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.
Monday, June 19, 2006
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. . .
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