -- if I wasn't the only one that didn't ask questions, then they wouldn't remember just me, I convinced myself.
Then came the dreaded socializing. I was tempted to just leave under the pretext of moving apartments in a couple of days and needed to pack, but forced myself to stay, telling myself sternly that I needed to make contacts. And I was hungry. So I helped myself to some food and drink and moved out onto the rooftop.
And I was pleasantly surprised to find the whole small talk thing much easier than I did about two years ago when I endured multiple excruciating social events, sometimes for days when I was covering conferences, feeling like a complete wallflower and wishing almost without exception that I could disappear. I am still not very good in group situations, but I realized that I wasn't questioning myself a dozen times before making a simple comment or contributing to the general flow of the conversation. I even stayed longer than I'd intended to!
So, my first press briefing went pretty well. And I realized that, while in moments of panic, I might question my decision to leave a mediocre job in London, where I was, nevertheless, happy and move to New York, doing so did give me opportunities I'd never have had -- because now, I am a very tiny fish in a huge pond, nay, in an ocean, but better that than to be a big fish, even the ONLY fish, in a tiny pond. Because a big fish in a tiny pond isn't going anywhere unless it leaves the pond, but a tiny fish in an ocean has plenty of room to grow.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Anonymity. . .
It's absolutely shocking what a little anonymity can do to people. It brings out the little devils inside them full force and unleashes them in all their fury. And the result. . . people turn nasty and horrible and racist and nationalist, just because they cannot be held to account for what they say.
Part of the scut work of my otherwise fabulous internship -- actually, I don't mind it so much, since it gives me some insight into humanity and also allows me to get an idea of what our stories are without reading each one everyday -- is to go through the magazine's web site and approve (or not, as the case may be) readers' comments in response to the stories we publish online. And boy can people be nasty. Because we don't ask them to give us their real identities or email addresses before they can appear on the site, people are absolutely horrible. Some swear, some call each other names, some call the people of certain countries incompetent, lazy, and worse names.
When I see these venomous comments, I just sigh and shake my head and think, "This could very well be some corporate executive sitting in a plush corner office somewhere, spouting poison, just because it can't come back to him." And how awful is that? If you have a point of view, fine. Say it. But why hide behind the anonymity of the internet to let loose all your pent up anger and hatred? Why do you have so much hatred in the first place?
It reminds me of another incident. I had a friend, an Uzbek journalist, who was in my master's program. She was covering the Andijan massacre last May before coming here, and was shot at. She survived because she had a book in her pocket that stopped the bullet from hitting her (I know, sounds like a movie, but absolutely true). She has been banned from entering Uzbekistan, because of her courageous reporting of the massacre, and she wrote an article criticizing the government and the massacre that was posted on a site. The article was, in turn, picked up by a pro-government forum -- and she was critisized and abused by many on the forum for her views. They are absolutely entitled to their views. But these are people who would probably not have been able to even have an intelligent discussion about the massacre with her. But, they had no problem spewing filth on her, safely hiding beyond the anonymity afforded by the internet. Anyone who supported her were also subjected to the same verbal abuse.
I sit in front of my computer, at work reporting a story, and wonder many times how we survived before the Internet came about. But sometimes, I wonder how the world manages to survive and function with it.
Part of the scut work of my otherwise fabulous internship -- actually, I don't mind it so much, since it gives me some insight into humanity and also allows me to get an idea of what our stories are without reading each one everyday -- is to go through the magazine's web site and approve (or not, as the case may be) readers' comments in response to the stories we publish online. And boy can people be nasty. Because we don't ask them to give us their real identities or email addresses before they can appear on the site, people are absolutely horrible. Some swear, some call each other names, some call the people of certain countries incompetent, lazy, and worse names.
When I see these venomous comments, I just sigh and shake my head and think, "This could very well be some corporate executive sitting in a plush corner office somewhere, spouting poison, just because it can't come back to him." And how awful is that? If you have a point of view, fine. Say it. But why hide behind the anonymity of the internet to let loose all your pent up anger and hatred? Why do you have so much hatred in the first place?
It reminds me of another incident. I had a friend, an Uzbek journalist, who was in my master's program. She was covering the Andijan massacre last May before coming here, and was shot at. She survived because she had a book in her pocket that stopped the bullet from hitting her (I know, sounds like a movie, but absolutely true). She has been banned from entering Uzbekistan, because of her courageous reporting of the massacre, and she wrote an article criticizing the government and the massacre that was posted on a site. The article was, in turn, picked up by a pro-government forum -- and she was critisized and abused by many on the forum for her views. They are absolutely entitled to their views. But these are people who would probably not have been able to even have an intelligent discussion about the massacre with her. But, they had no problem spewing filth on her, safely hiding beyond the anonymity afforded by the internet. Anyone who supported her were also subjected to the same verbal abuse.
I sit in front of my computer, at work reporting a story, and wonder many times how we survived before the Internet came about. But sometimes, I wonder how the world manages to survive and function with it.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
It's my genes' fault!
Today's New York Times had an article titled "That Wild Streak? Maybe It Runs in the Family". It was about. . . you guessed it. If you have urges to go climb mountains. . . or to smoke cigarettes. . . or throw yourself off a cliff, it's because of your genes.
As I read it, I found myself shaking my head. Because, while I'm sure there's some truth to it, it just seemed to me a way of science giving us naturally lazy humans an excuse to continue our bad habits guilt-free. If I'm overweight, it's because of my genes, and so I don't need to feel bad about it. If I drink too much, it's my parents' fault. If I can't quit smoking, it's because my parents, and their parents, and their parents, were smokers too.
It might not even stop with those aspects that could be affected by genes. The excuse-making could spill over to every part of our lives -- I can't get a good job because of my genes, I make other people's lives miserable because of my genes, I don't wash the dishes or clean my apartment because it's in my genes.
There's a flip side to this as well -- we start to think that we can't take credit for our success -- because we were genetically programmed to succeed, our achievements have nothing to do with our own efforts or accomplishments.
What a sad world it would be if these tests were commercially available -- the lazy ones blaming their DNA for their failings and the hard working ones letting their genes take the credit for their hard work.
Note: This post is somewhat tongue-in-cheek -- because I do realize that, for some people, no matter how hard they work towards a certain goal, e.g. quit smoking, it's much more difficult than for others, because of their genetic make-up.
As I read it, I found myself shaking my head. Because, while I'm sure there's some truth to it, it just seemed to me a way of science giving us naturally lazy humans an excuse to continue our bad habits guilt-free. If I'm overweight, it's because of my genes, and so I don't need to feel bad about it. If I drink too much, it's my parents' fault. If I can't quit smoking, it's because my parents, and their parents, and their parents, were smokers too.
It might not even stop with those aspects that could be affected by genes. The excuse-making could spill over to every part of our lives -- I can't get a good job because of my genes, I make other people's lives miserable because of my genes, I don't wash the dishes or clean my apartment because it's in my genes.
There's a flip side to this as well -- we start to think that we can't take credit for our success -- because we were genetically programmed to succeed, our achievements have nothing to do with our own efforts or accomplishments.
What a sad world it would be if these tests were commercially available -- the lazy ones blaming their DNA for their failings and the hard working ones letting their genes take the credit for their hard work.
Note: This post is somewhat tongue-in-cheek -- because I do realize that, for some people, no matter how hard they work towards a certain goal, e.g. quit smoking, it's much more difficult than for others, because of their genetic make-up.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The September song. . . or just plain knuckles?
I was reading This Fish's post today, in which she writes that she has to sing the September days song to remember how many days each month has. And I realized that my way of figuring out how many days each month has is slightly different. And I'm not sure if it's something that most people are familiar with -- or if it's just a quirky thing that we do in my village or in Sri Lanka or South Asia.
I make a fist with my hand, and assign the bone of my index finger to January. Then the pit beside the bone is February. Then back up to the bone of the middle finger. That's March. . . and so on. When you get to the bone of the little finger, you return to the index finger and continue. All the months for the raised bones have 31 days, and all the months in the pits have 30 days (except for February, of course, but if you need a method to figure that out, you've got other problems). Anyway, you do it this way, and lo and behold, you get 31 days for both July and August, the only two consecutive months that have 31 days. Because of this, when I was little, I used to think that people who decided the days and months and all did it using their knuckles, and that's why they let July and August have 31 days -- because when you get to the last raised bone, you have to come back to the first raised one! It just made sense.
PS: I am annoyed -- I just called Nev to see if this is actually quite a common practice and I'm making a hoopla about something that everybody knows about. I asked him how he figures out how many days there are in each month, and he said he uses the September song. Then I asked him if he knew the other way, and he vehemently said no.
So I started trying to explain it to him, but every time I started talking, he'd interrupt me with a very abrupt "I don't know what you're talking about," the way he does when he thinks I'm being a "FOB" (that's "fresh off the boat" to anyone who doesn't know desi-talk, as in people who aren't cool or westernized enough).
Finally, exasperated, I said, "Well, that's why I'm trying to explain it to you."
To which, he replied, "Well, I know what it is."
"Then why did you keep saying that you didn't know what I was talking about?" I retorted.
"Well, I know what it is, but I use the September song," he said.
I hung up.
I make a fist with my hand, and assign the bone of my index finger to January. Then the pit beside the bone is February. Then back up to the bone of the middle finger. That's March. . . and so on. When you get to the bone of the little finger, you return to the index finger and continue. All the months for the raised bones have 31 days, and all the months in the pits have 30 days (except for February, of course, but if you need a method to figure that out, you've got other problems). Anyway, you do it this way, and lo and behold, you get 31 days for both July and August, the only two consecutive months that have 31 days. Because of this, when I was little, I used to think that people who decided the days and months and all did it using their knuckles, and that's why they let July and August have 31 days -- because when you get to the last raised bone, you have to come back to the first raised one! It just made sense.
PS: I am annoyed -- I just called Nev to see if this is actually quite a common practice and I'm making a hoopla about something that everybody knows about. I asked him how he figures out how many days there are in each month, and he said he uses the September song. Then I asked him if he knew the other way, and he vehemently said no.
So I started trying to explain it to him, but every time I started talking, he'd interrupt me with a very abrupt "I don't know what you're talking about," the way he does when he thinks I'm being a "FOB" (that's "fresh off the boat" to anyone who doesn't know desi-talk, as in people who aren't cool or westernized enough).
Finally, exasperated, I said, "Well, that's why I'm trying to explain it to you."
To which, he replied, "Well, I know what it is."
"Then why did you keep saying that you didn't know what I was talking about?" I retorted.
"Well, I know what it is, but I use the September song," he said.
I hung up.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Time to go "home"
I hate my apartment -- yes, that would be the apartment I moved into 10 days ago . . . there, I've said it, and now, it's official. I feel bad about it, and have been trying to quash my feelings of angst and irritability, but they've welled over now, and now have a life of their own. I feel sufficiently guilty about it -- I know I should be grateful to have a roof over my head, that I managed to find a place to move into when Columbia unceremoniously kicked us out on May 31. But, but, but. . . that doesn't seem to make me feel any less impatient about wanting to find my own place, come hell or high water.
I think that is the problem -- I'm going through a nesting phase. I look for my own apartment and furniture almost everyday. I picture what my apartment is going to look like, what furniture it will have, what kinds of lamps, what paintings on the walls. And living in an old, tiny, stinky, grimy apartment in a somewhat seedy neighborhood isn't helping my intense need to have a "home," not just an apartment. I've gone through most of life, living in temporary housing, and I can't take another month and a half of it. And sitting down in front of the TV after a long day at work, only to have my extremely vociferous roommate sermonize to me about wrestling and boxing and statistics and math, and our other roommate whom he can't stand, in the middle of ordering me to get paper towels and soap has pushed me over the edge.
My solution: to obsessively trawl through Craigslist, trying to find some innocent soul to take over my sublet, and to find an apartment that I can move into as soon as I find someone to take over. To that end, I went to see one apartment today. Unfortunately, it didn't fit in with my dreams of my ideal apartment. Three more viewings have been set up over the course of the coming week, along with several emails sent to potential subletters.
Now to sit back and wait -- the most painful part of all.
I think that is the problem -- I'm going through a nesting phase. I look for my own apartment and furniture almost everyday. I picture what my apartment is going to look like, what furniture it will have, what kinds of lamps, what paintings on the walls. And living in an old, tiny, stinky, grimy apartment in a somewhat seedy neighborhood isn't helping my intense need to have a "home," not just an apartment. I've gone through most of life, living in temporary housing, and I can't take another month and a half of it. And sitting down in front of the TV after a long day at work, only to have my extremely vociferous roommate sermonize to me about wrestling and boxing and statistics and math, and our other roommate whom he can't stand, in the middle of ordering me to get paper towels and soap has pushed me over the edge.
My solution: to obsessively trawl through Craigslist, trying to find some innocent soul to take over my sublet, and to find an apartment that I can move into as soon as I find someone to take over. To that end, I went to see one apartment today. Unfortunately, it didn't fit in with my dreams of my ideal apartment. Three more viewings have been set up over the course of the coming week, along with several emails sent to potential subletters.
Now to sit back and wait -- the most painful part of all.
Friday, June 02, 2006
On the job. . .
We have all established by now that if I handle any life-changing event the way most normal people would -- with careful preparation -- then something is not right. So it is not at all surprising -- in fact, expected -- that I showed up to my first day at my much cherised and hard-won internship without my work authorization document.
Well, the truth is that it hadn't arrived, although the government agency's web site stated very positively that my application had been approved. In any case, I was starting on June 5, so off I went to my first day, armed with the print out stating that I had been approved and my passport -- but no authorization document, none the less. I needn't have worried. Because everyhing was fine. They didn't even ask me for it until the second day. When they did ask, I managed to convince them that I would get it any day now and avert any uncomfortable escortage to the door.
But anyway, I have been at my internship for three days now. And in that time, I have gone to meetings galore -- meetings about the front of the magazine, the back of the magazine, the middle of the magazine, the international section, art meetings, photo meetings. I have two wonderful editors, who bend over backwards to include me in everything -- even unexpectedly introducing me to the editor-in-chief, which left me a tad speechless -- I'm sure I made a great first impression with that.
When I am not accompanying my editors to meetings, I've been editing some columns and readers' comments and looking at stories in various stages of production to see how they change throughout the process.
Of course, every intern feverishly wants to be writing at least for the magazine's web site, if not for the print version, and I am no different. So, when I received an invite to an event that seemed like it might be of interest to the magazine, I suggested to my editor that I might write it up. He kindly declined, informing me that it was too small to cover, even on the web site, but encouraged me to pitch my own story ideas. So now, I'm going to be racking my brains, and engaging in fits of panic as I try to come up with suitable ideas that will earn me more than an incredulous laugh when I pitch them. Any ideas are most welcome!
But in the meantime, I'll keep going to more meetings and doing more editing and immersing myself in the mag -- and sucking up to the boss man!
Well, the truth is that it hadn't arrived, although the government agency's web site stated very positively that my application had been approved. In any case, I was starting on June 5, so off I went to my first day, armed with the print out stating that I had been approved and my passport -- but no authorization document, none the less. I needn't have worried. Because everyhing was fine. They didn't even ask me for it until the second day. When they did ask, I managed to convince them that I would get it any day now and avert any uncomfortable escortage to the door.
But anyway, I have been at my internship for three days now. And in that time, I have gone to meetings galore -- meetings about the front of the magazine, the back of the magazine, the middle of the magazine, the international section, art meetings, photo meetings. I have two wonderful editors, who bend over backwards to include me in everything -- even unexpectedly introducing me to the editor-in-chief, which left me a tad speechless -- I'm sure I made a great first impression with that.
When I am not accompanying my editors to meetings, I've been editing some columns and readers' comments and looking at stories in various stages of production to see how they change throughout the process.
Of course, every intern feverishly wants to be writing at least for the magazine's web site, if not for the print version, and I am no different. So, when I received an invite to an event that seemed like it might be of interest to the magazine, I suggested to my editor that I might write it up. He kindly declined, informing me that it was too small to cover, even on the web site, but encouraged me to pitch my own story ideas. So now, I'm going to be racking my brains, and engaging in fits of panic as I try to come up with suitable ideas that will earn me more than an incredulous laugh when I pitch them. Any ideas are most welcome!
But in the meantime, I'll keep going to more meetings and doing more editing and immersing myself in the mag -- and sucking up to the boss man!
Ho hum. . .
Ini hath not blogged in a long time, and Ini needeth to blog. . . but Ini's brain functioneth not -- after lugging way too much stuff from one apartment to another, Ini's brain and body are tres fatigue. So forgive me, dear reader. . .
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Change of perspective
Tonight is my last night in the apartment across the street from the "Seinfeld restaurant." The funny thing is, when I first moved in, every time I saw the restaurant, I'd think, "OMG, there's the 'Seinfeld restaurant.'" Now, when I watch Seinfeld and I see the restaurant sign, I think, "OMG, there's the restaurant I live across from."
Monday, May 29, 2006
Mr. Wednesday has left the building :(
Wednesday has moved to Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut. He was supposed to go to Japan with Okia, so I guess New Haven isn't so bad. Plus, he's going to come live with me after two months!
Okia didn't realize that Weds needed some shots and a test that has to be done six months after the shots before the Japanese authorities will let him in. I offered to take him for that time, but it turns out, one of my roommates for the summer is allergic to cats. So, after appealing to the entire J-school, and getting no commitments, she sent Weds home with a friend of hers who happened to be visiting from Yale at the time when all this unraveled.
So, Weds has gone from one Ivy to another and, when I move out of my summer apartment and into my own place afterwards, God-willing, he'll be my roommate until January. After which, he will head off for new adventures in Tokyo.
Okia didn't realize that Weds needed some shots and a test that has to be done six months after the shots before the Japanese authorities will let him in. I offered to take him for that time, but it turns out, one of my roommates for the summer is allergic to cats. So, after appealing to the entire J-school, and getting no commitments, she sent Weds home with a friend of hers who happened to be visiting from Yale at the time when all this unraveled.
So, Weds has gone from one Ivy to another and, when I move out of my summer apartment and into my own place afterwards, God-willing, he'll be my roommate until January. After which, he will head off for new adventures in Tokyo.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Big foot
I went to a shoe store today, in an effort to eradicate all traces of savings from my bank account. Now, before I proceed any further, I must inform you that my feet are slightly larger than average – not abnormally so, but they’re not dainty by any means – and I have been called such names as Big Foot in the past (thanks, Jags, for scarring me for life!)
So I was browsing through the selection of shoes, trying to decide between the slippers with the black beads and the ones with the tan beads, when a voice to my left drew my attention. Holding up a horror in neon green, the woman demanded, “Who with size nine feet would wear neon green shoes?” (yes yes, my name is Inihtar, and I wear size nine shoes.)
Her companion, clearly trying to make up for her lack of diplomacy, responded, “Why? People with size nine feet can’t wear neon green shoes?”
The first woman, obviously unwilling to give up on her argument, answered: “Well, if you have such huge feet, you shouldn’t be drawing attention to them.”
Now, I was following along in this conversation, chuckling to myself, until the realization hit me that I was part of the group she was berating. Startled, I attempted to make up by sending a potent glare in her direction – not that I wear neon green shoes, but I would like the opportunity to do so without being the object of contempt of some loud-mouthed female who is clearly unaware of the tribulations of having large feet – but she was blissfully unaware that she had ruffled any feathers in the number nine section.
As she trotted off to one of the smaller sizes, I sighed to myself. After all, I am a trained journalist and I can’t get worked up over criticism of my shoe size. So instead, I found a better way to drown my foot problems – I went and bought myself a pair of shoes in size 8.5.
So I was browsing through the selection of shoes, trying to decide between the slippers with the black beads and the ones with the tan beads, when a voice to my left drew my attention. Holding up a horror in neon green, the woman demanded, “Who with size nine feet would wear neon green shoes?” (yes yes, my name is Inihtar, and I wear size nine shoes.)
Her companion, clearly trying to make up for her lack of diplomacy, responded, “Why? People with size nine feet can’t wear neon green shoes?”
The first woman, obviously unwilling to give up on her argument, answered: “Well, if you have such huge feet, you shouldn’t be drawing attention to them.”
Now, I was following along in this conversation, chuckling to myself, until the realization hit me that I was part of the group she was berating. Startled, I attempted to make up by sending a potent glare in her direction – not that I wear neon green shoes, but I would like the opportunity to do so without being the object of contempt of some loud-mouthed female who is clearly unaware of the tribulations of having large feet – but she was blissfully unaware that she had ruffled any feathers in the number nine section.
As she trotted off to one of the smaller sizes, I sighed to myself. After all, I am a trained journalist and I can’t get worked up over criticism of my shoe size. So instead, I found a better way to drown my foot problems – I went and bought myself a pair of shoes in size 8.5.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The past few days. . .
The past few days have been busy and fun-filled, and I've been basking in the fun and relaxation too much to blog. But my faithful reader has informed me of my need to blog so here I am.
Nev arrived in New York predictably late the night before my graduation :P After the ceremonies of the day -- the morning all-school commencement, followed by the journalism school ceremony and presentation of diplomas, and a reception on the lawn outside the J-school, Nev and I found ourselves at Pastis for my graduation dinner. That was the first of many face-stuffing sessions (well, second, actually -- Nev, Okia and I went to the Lime Tree for Thai food for an impromptu lunch earlier).
The next day saw us standing in line, bright and early, to board the Liberty and Ellis Islands ferry, to pay a visit to Lady Lib. We'd planned a harbour cruise aboard the Ms. New York after LL, but our visit to the two islands ended up taking most of the day, and we stumbled back home exhausted. A brief rest and we headed to Basta Pasta for dinner, followed by drinks somewhere (can't remember where :S).
Friday, it was off to Crepes on Columbus for a scrumptious brekkie. We'd had plans to make up our missed cruise and visit the Guggenheim, but nature had different plans. It started pouring, so deciding that we were not troopers enough to brave the weather, we decided against it. When it let up a bit, we decided instead to go shopping, and took ourselves off to 34th Street. It started pouring again, but this time, we marched into the rain and headed to St. James Theater to get tickets for The Producers that night. Then off to Ollies for a late lunch, and back home.
After a thoroughly enjoyable performance of The Producers, we left the theater, cooing, "Bleuuuuumm," and singing "Bialystock and Bloom." We decided we were adventurous enough to trek downtown to have pizza at Lombardis, America's first pizza place. After predictably getting lost (were you not wondering why there were no such adventures earlier?!?! Perhaps my sense of direction is improving somewhat) we rushed in five minutes to closing time and persuaded them -- successfully -- to feed us. It was totally worth the fiasco -- Nev proclaimed it the best pizza he'd ever eaten. We stumbled back home and fell asleep.
The next day saw me frantically packing so I could use Nev's muscles to put my excess stuff in storage. We finished packing, and huffing and puffing, pushing and shoving, finally managed to get it all down to the storage place and into my unit. That done, we headed off to Swish for some shabu shabu, then rushed home, freshened up and headed off to Ilajna's leaving do.
Planned to go to the Whisky Bar afterwards, but towards the end, we were both falling asleep on our feet, so, after a sad farewell (albeit temporary :)) to Ilajna, we went home.
Next day saw us at Balthazar's for brunch. Went back home after that, again in the pouring rain, packed up, and took ourselves off to the airport -- again, predictably late. But Nev managed to make his flight, and I headed back home, ready to crash.
An exhausting few days, but totally fun and totally worth it -- even though Nev left bemoaning the fact that he felt underwhelmed by this trip because he didn't get to do everything on his list -- geez, some people! After all, eating is a large part of New York life, isn't it? And naive and demanding Southerners need to learn that.
Nev arrived in New York predictably late the night before my graduation :P After the ceremonies of the day -- the morning all-school commencement, followed by the journalism school ceremony and presentation of diplomas, and a reception on the lawn outside the J-school, Nev and I found ourselves at Pastis for my graduation dinner. That was the first of many face-stuffing sessions (well, second, actually -- Nev, Okia and I went to the Lime Tree for Thai food for an impromptu lunch earlier).
The next day saw us standing in line, bright and early, to board the Liberty and Ellis Islands ferry, to pay a visit to Lady Lib. We'd planned a harbour cruise aboard the Ms. New York after LL, but our visit to the two islands ended up taking most of the day, and we stumbled back home exhausted. A brief rest and we headed to Basta Pasta for dinner, followed by drinks somewhere (can't remember where :S).
Friday, it was off to Crepes on Columbus for a scrumptious brekkie. We'd had plans to make up our missed cruise and visit the Guggenheim, but nature had different plans. It started pouring, so deciding that we were not troopers enough to brave the weather, we decided against it. When it let up a bit, we decided instead to go shopping, and took ourselves off to 34th Street. It started pouring again, but this time, we marched into the rain and headed to St. James Theater to get tickets for The Producers that night. Then off to Ollies for a late lunch, and back home.
After a thoroughly enjoyable performance of The Producers, we left the theater, cooing, "Bleuuuuumm," and singing "Bialystock and Bloom." We decided we were adventurous enough to trek downtown to have pizza at Lombardis, America's first pizza place. After predictably getting lost (were you not wondering why there were no such adventures earlier?!?! Perhaps my sense of direction is improving somewhat) we rushed in five minutes to closing time and persuaded them -- successfully -- to feed us. It was totally worth the fiasco -- Nev proclaimed it the best pizza he'd ever eaten. We stumbled back home and fell asleep.
The next day saw me frantically packing so I could use Nev's muscles to put my excess stuff in storage. We finished packing, and huffing and puffing, pushing and shoving, finally managed to get it all down to the storage place and into my unit. That done, we headed off to Swish for some shabu shabu, then rushed home, freshened up and headed off to Ilajna's leaving do.
Planned to go to the Whisky Bar afterwards, but towards the end, we were both falling asleep on our feet, so, after a sad farewell (albeit temporary :)) to Ilajna, we went home.
Next day saw us at Balthazar's for brunch. Went back home after that, again in the pouring rain, packed up, and took ourselves off to the airport -- again, predictably late. But Nev managed to make his flight, and I headed back home, ready to crash.
An exhausting few days, but totally fun and totally worth it -- even though Nev left bemoaning the fact that he felt underwhelmed by this trip because he didn't get to do everything on his list -- geez, some people! After all, eating is a large part of New York life, isn't it? And naive and demanding Southerners need to learn that.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Some grad pictures. . .
A grad shot (note the two giant toothbrushes in the middle. . . the dental school, of course!) 
Me, Danny and Okia
New York, New York. . .
Sorry the captions are a little off. . .I'm not sure how to fix them.
Me, Danny and Okia
New York, New York. . .
Sorry the captions are a little off. . .I'm not sure how to fix them.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
I've graduated!!!
As of today, I'm officially Inihtar, BA, MS. Well, not officially. . . because I did kind of fail one class -- haha, just kidding. Not officially, because the "BA, MS" follows my real name, not Inihtar, silly! That's all!!
I am, as Caveboy puts it, a "young graduate" -- the second time round!
So, J-school is done, and I'm ready to conquer the real world with my A+ journalism skills that my $40,000 master's degree has equipped me with. Now, if I end up at a piddly little newspaper in some equally piddly litte town, I will have a few choice words for the folks at Columbia J-school.
But anyway, I now have 12 days to take in the sights of NYC before my internship starts, and before I have to start paying back good ol' Access Group. Watch out, NYC. . .here comes Ini!!
(I'm sure a more introspective, and possibly nostalgic, post will follow at some point. But right now, I'm just happy to be done).
I am, as Caveboy puts it, a "young graduate" -- the second time round!
So, J-school is done, and I'm ready to conquer the real world with my A+ journalism skills that my $40,000 master's degree has equipped me with. Now, if I end up at a piddly little newspaper in some equally piddly litte town, I will have a few choice words for the folks at Columbia J-school.
But anyway, I now have 12 days to take in the sights of NYC before my internship starts, and before I have to start paying back good ol' Access Group. Watch out, NYC. . .here comes Ini!!
(I'm sure a more introspective, and possibly nostalgic, post will follow at some point. But right now, I'm just happy to be done).
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
A little family on my window-sill
Everyday for the past couple of months, I've woken up to the sound of pigeons cooing outside my window. They make quite a racket. . . at least two of them, flying up and down, alighting on the air conditioner, making enough noise to wake the dead. One day wondering why they kept coming back, I peered down under my air conditioner . . . to find that they had made themselves quite at home there -- they'd built themselves a tidy little nest.
But over the past two days, the sounds have changed. I've been hearing higher pitched chirping in addition to the huskier cooing, and the chirps are even more constant and insistent. At first I thought it was just other birds flying around, and alighting outside my window for some sort of bird conference. But I lifted the blind this morning and peered out to see . . . little baby pigeons in the nest chirping away.
Trying to teach our little feline something about other species, I picked him up, took him to the window and pointed to the nest. "Look, Weds, tiny little birdies!" But, although he has been fascinated by the sounds and stands staring at my air conditioner for hours, he didn't realize that the sounds were coming from OUTSIDE. He looked up and down and all around -- everywhere but down where the birds were. . . until I put him down, when he resumed staring at the AC in undisguised fascination. Sigh!
Anyway, it's quieted down now. The parents are away finding food. Looks like I'm baby-sitting:)
But over the past two days, the sounds have changed. I've been hearing higher pitched chirping in addition to the huskier cooing, and the chirps are even more constant and insistent. At first I thought it was just other birds flying around, and alighting outside my window for some sort of bird conference. But I lifted the blind this morning and peered out to see . . . little baby pigeons in the nest chirping away.
Trying to teach our little feline something about other species, I picked him up, took him to the window and pointed to the nest. "Look, Weds, tiny little birdies!" But, although he has been fascinated by the sounds and stands staring at my air conditioner for hours, he didn't realize that the sounds were coming from OUTSIDE. He looked up and down and all around -- everywhere but down where the birds were. . . until I put him down, when he resumed staring at the AC in undisguised fascination. Sigh!
Anyway, it's quieted down now. The parents are away finding food. Looks like I'm baby-sitting:)
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Loss. . . and healing
Have you ever really sat down and come to the realization that life really is what you make of it? Not in the cliched, off-the-cuff way that people say it to make you feel better about things. . . but in a serious, eureka kind of way.
I've found that many times, when something you've had slips away from you, it's because you were so afraid to believe that you actually had it and are so filled with fear that you are going to lose it, that you either cling too tightly to it, or don't hold on to it tightly enough. You are either afraid to claim it because of the loss you are convinced will inevitably follow, or you do take it and worry so much that you are going to lose it than you end up creating a situation where do lose it.
And when that loss finally comes, it's almost a relief, because the anxiety and the waiting for the inevitable is finally over, and you can get on with the business of dealing with it -- of telling yourself that you were never meant to have it in the first place and you always knew you were going to lose it, and you were right, and now you can move on.
But even with loss, life goes on, doesn't it? You pick up the pieces, and you trudge on, and you learn to live life without that all-important thing/person. And that's the thing about humans. . . that we do move on, we do get used to what seems even the most un-get-used-to-able things, and we are healed by time. We might occasionally feel a little tug at the mention of a name or a circumstance that brings back a poignant memory, but at the end of the day, we can get used to anything. . . and we can even learn to be happy with something that one day we thought we could never settle for, or be happy without something we thought we could never live without.
Cheesy and sappy as this is, these extracts from this poem by Veronica Shofffstall do make some sense, so don't look down your nose at me (Caveboy and Nev -- I can almost see the rolling eyes)!!
After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and eyes ahead . . .
And you learn to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have have a way of falling down in mid-flight. . .
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
with every goodbye you learn..
I've found that many times, when something you've had slips away from you, it's because you were so afraid to believe that you actually had it and are so filled with fear that you are going to lose it, that you either cling too tightly to it, or don't hold on to it tightly enough. You are either afraid to claim it because of the loss you are convinced will inevitably follow, or you do take it and worry so much that you are going to lose it than you end up creating a situation where do lose it.
And when that loss finally comes, it's almost a relief, because the anxiety and the waiting for the inevitable is finally over, and you can get on with the business of dealing with it -- of telling yourself that you were never meant to have it in the first place and you always knew you were going to lose it, and you were right, and now you can move on.
But even with loss, life goes on, doesn't it? You pick up the pieces, and you trudge on, and you learn to live life without that all-important thing/person. And that's the thing about humans. . . that we do move on, we do get used to what seems even the most un-get-used-to-able things, and we are healed by time. We might occasionally feel a little tug at the mention of a name or a circumstance that brings back a poignant memory, but at the end of the day, we can get used to anything. . . and we can even learn to be happy with something that one day we thought we could never settle for, or be happy without something we thought we could never live without.
Cheesy and sappy as this is, these extracts from this poem by Veronica Shofffstall do make some sense, so don't look down your nose at me (Caveboy and Nev -- I can almost see the rolling eyes)!!
After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and eyes ahead . . .
And you learn to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have have a way of falling down in mid-flight. . .
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
with every goodbye you learn..
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
What am I?
Have you ever wondered what a person with black hair is called? A person with blond hair is a blonde/blond, a person with brown hair is a brunette (well, a woman with brown hair is, anyway. . . what IS a man with brown hair called? Can't very well call a man something that ends with "ette"). And a person with red hair is a red head. So what is a person with black hair called? A blackhead? A noirette? I refuse to be lumped into the same category as brunettes. If they all get their own name, I demand one too!!
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Emotional anesthetic?
With all the advances of modern science, they still haven't been able to come up with a drug that can temporarily numb emotions (as far as I know anyway. If they have, any LEGAL ones, that is, point me to it!!).
Because, you know, with deadlines and finding jobs and finding a place to live and dealing with visas and having to take a writing test that requires a lot of preparation, a girl could sometimes do without those unruly, unwanted emotions. Sometimes, one just needs a little emotional numbage to make it through life. . .
Because, you know, with deadlines and finding jobs and finding a place to live and dealing with visas and having to take a writing test that requires a lot of preparation, a girl could sometimes do without those unruly, unwanted emotions. Sometimes, one just needs a little emotional numbage to make it through life. . .
Monday, April 24, 2006
Wed's other personality emerges
On Friday, after my plans with Bobbis, Ficali et al. fell through, I settled down with Okia, Mits and Le Dernier Mot to watch the Ms. USA pagent (yes yes I know). LDM was bringing her own girl kitten, ACE (she and Okia found ACE, a little frightened kitten, on the A-C-E subway line, hence the name), and Okia and I were excited at the prospect of reuniting Weds and ACE, who hadn't played together since they were wee little babies. The two have been fixed, so we even entertained the possibility of some romance between them without any undesirable consequences. But it was not to be.
Weds was in the living room, terrorizing poor Mits (he was just being his usually friendly self, you know, but Mits, traumatized as he was by a dog bite when he was little, doesn't take too kindly to friendly animals) when LDM and ACE arrived. LDM let little ACE out of her bag, and we all played with her a bit. I went off to the living room to fetch Weds to re-introduce him to his old friend. He sat serenely as I picked him up and walked down the hallway -- that is, until his eyes landed on ACE. Our little angel instantly turned into a monster. He hissed and snarled, leaped out of my arms, and fled for dear life back to the living room at one end of the hallway. Poor ACE, flustered by this unexpected reaction on the part of her host, sadly scurried off in the opposite direction, deposited herself in between my boxes at the other end of the hallway and refused to emerge all evening long.
Weds refused to come round as well. The spent the evening hiding under the chair, behind the TV, making not a peep (afraid, probably, that any sound he made would be mistaken by his unwelcome guest for a sign of friendliness). Feeling sorry for him at one point, I picked him up and held him in my lap. He sat quietly, but always with a wary eye on the other side of the corridor, where Okia and LDM were, playing with ACE for a bit. As soon as he saw them walking back, he started squirming again, assuming that they were bringing his enemy with them, and only calmed down when he realized that ACE was, in her quiet, demure way, as stubborn as him, and still firmly lodged in between the boxes.
The evening ended, with our hopes for a joyful reunion between the two of them dashed. As Okia, LDM and I were lamenting this, LDM looked on the bright side. "Oh well, I guess it's for the best. Because otherwise, ACE would have been heartbroken when Weds leaves for Japan next month." True, I suppose.
I still gave Weds a stern talking to about his manners and his abominable treatment of his guest after they left, but I'm sure it didn't make much of an impression on our fiesty little feline -- who incidentally, was back to his playful, friendly little self as soon as ACE departed.
Okia and I had thought that Weds was becoming a moody teenager -- because of his occasional penchant for climbing to the top of the highest cabinets in the kitchen and pointedly ignoring us when the mood took him. But I suppose he's still in the pre-teen stage, where girls = eeeewww!
Weds was in the living room, terrorizing poor Mits (he was just being his usually friendly self, you know, but Mits, traumatized as he was by a dog bite when he was little, doesn't take too kindly to friendly animals) when LDM and ACE arrived. LDM let little ACE out of her bag, and we all played with her a bit. I went off to the living room to fetch Weds to re-introduce him to his old friend. He sat serenely as I picked him up and walked down the hallway -- that is, until his eyes landed on ACE. Our little angel instantly turned into a monster. He hissed and snarled, leaped out of my arms, and fled for dear life back to the living room at one end of the hallway. Poor ACE, flustered by this unexpected reaction on the part of her host, sadly scurried off in the opposite direction, deposited herself in between my boxes at the other end of the hallway and refused to emerge all evening long.
Weds refused to come round as well. The spent the evening hiding under the chair, behind the TV, making not a peep (afraid, probably, that any sound he made would be mistaken by his unwelcome guest for a sign of friendliness). Feeling sorry for him at one point, I picked him up and held him in my lap. He sat quietly, but always with a wary eye on the other side of the corridor, where Okia and LDM were, playing with ACE for a bit. As soon as he saw them walking back, he started squirming again, assuming that they were bringing his enemy with them, and only calmed down when he realized that ACE was, in her quiet, demure way, as stubborn as him, and still firmly lodged in between the boxes.
The evening ended, with our hopes for a joyful reunion between the two of them dashed. As Okia, LDM and I were lamenting this, LDM looked on the bright side. "Oh well, I guess it's for the best. Because otherwise, ACE would have been heartbroken when Weds leaves for Japan next month." True, I suppose.
I still gave Weds a stern talking to about his manners and his abominable treatment of his guest after they left, but I'm sure it didn't make much of an impression on our fiesty little feline -- who incidentally, was back to his playful, friendly little self as soon as ACE departed.
Okia and I had thought that Weds was becoming a moody teenager -- because of his occasional penchant for climbing to the top of the highest cabinets in the kitchen and pointedly ignoring us when the mood took him. But I suppose he's still in the pre-teen stage, where girls = eeeewww!
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
A fire alarm. . . but nobody cares. . .
I was blissfully jogging away on the treadmill today, with my i-pod blaring into my ear, when all of a sudden white lights began flashing all over the gym. My first thought was "Oooh, I'm going to be on TV!" But I soon realized that the flashes were coming from fire alarm systems on various walls. "Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder what's going on."
It took me a while to hear the accompanying fire alarm through my music, but, when I finally did, I whipped around in panic, almost getting thrown off the treadmill in the process. But no one else seemed the least bit perturbed by noise, or even reacted to it. The runners around the track continued running, the elliptical people continued their elliptical thing, and the weight lifters continued their lifting. Across the gym, the aerobics class continued as if nothing was happening. Oh well, I thought, I'll just keep running, and if I get burned to a crisp, at least it will be with a 100 other people.
So, the alarm continued clanging away, and I kept running away. Soon I didn't even notice it. Which made me wonder: what if there was a real fire somewhere in the building? Would we all just keep working out, completely oblivious to the impending danger and waiting for someone else to be the first to go running out of the building, until the ceiling came crashing down on us?
It took me a while to hear the accompanying fire alarm through my music, but, when I finally did, I whipped around in panic, almost getting thrown off the treadmill in the process. But no one else seemed the least bit perturbed by noise, or even reacted to it. The runners around the track continued running, the elliptical people continued their elliptical thing, and the weight lifters continued their lifting. Across the gym, the aerobics class continued as if nothing was happening. Oh well, I thought, I'll just keep running, and if I get burned to a crisp, at least it will be with a 100 other people.
So, the alarm continued clanging away, and I kept running away. Soon I didn't even notice it. Which made me wonder: what if there was a real fire somewhere in the building? Would we all just keep working out, completely oblivious to the impending danger and waiting for someone else to be the first to go running out of the building, until the ceiling came crashing down on us?
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
A scary hairy tale
Once upon a time, there was a silly girl named Inihtar, who decided she wanted beautiful long black curly locks. But alas, her hair was straight as a broomstick's sweeper. So, she decided she would take herself off to a hair salon and get her hair permed, so she could achieve her heart's desire. All the warnings of well-wishers, who cautioned that her hair would be fried, and become dry as a desert bush, fell on deaf ears. For our friend Ini had made up her mind and there was no changing it. So off she went to the hair salon and, four hours later, walked out with the curls her heart had so desired.
Fast forward a couple of years: Ini's hair is a sight to behold: the top part is straight and fine; the bottom part, however, is a nightmare: dry, coarse, and split ends galore. So Ini decided she was going to chop off the remainder of the permed hair. And off she went to her favourite hair salon, where when the hair dresser held up the amount she wanted cut, Ini shook her head and said "more" and "more" and "more" again. So clip clip when the scissors, and when the cutting was all done, Ini realized in shock that her hair was half of its original length. She hid her shock, admitted that it didn't look too bad, and took herself off home.
A couple of days later, Ini decided she wanted layers. Her hair was shorter, and she figured this was the time to do it. So, unable to wait once her mind was made up, Ini went off to a nearby hair salon, and asked for layers. Clip clip went the scissors again, and Ini smiled, thanked the hair dresser, and went off home. On the way home, she peered at her reflection in shop windows, and in occasional mirrors, and realized that she wanted more layers in the front.
She decided to fix it herself. She arrived home, picked up a pair of scissors and a newspaper and headed for the bathroom. Snip snip went the scissors for a third time in a week. And the results this time were not so pleasing. Ini had overestimated her ability to fix her hair. Snip snip, went the scissors again, as she tried to make up for the disaster. To no avail.
"This is becoming like the tale of the monkey and the cake*," she told herself. She decided to leave it, pronounced her hair the latest fashion statement, put away her apparatus and went about her work. Ini might, of course, change her mind about the fashion statement, once she starts getting horrified stares, but she will just have to deal with it then, won't she?
*For those readers unfamiliar with the tale of the monkey and the cake, it goes something like this: Two birds had found a piece of cake and wanted to split it between them, but not trusting each other's ability to split it evenly, took it to a monkey to do it for them. The monkey broke the piece in two, then decided one was bigger than the other, and took a bite of the larger piece. Then that piece was smaller, so he took a bite of the other, and so on, until he had eated the entire piece.
Fast forward a couple of years: Ini's hair is a sight to behold: the top part is straight and fine; the bottom part, however, is a nightmare: dry, coarse, and split ends galore. So Ini decided she was going to chop off the remainder of the permed hair. And off she went to her favourite hair salon, where when the hair dresser held up the amount she wanted cut, Ini shook her head and said "more" and "more" and "more" again. So clip clip when the scissors, and when the cutting was all done, Ini realized in shock that her hair was half of its original length. She hid her shock, admitted that it didn't look too bad, and took herself off home.
A couple of days later, Ini decided she wanted layers. Her hair was shorter, and she figured this was the time to do it. So, unable to wait once her mind was made up, Ini went off to a nearby hair salon, and asked for layers. Clip clip went the scissors again, and Ini smiled, thanked the hair dresser, and went off home. On the way home, she peered at her reflection in shop windows, and in occasional mirrors, and realized that she wanted more layers in the front.
She decided to fix it herself. She arrived home, picked up a pair of scissors and a newspaper and headed for the bathroom. Snip snip went the scissors for a third time in a week. And the results this time were not so pleasing. Ini had overestimated her ability to fix her hair. Snip snip, went the scissors again, as she tried to make up for the disaster. To no avail.
"This is becoming like the tale of the monkey and the cake*," she told herself. She decided to leave it, pronounced her hair the latest fashion statement, put away her apparatus and went about her work. Ini might, of course, change her mind about the fashion statement, once she starts getting horrified stares, but she will just have to deal with it then, won't she?
*For those readers unfamiliar with the tale of the monkey and the cake, it goes something like this: Two birds had found a piece of cake and wanted to split it between them, but not trusting each other's ability to split it evenly, took it to a monkey to do it for them. The monkey broke the piece in two, then decided one was bigger than the other, and took a bite of the larger piece. Then that piece was smaller, so he took a bite of the other, and so on, until he had eated the entire piece.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Looking back. . .
I have just realized that, by this time next month, all my classes will be finished. The final version of my last story for by Business and Economics reporting class is due on May 9. The final story for Columbia News Service will be done on April 28. And I have no idea what's happening in my Computer Assisted Reporting class, and don't care much, to be honest.
So, a year. . . somewhat turbulent and horrible at times, but also one where I've learned a great deal, personally, academically and professionally, is coming to an end. I suppose my feelings throughout this year have been primarily negative, mostly because of the sheer stress of depending on others to determine how well I do, and not having the strength of a real publication behind me to lend me some credibility. It's been tough at times. . . heck, most of the time. . . but it's been a sort of baptism by fire. It is one of those experiences that are difficult while going through it, but afterwards, you look back and realize how much it helped you grow. Approaching the end of this year, I am looking back and realizing that I am coming out having learned a lot more than I expected, and prepared to learn a lot more as I go on. In some ways, I'm tougher, both as a person and as a journalist; in others, I'm a lot softer, more empathetic, more aware of the state of affairs in the world, and wanting to make a difference.
For a long time, I lived -- somewhat deludedly -- telling myself, "Je ne regrette rien," perhaps because I did have a lot to regret, but chose not to face it. But now, I accept that there are many things I wish could have done differently during the past year, in school, work and in relationships. . . most of which were within my control. But since there is not much to be done about these, the key is to look forward. I still have one more month, and as I look at my bookshelf full of unread books, the freelance stories I never got around to writing or selling, and the friends I never managed to make -- or managed to lose -- I tell myself. . . I still have a month to do all these things. Will it happen? I don't know. Probably not. But, one can always try. . .
*If you are wondering what the point of this vague post is, I'm not entirely sure myself. Just looking back and randomly reminiscing. . .
So, a year. . . somewhat turbulent and horrible at times, but also one where I've learned a great deal, personally, academically and professionally, is coming to an end. I suppose my feelings throughout this year have been primarily negative, mostly because of the sheer stress of depending on others to determine how well I do, and not having the strength of a real publication behind me to lend me some credibility. It's been tough at times. . . heck, most of the time. . . but it's been a sort of baptism by fire. It is one of those experiences that are difficult while going through it, but afterwards, you look back and realize how much it helped you grow. Approaching the end of this year, I am looking back and realizing that I am coming out having learned a lot more than I expected, and prepared to learn a lot more as I go on. In some ways, I'm tougher, both as a person and as a journalist; in others, I'm a lot softer, more empathetic, more aware of the state of affairs in the world, and wanting to make a difference.
For a long time, I lived -- somewhat deludedly -- telling myself, "Je ne regrette rien," perhaps because I did have a lot to regret, but chose not to face it. But now, I accept that there are many things I wish could have done differently during the past year, in school, work and in relationships. . . most of which were within my control. But since there is not much to be done about these, the key is to look forward. I still have one more month, and as I look at my bookshelf full of unread books, the freelance stories I never got around to writing or selling, and the friends I never managed to make -- or managed to lose -- I tell myself. . . I still have a month to do all these things. Will it happen? I don't know. Probably not. But, one can always try. . .
*If you are wondering what the point of this vague post is, I'm not entirely sure myself. Just looking back and randomly reminiscing. . .
Friday, March 31, 2006
The death of objective journalism?
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.
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.
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. . .
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
An update on the UN Human Rights Commission
This was a story put out by UPI today on progress on the HR Commission. Nayma, sorry it took me so long to follow up on my previous post.
Analysis: U.N. reforms will move forward
By WILLIAM M. REILLY
UPI U.N. Correspondent
UNITED NATIONS, Feb. 21 (UPI) -- U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan and General Assembly President Jan Eliasson say that even though there are deep differences among member states they expect real progress in reform of the world organization.
A formal proposal for a Human Rights Council to replace the disgraced Human Rights Commission was expected to be presented later in the week, U.N. officials said Tuesday.
The main differences stem from members of the 191-member assembly fearing a power grab by the 15-member council, particularly by its five permanent, veto-wielding members: Britain, China, France, Russia and the United States.
Annan and Eliasson met to discuss "the need to move forward with the whole reform agenda."
"We live in a world of turmoil, and we must keep in mind that we have work to do in so many areas," the assembly president said Monday, reminding reporters at U.N. World Headquarters in New York of pending issues such as the Economic and Social Council, new development initiatives, management and the proposed Human Rights Council.
"This is the year of reform, and we are pressing ahead," Annan said. "Between the two of us we are in touch with many of the member states, individually and in groups and I am really hopeful that we will see real progress on human rights this week."
He is also expected to press ahead with management reform, the review of mandates, discussions on fighting terrorism and the terrorism convention.
"Of course the development issue, which is of great concern to many of our members is very much on the table, and we have made good progress, and I hope we can put that to bed, as well as the strengthening of ECOSOC," the secretary-general added, referring to the Economic and Social Council.
When asked about members of the Non-Aligned Movement, states which consider themselves not formally aligned with or against any major power bloc, which have grown fearful of becoming marginalized by the Security Council, Annan said, "Yes, there is some suspicion that some organs are reaching out for a power grab," the secretary-general said. "There is unhappiness with the Security Council, particularly.
"There is some mistrust among the membership on the whole issue of reform, and the reasons behind the reform, but I think from my discussions with member states almost all of them realize that reform is necessary, and would want to see the (United Nations) reformed and strengthened," Annan said.
The secretary-general continued that when the general membership sees issues they believe should be discussed in the General Assembly being discussed in the Security Council, "again it leads to tensions."
He said the two bodies should be able to "find a mechanism for discussing an issue of great interest" to all the members.
"Peacekeeping, procurement, sexual abuse, are issues that should be of concern to all of them, and we should find a way of discussing them openly and publicly, and not fight over which forum should have it," Annan said, referring to scandals under investigation by the Office for the Internal Oversight Services.
Eliasson agreed, saying: "I share the concern that, if there is an encroachment of the functions and power of the General Assembly that are on the agenda of the General Assembly, we need to deal with that, and I have discussed this matter with the president of the Security Council," a post filled this month by Ambassador John Bolton of the United States.
"I think it is important that we respect each other's functions and powers, and we will of course prove this point that the secretary-general has just made... that the General Assembly is accepting this responsibility to take very important reform decisions," Eliasson added. "I would hope also that we would increase that sense of respect and that importance of dialogue, so that we bring down these tensions."
Analysis: U.N. reforms will move forward
By WILLIAM M. REILLY
UPI U.N. Correspondent
UNITED NATIONS, Feb. 21 (UPI) -- U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan and General Assembly President Jan Eliasson say that even though there are deep differences among member states they expect real progress in reform of the world organization.
A formal proposal for a Human Rights Council to replace the disgraced Human Rights Commission was expected to be presented later in the week, U.N. officials said Tuesday.
The main differences stem from members of the 191-member assembly fearing a power grab by the 15-member council, particularly by its five permanent, veto-wielding members: Britain, China, France, Russia and the United States.
Annan and Eliasson met to discuss "the need to move forward with the whole reform agenda."
"We live in a world of turmoil, and we must keep in mind that we have work to do in so many areas," the assembly president said Monday, reminding reporters at U.N. World Headquarters in New York of pending issues such as the Economic and Social Council, new development initiatives, management and the proposed Human Rights Council.
"This is the year of reform, and we are pressing ahead," Annan said. "Between the two of us we are in touch with many of the member states, individually and in groups and I am really hopeful that we will see real progress on human rights this week."
He is also expected to press ahead with management reform, the review of mandates, discussions on fighting terrorism and the terrorism convention.
"Of course the development issue, which is of great concern to many of our members is very much on the table, and we have made good progress, and I hope we can put that to bed, as well as the strengthening of ECOSOC," the secretary-general added, referring to the Economic and Social Council.
When asked about members of the Non-Aligned Movement, states which consider themselves not formally aligned with or against any major power bloc, which have grown fearful of becoming marginalized by the Security Council, Annan said, "Yes, there is some suspicion that some organs are reaching out for a power grab," the secretary-general said. "There is unhappiness with the Security Council, particularly.
"There is some mistrust among the membership on the whole issue of reform, and the reasons behind the reform, but I think from my discussions with member states almost all of them realize that reform is necessary, and would want to see the (United Nations) reformed and strengthened," Annan said.
The secretary-general continued that when the general membership sees issues they believe should be discussed in the General Assembly being discussed in the Security Council, "again it leads to tensions."
He said the two bodies should be able to "find a mechanism for discussing an issue of great interest" to all the members.
"Peacekeeping, procurement, sexual abuse, are issues that should be of concern to all of them, and we should find a way of discussing them openly and publicly, and not fight over which forum should have it," Annan said, referring to scandals under investigation by the Office for the Internal Oversight Services.
Eliasson agreed, saying: "I share the concern that, if there is an encroachment of the functions and power of the General Assembly that are on the agenda of the General Assembly, we need to deal with that, and I have discussed this matter with the president of the Security Council," a post filled this month by Ambassador John Bolton of the United States.
"I think it is important that we respect each other's functions and powers, and we will of course prove this point that the secretary-general has just made... that the General Assembly is accepting this responsibility to take very important reform decisions," Eliasson added. "I would hope also that we would increase that sense of respect and that importance of dialogue, so that we bring down these tensions."
Thursday, February 09, 2006
To publish or not to publish?
The Prophet Mohammed cartoon issue has been on my mind lately, as it has on several others, I'm sure. And I've been debating how I feel about this issue. On the one hand, there is the press' right to freedom of expression, which I strongly believe in, for obvious reasons. This is also why Jyllands-Posten published the cartoons, media reports say - to show that they will not be cowed by religious dogma and fundamentalism. As such, I think that they should stand by their right to express themselves freely. For, if they give in now, they will only help spread the belief that, if sufficient pressure is exerted, the press can be controlled and moulded the way the powers-that-be want.
However, I do think this newspaper, and the others that reprinted the cartoons, acted rashly and without thought to the consequences of their actions. Because, Islam across the world is in a volatile state today. With fundamentalism reaching heights above what it has been for a long time, and with the West's tenuous standing in several Muslim countries, any action that appears, even remotely, to be spurred by anti-Islamic views can stoke the smouldering embers and start a flame that could very quickly spread out of control.
And that is what is happening now. As rioting and violence spreads across the world, the question, from a practical point of view, is "Is it really worth it?" All this to prove a hazy point about freedom of expression? That too in Denmark, where the press' freedom hasn't really come under any real test in the first place.
Or perhaps this whole reaction has proven a point. That maybe freedom of expression is not completely unequivocal, and the press can't get away with saying anything under this protection. Perhaps there are some things that are more important than freedom of expression.
I have also been thinking about how I would react if the depictions had been of Jesus. I would have been furious as well. Journalist or not, I am a Christian first, and my loyalty to Christ comes before my loyalty to my career and even my rights. So, I can see very clearly where the anger is coming from. I would definitely have written some angry letters, maybe even protested, and exercised my own right to freedom of expression. But I would not go so far as to riot and use violence, simply because that would be hypocritical and dilute the very point I'm trying to make. And this is what the rioters themselves are doing. By resorting to violence, they are going against their own religion, the very religion that they claim they are trying to protect - they are being hypocrites.
And there are others trying to fan the flames -- such as those who have publicized cartoons that weren't even in the original publication, including one of Mohammed with the face of a pig. Others are printing cartoons desecrating experiences that, while not always religious, still hold strong, poignant significance for other groups -- such as that of Anne Frank in bed with Hitler, published by the Arab European League. And in Iran, newspapers have announced a contest for cartoons mocking the Holocaust. In the latter two cases, those responsible are exercising their own right to freedom of expression. But again, at what cost? What are they really proving? That they can be as irresponsible and offensive as the European newspapers?
So, when I said that I strongly believe in freedom of expression, I do. But, I also think that it is up to the media to be responsible about how far they take this right, and to decide that, in cases like this one, where the publication of the cartoons was gratuitous, they should relinquish this right for the greater good. But, now that the deed is done, giving in will only give the impression that, under sufficient pressure, the press can be manipulated, which will have strong implications for the future of free expression.
Any thoughts, my phantom readers?!?!?
However, I do think this newspaper, and the others that reprinted the cartoons, acted rashly and without thought to the consequences of their actions. Because, Islam across the world is in a volatile state today. With fundamentalism reaching heights above what it has been for a long time, and with the West's tenuous standing in several Muslim countries, any action that appears, even remotely, to be spurred by anti-Islamic views can stoke the smouldering embers and start a flame that could very quickly spread out of control.
And that is what is happening now. As rioting and violence spreads across the world, the question, from a practical point of view, is "Is it really worth it?" All this to prove a hazy point about freedom of expression? That too in Denmark, where the press' freedom hasn't really come under any real test in the first place.
Or perhaps this whole reaction has proven a point. That maybe freedom of expression is not completely unequivocal, and the press can't get away with saying anything under this protection. Perhaps there are some things that are more important than freedom of expression.
I have also been thinking about how I would react if the depictions had been of Jesus. I would have been furious as well. Journalist or not, I am a Christian first, and my loyalty to Christ comes before my loyalty to my career and even my rights. So, I can see very clearly where the anger is coming from. I would definitely have written some angry letters, maybe even protested, and exercised my own right to freedom of expression. But I would not go so far as to riot and use violence, simply because that would be hypocritical and dilute the very point I'm trying to make. And this is what the rioters themselves are doing. By resorting to violence, they are going against their own religion, the very religion that they claim they are trying to protect - they are being hypocrites.
And there are others trying to fan the flames -- such as those who have publicized cartoons that weren't even in the original publication, including one of Mohammed with the face of a pig. Others are printing cartoons desecrating experiences that, while not always religious, still hold strong, poignant significance for other groups -- such as that of Anne Frank in bed with Hitler, published by the Arab European League. And in Iran, newspapers have announced a contest for cartoons mocking the Holocaust. In the latter two cases, those responsible are exercising their own right to freedom of expression. But again, at what cost? What are they really proving? That they can be as irresponsible and offensive as the European newspapers?
So, when I said that I strongly believe in freedom of expression, I do. But, I also think that it is up to the media to be responsible about how far they take this right, and to decide that, in cases like this one, where the publication of the cartoons was gratuitous, they should relinquish this right for the greater good. But, now that the deed is done, giving in will only give the impression that, under sufficient pressure, the press can be manipulated, which will have strong implications for the future of free expression.
Any thoughts, my phantom readers?!?!?
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