Originally written Sept. 24, 2009.
Waiting. We’ve all done it. Do it. All the time, even when we don’t notice, we are. We wait. For food. For hunger. For the check to clear. For the alarm to go off, or the repetitive snooze, giving the illusion that we have more time, a ten minute do-over of sleep. For the person in front to finish so that we can wait for the cashier to ring us up or for someone to look up the answer to our question of where to find that one book by that one author who was on NPR last week. When we’re sick, we wait to be well; or if the sickness includes trouble with the gastric system, we wait out our denial that sooner or later, the contents which are giving our body so much grief (or so it is perceived), must be expelled by the seemingly anti-gravitational force that our bodies inherently know so well. We wait for it to be quiet. Wait for the sound of…sound. Bladders wait to be filled, and then to expel their contents. And bowels seem to wait longer for the latter, sometimes too long that we accept defeat, only to have to return to our prior position two minutes later. We wait for the mail to come, even when we’re not expecting anything of significance. Our waiting signifies our hope of pleasant surprise (or the dread of an unpleasant one). Wait to be seen. Wait to leave. Wait for the bus to come, and wait until our stop is next. Life is just a bunch of quick successions of waiting. A more cynical approach: ultimately, we’re all just waiting to die.
Before our birth, during our gestation, there was waiting. Everyone, of course, only looks at the perspective of the mother in this case. No one ever wonders what it’s like to be on the other side of things. Especially when considering the expulsion from the publicly waiting subject who is the primary focus of sympathy and encouragement. No one ever thinks about what it might be like to be literally squeezed through a canal of which there is no hope of backtracking, being grabbed by an unknown pair of hands, feeling the drastic change in temperature, waiting for orientation to come, all the while thinking: What the fuck?! This is what I waited nine months for?! Yep. And it doesn’t ever end. Maybe even after we die, it doesn’t end, not entirely. Maybe we wait to reach the light, or we wait for the blackness to stop somewhere. Wait for the empty to become full again. Wait for the stopping to stop.
There is a calm anxiety in waiting. Or an anxious calm. It manifests in the shifting of eyes, the checking of the watch or wall clock, the tuning of a radio, the weight being shifted onto either foot, the licking of lips, pacing softly and casually, the thinking-of-other-things, the tapping of fingers, a heavy exhalation of breath. A run through of scenarios, both tragic and comedic, beautiful and horrifying. Minds busy and never idle. Never still. Never waiting for Thought to come, only for specific thoughts in the hopes of defeating public embarrassment, writer’s block, or any kind of creative block, brain farts and the like. Thoughts that never wait for control to step in because they have a mind of their own.
Waiting teaches us how quickly things can change. We wait for that car or that person or that bus to round the bend. Just when it seems like we’ll spend eternity in our one spot, practically immobile due to unfailing desperate hope, in three seconds its over, and relief floods our veins momentarily.
I almost forgot. The most clichéd and western-ly universal experience: waiting for the phone to ring. Arguably a predicament made worse by the acquiring of mobile phones. We can be found, contacted, virtually anywhere those supposedly brain cancer causing waves are strongest. And now there’s texting, so that you can talk without using your voice, only using those opposable thumbs which evolution has blessed us with. Receiving a text is almost as exciting as receiving a phone call. The beep, buzz, or even ring-tone goes off and our little hands reach into our pocket or purse, possibly asking our present company to excuse us for a moment, as curiosity has a higher priority than the conversation at hand, as we check to see who sent us a message that they couldn’t bother to say or ask in person. And sometimes we frantically answer, our thumbs clicking away on our miniature keyboards of communication, setting off the cycle once more, this time for the person on the other end. But a phone call can be so much more satisfying, gratifying, because the person on the other end is taking the time to actually want to talk to you, however briefly. Or maybe their thumbs were just tired. Either way, nothing can compare to that relief of seeing the name on the caller-i.d., and answering knowing who is on the other end. Even if we’re mad because they seem to have neglected us and made the waiting last longer than we feel appropriate, there is a sense of gratitude that fills us before we tersely answer, expecting an apology and holding onto a back up of venom if none ensues. We may not always have the guts to spit it out, but it’s there, just in case.
In the meantime. A euphemistic phrase for “waiting.” It means, “while you wait for such and such to happen, you should…” We’re constantly finding ways to ease the ache of waiting. Some call it reading a book. Some call it snacking or noshing. Or going for a ciggy break. Or chatting. Or checking email. Or picking up a hobby. Or making a phone call. Or listening to music or singing to yourself. Doing the dishes, vacuuming, tidying up. Going to a party. Dancing. Drinking. Recreational drug use. Sex. Hooking up. It’s all just entertainment. A way to fill the space, making use of Time. Using Time as a commodity, when in actuality, it’s been using us all along.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Just something I felt had to be shared...
Courtesy of "The God of Small Things" by Arundhati Roy.
A man had two sons, Pete and Stuart. Pete was an optimist. Stuart was a pessimist.
On their thirteenth birthday their father gave Stuart an expensive watch, a carpentry set, and a bicycle. In Pete's room, he filled it with horse dung.
When Stuart opened his presents, he grumbled all morning. He hadn't wanted a carpentry set, he didn't like the watch and the bicycle had the wrong kind of tires. When their father went to Pete's room, he couldn't see him, but he could hear the sound of frantic shoveling and heavy breathing. Horse dung was flying all over the room.
"What in heaven's name are you doing?" the father shouted.
A voice came from deep inside the dung. "Well, Father," Pete said, "if there's so much shit around, there has to be a pony somewhere!"
*So, let the moral of the story be: if Life hands you shit, start looking for a pony!*
A man had two sons, Pete and Stuart. Pete was an optimist. Stuart was a pessimist.
On their thirteenth birthday their father gave Stuart an expensive watch, a carpentry set, and a bicycle. In Pete's room, he filled it with horse dung.
When Stuart opened his presents, he grumbled all morning. He hadn't wanted a carpentry set, he didn't like the watch and the bicycle had the wrong kind of tires. When their father went to Pete's room, he couldn't see him, but he could hear the sound of frantic shoveling and heavy breathing. Horse dung was flying all over the room.
"What in heaven's name are you doing?" the father shouted.
A voice came from deep inside the dung. "Well, Father," Pete said, "if there's so much shit around, there has to be a pony somewhere!"
*So, let the moral of the story be: if Life hands you shit, start looking for a pony!*
autobiographical scene a la David Foster Wallace (sort of)
Originally written Sept. 23, 2009.
Bathroom scene. Standing in front of the mirror, hips level with the sink, not quite ready to wash the hands in water too hot so that the faucet needs to be readjusted for the right temperature mid-wash. Looking into the reflective glass in front, taking stock of the body seen. Long hair, amber red, having darkened on its own through the years, starting out as more of a light strawberry blond in its youth, now spilling down over the shoulders, around the cleavage peeking out from the strategic V-neckline of the turquoise-teal athletic shirt that hugs tightly to the body. The breasts beneath are rounded, pushed together by the black sports bra invisible underneath the turquoise-teal facade. The abdomen below the breasts is wide and fills the tight athletic shirt, but not to the point of bursting. It gives the impression of a body that is full, strong, well built; but instead is often given the more "feminine" names for a body not fitting in to the familiar and acceptable status quo: "plump", "chubby", or "roundy." Bare arms, freckled with moles, and a mosquito bite on each arm, closer to the wrists, sufficiently scratched at so that each has slightly scabbed over. A band-aid is wrapped halfway around the right forearm, giving the unrealistic impression of a wound much bigger than it really is: a scratch from the weekend that was picked at absentmindedly and has subsequently continued bleeding. It hasn't stopped yet, briefly bringing to mind a red flag for anemia, yet quickly dismissed as hypochondriacal thinking. An elastic hair-tie, coincidentally the exact same color as the athletic shirt, still hugs the right wrist after having been removed over an hour ago.
The face. Passive in the warm, soft, yellow orange light bouncing off the marble counter top of the sink. The eyes: softly ringed from slightly smudged mascara which dissolved about an hour before during an emotional release while in her yoga class; the instructor had come by while the body was in savasana, took hold of the ankles, one in each hand, pulled them gently toward her body, and then softly guided them to the left and then to the right, slowly, subsequently moving the legs from the calves to the thighs, all with this gentle movement of back and forth, from left to right. It opened up the hips, creating space, physically, emotionally and spiritually in those broad sockets that for some unknown reason had been tight. The emotional release, non-dramatic, subtle, but no less powerful, followed after the feet were pressed back to the floor, toes pointed outward, ankles relaxed against the soft yoga mat.
Hands washed and dried. A sniff, then the just clean hands are run through the hair, styling it momentarily. The body turns toward the door, face still turned towards the mirror, perfecting that over-the-shoulder pose that everyone seems to comment on positively when captured photgraphically. But before the hand reaches for the knob, or maybe just as it rests on the knob, before it hears the familiar click of the lock snapping out of place, a thought occurs: He'll never call.
Bathroom scene. Standing in front of the mirror, hips level with the sink, not quite ready to wash the hands in water too hot so that the faucet needs to be readjusted for the right temperature mid-wash. Looking into the reflective glass in front, taking stock of the body seen. Long hair, amber red, having darkened on its own through the years, starting out as more of a light strawberry blond in its youth, now spilling down over the shoulders, around the cleavage peeking out from the strategic V-neckline of the turquoise-teal athletic shirt that hugs tightly to the body. The breasts beneath are rounded, pushed together by the black sports bra invisible underneath the turquoise-teal facade. The abdomen below the breasts is wide and fills the tight athletic shirt, but not to the point of bursting. It gives the impression of a body that is full, strong, well built; but instead is often given the more "feminine" names for a body not fitting in to the familiar and acceptable status quo: "plump", "chubby", or "roundy." Bare arms, freckled with moles, and a mosquito bite on each arm, closer to the wrists, sufficiently scratched at so that each has slightly scabbed over. A band-aid is wrapped halfway around the right forearm, giving the unrealistic impression of a wound much bigger than it really is: a scratch from the weekend that was picked at absentmindedly and has subsequently continued bleeding. It hasn't stopped yet, briefly bringing to mind a red flag for anemia, yet quickly dismissed as hypochondriacal thinking. An elastic hair-tie, coincidentally the exact same color as the athletic shirt, still hugs the right wrist after having been removed over an hour ago.
The face. Passive in the warm, soft, yellow orange light bouncing off the marble counter top of the sink. The eyes: softly ringed from slightly smudged mascara which dissolved about an hour before during an emotional release while in her yoga class; the instructor had come by while the body was in savasana, took hold of the ankles, one in each hand, pulled them gently toward her body, and then softly guided them to the left and then to the right, slowly, subsequently moving the legs from the calves to the thighs, all with this gentle movement of back and forth, from left to right. It opened up the hips, creating space, physically, emotionally and spiritually in those broad sockets that for some unknown reason had been tight. The emotional release, non-dramatic, subtle, but no less powerful, followed after the feet were pressed back to the floor, toes pointed outward, ankles relaxed against the soft yoga mat.
Hands washed and dried. A sniff, then the just clean hands are run through the hair, styling it momentarily. The body turns toward the door, face still turned towards the mirror, perfecting that over-the-shoulder pose that everyone seems to comment on positively when captured photgraphically. But before the hand reaches for the knob, or maybe just as it rests on the knob, before it hears the familiar click of the lock snapping out of place, a thought occurs: He'll never call.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The 90% Crap rule and The Little Hater
Ever had that experience of sitting in front of a blank page, waiting for something brilliant to happen? Or staring at an instrument (that you know how to play) and waiting for the right inspiration to come so that you can compose some incredibly amazing piece of music? Ever decide to start watching old episodes of Seinfeld or Family Guy on Hulu because you're tired of staring at a blank Word document with that little cursor incessantly blinking? Welcome to the world of creativity. This is the part that no one likes to talk about, but everyone who has ever been a creative person, or has strived to be one, has experienced these moments. Another thing creative people experience is realizing that what they have just created is total and utter crap. Or at least, it can feel that way in the moment. Even worse is when you feel like you've just created something that's so awesome (new poem, new song, new story, picture, sculpture...you get the idea), and then you go back to it in a few weeks, months, even years, and realize that it is utter crap. No redemption whatsoever. Total, and utter crap. And you begin to wonder what on earth possessed you to think it was so good in the first place.
It's amazing that anyone has stayed with any kind of creative endeavor considering this kind of thing, as well as the aforementioned instance, happens about 90% of the time. You heard me. 90%. Ok, that may not be an exact statistic, but it's pretty darn close. (Full disclosure: I have a spiritual director who is also a very creative person and she was the one who passed this little statistic on to me.) As artists, writers, and creators, one of the hardest things for most of us to do, besides beginning to create something, is revising. And sometimes, just the idea of revision is what can get us scared and put off creating something in the first place. It's a lovely vicious cycle. Say hello to "The Little Hater." (Watch this video blog from Jay Smooth about this very subject: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0TpmJgSfZ_8)
"The Little Hater" can be different for everyone, but it basically works like this: it gets you to doubt yourself and your own abilities. For me, it says things along the lines of "Who do you think you are to say something like this?" Or "Who do you think is going to read this shit?" Or "You know that whatever's in your head now won't look or sound as good as when you put it down on paper, right?" For the latter, I think this is true for every creative person that has ever lived. Even Pulitzer Prize winning authors have said that their novels never turn out how they had originally planned them. They were never as good as they had initially conceived them. Along the same lines, someone once told me the story of going over to a friend's house where their friend's son happened to be having a major tantrum. When they asked why the little boy was so upset, the mom replied, "Oh, he's been trying to draw something that's in his head and it won't come out the way he wants it to." Mind you, the little boy was four at the time. He later grew up to be an architect. But you see what I mean? We all go through it, even the best of us!
I've just started this blog, and while I'm excited about it now and have a whole bunch of ideas for what I want to post, I know that 1) not everything I post will be brilliant or note worthy or even worth reading (i.e. the 90% crap rule), and 2) that at some point, that Little Hater will start creeping in, and will continue to make guest appearances from time to time, letting me know that what I post is of no consequence to anyone. Especially right now when I don't have any followers (yet). But I am writing this entry as much for myself as for all of you creative people out there, who may be reading this right now. So what if 90% of what you create is total crap?! It just makes you appreciate that 10% of brilliance and genius even more! Revising is a good thing! It just goes to show that what you already created was worth creating in the first place! And as for that Little Hater...tell him to fuck off.
Until next time...
It's amazing that anyone has stayed with any kind of creative endeavor considering this kind of thing, as well as the aforementioned instance, happens about 90% of the time. You heard me. 90%. Ok, that may not be an exact statistic, but it's pretty darn close. (Full disclosure: I have a spiritual director who is also a very creative person and she was the one who passed this little statistic on to me.) As artists, writers, and creators, one of the hardest things for most of us to do, besides beginning to create something, is revising. And sometimes, just the idea of revision is what can get us scared and put off creating something in the first place. It's a lovely vicious cycle. Say hello to "The Little Hater." (Watch this video blog from Jay Smooth about this very subject: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0TpmJgSfZ_8)
"The Little Hater" can be different for everyone, but it basically works like this: it gets you to doubt yourself and your own abilities. For me, it says things along the lines of "Who do you think you are to say something like this?" Or "Who do you think is going to read this shit?" Or "You know that whatever's in your head now won't look or sound as good as when you put it down on paper, right?" For the latter, I think this is true for every creative person that has ever lived. Even Pulitzer Prize winning authors have said that their novels never turn out how they had originally planned them. They were never as good as they had initially conceived them. Along the same lines, someone once told me the story of going over to a friend's house where their friend's son happened to be having a major tantrum. When they asked why the little boy was so upset, the mom replied, "Oh, he's been trying to draw something that's in his head and it won't come out the way he wants it to." Mind you, the little boy was four at the time. He later grew up to be an architect. But you see what I mean? We all go through it, even the best of us!
I've just started this blog, and while I'm excited about it now and have a whole bunch of ideas for what I want to post, I know that 1) not everything I post will be brilliant or note worthy or even worth reading (i.e. the 90% crap rule), and 2) that at some point, that Little Hater will start creeping in, and will continue to make guest appearances from time to time, letting me know that what I post is of no consequence to anyone. Especially right now when I don't have any followers (yet). But I am writing this entry as much for myself as for all of you creative people out there, who may be reading this right now. So what if 90% of what you create is total crap?! It just makes you appreciate that 10% of brilliance and genius even more! Revising is a good thing! It just goes to show that what you already created was worth creating in the first place! And as for that Little Hater...tell him to fuck off.
Until next time...
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Cabbie from the Bayview
Sometimes I'm just a sucker for a cab ride. Beats taking Muni, even though we do have a pretty good transit system here in The City. But if I have a suitcase, plus some extra bags, I'd like to be dropped off at my front door, thank you very much.
So, here I was, getting into the cab after a long weekend of house sitting over in a posh little neighborhood (yeah, life is hard). The cabbie was a gentlemen, putting my suitcase into the trunk for me, and opening my door. Once he knew where we were going, we were off.
He was listening to KOIT, the "lite rock, less talk" station. Not only was he listening, he was singing along (even though it was pretty apparent he wouldn't be auditioning for anyone, anywhere, anytime soon). The station was playing Roxanne's "It Must Have Been Love (But It's Over Now)." (For you cinematic folks, you'll recognize it from one of the final scenes in "Pretty Woman".) It wasn't exactly a song I wanted to hear, given that I had only just ended a connection a couple of days before, but I didn't get much of a chance to dwell on it since my cabbie decided to start a conversation.
"You know, when she say, 'It must have been love and it's over now'? That [sic] not love, that [sic] sex she's talking about. Real love doesn't end, it's when the sex is over, and they're all, 'You son of a bitch! You broke my heart! I'll kill you, motherfucker!'" I have to explain something here. It turns out my cabbie was from Vietnam and had been living in the City for 30 some-odd years. So picture an older, Vietnamese dude who's been singing along to the radio to this sappy piece of 80s music, with this now coming out of his mouth. Yeah. I couldn't help but laugh. It really did break the ice, though.
"Jesus Christ! Would you look at these houses?!" He was pointing to some nice homes along the main street. They weren't mansions with security gates around them, but they were very definitely owned by the more affluent. "Can you fuckin' believe that? Those are single family homes, too, you know? Jesus! Who the hell needs all that?" (These may not have been his exact words, but they're pretty close.) I asked him where he lived. Turns out he's lived in the Bayview pretty much ever since he moved to San Francisco. For those who are unfamiliar with SF neighborhoods, the Bayview/Hunter's Point area is notorious for gang violence, drugs, theft, and other crimes. Parts of it have been gentrified, but the problems of poverty still remain. A large portion of the population is African American.
"Yeah," he said. "I don't like it much, but the rent is cheap." I could imagine. "Lots of crime, though," he pointed out. I told him I knew, and that I had worked in that area a few years back as a tutor for middle school students. "Yeah, it's tough living there. You don't wanna be around at night. Lots of crazy shit happens. You get robbed right in front of your house! You know why? Cuz when you're in front of your house, your guard is down. Shit, when I'm out driving in this thing, I'm always aware of what's around me. But when I'm home, late at night, I forget to think about all that." Turns out, he had been robbed a few times in his own house. Some teenagers had come in with guns once and took a bunch of his stuff. "And they weren't more than 14 or 16 years old."
There's no doubt that this is tragic, both for the victim (my cabbie) and the fact that the perpetrators were so young. As much as I felt for my driver, having worked with some of the kids from that area, I knew that these young boys he was talking about weren't just heinous criminals without a conscience. Ok, I didn't know 100% that that was the case, but I had a feeling. I attempted to talk about the root causes behind their behavior. A lot of kids from disadvantaged neighborhoods will take up the gun because it's easier for them to believe they have more power that way, rather than believing that they have something to offer the world. (*Cue "Dangerous Minds" theme.* Yeah, I know, I'm a white lady talking about this like I've lived it. I haven't, but I've caught a glimpse of what they go through and how they see themselves. It ain't pretty. I'm not offering it as an excuse for their behavior. Excuses are what allow things to stay the way they are. Reasons can lead to a closer examination, and hopefully change, of a situation. Which is what I was offering to the man driving me home from my cushy little gig.) I told him about how there's this image that young black men can take up about what a real man looks like, i.e. one who uses violence as a way to dominate and have control. Or that some young men become involved in that life out of fear for their own life. Well, let's face it...fear pretty much lies at the heart of all violent acts. (If you need further evidence of this, watch "Bowling for Columbine." Again.)
"You know what I call that? I call that an excuse," he replied to my sociological musings. "People make choices. They know what's right and what's not. Take me. I lived in a poor neighborhood all my life. I had a dad who would drink a lot and beat me every day. But I never thought that my life would be better if I went out and shoot [sic] somebody. So, saying it's because of where you come from, that's why you do those things, that's just an excuse." (I'm paraphrasing here.)
I respectfully disagreed with him, and tried to point out that I wasn't making excuses, but instead trying to acknowledge the way things were, the reality for the kids in Hunter's Point and other inner cities. "What it comes down to," he said, "is that a human being is a human being. No one is different. We're all human, we all make mistakes, but we can all correct our mistakes, do the right thing."
"Well, that may be true to an extent," I conceded. "But, people will do what's familiar to them. Someone living in a rough neighborhood may want to do the right thing and have a better life, but if all they're told by the people around them or society in general, that they're a thug or should be one or are expected to be one, then the likelihood is that they will take that path."
"It's true that people do what they know. That's true. But take me for example." I stopped him momentarily to tell him to turn on the next street. "Yeah, I used to drink a lot. Every day. I was an alcoholic. I went to meetings and all that shit. Then, one day, I just said, 'No, I'm not doing this anymore. I don't want to be like this.' And I quit."
I acknowledged that this was great for him, and that it was indeed possible for people to change. "They have to want to change," he interrupted. I agreed. But there was the additional problem of wanting to change, and others around you not wanting you to take that path. I would have gone on more, but we were getting close to my house and I had to give him additional directions to make sure we ended up in the right place.
I don't think either of us really changed our perspectives. I'm a bleeding heart liberal (might as well be honest) and while he was not a man of privilege, based on what he told me, his own personal experiences led him to his beliefs. More than that, the experiences led him to hold true to those beliefs. It was almost as if he changed his point of view, he might invalidate his own experience. He seemed to have the mentality of "Hey, I made it out ok. Why can't other people get their shit together?"
There's no question that our own experiences lead us to have a certain perspective of the world. That's fine, it creates us and can, in a way, create the environment in which we live. But there's more to it than that. If we only hold to our own truth as "the truth" then we miss out on whole other perspectives that could be just as valid, and could, in some cases, add to our perspectives. I'm not a pure relativist and believe that everyone's truth is all truth, nor do I believe in some one, objective "Truth." It's something in between those two extremes. It's the belief that there is truth to everyone's experience, and truth within our own, and that somehow some kind of blending occurs, or can occur through dialectic and/or shared experiences. This blending or amalgamation is not "Truth" or even moving towards some "greater Truth", but instead is just another piece to creating who we are and who we shall be.
I wonder what my next cabbie will be like.
So, here I was, getting into the cab after a long weekend of house sitting over in a posh little neighborhood (yeah, life is hard). The cabbie was a gentlemen, putting my suitcase into the trunk for me, and opening my door. Once he knew where we were going, we were off.
He was listening to KOIT, the "lite rock, less talk" station. Not only was he listening, he was singing along (even though it was pretty apparent he wouldn't be auditioning for anyone, anywhere, anytime soon). The station was playing Roxanne's "It Must Have Been Love (But It's Over Now)." (For you cinematic folks, you'll recognize it from one of the final scenes in "Pretty Woman".) It wasn't exactly a song I wanted to hear, given that I had only just ended a connection a couple of days before, but I didn't get much of a chance to dwell on it since my cabbie decided to start a conversation.
"You know, when she say, 'It must have been love and it's over now'? That [sic] not love, that [sic] sex she's talking about. Real love doesn't end, it's when the sex is over, and they're all, 'You son of a bitch! You broke my heart! I'll kill you, motherfucker!'" I have to explain something here. It turns out my cabbie was from Vietnam and had been living in the City for 30 some-odd years. So picture an older, Vietnamese dude who's been singing along to the radio to this sappy piece of 80s music, with this now coming out of his mouth. Yeah. I couldn't help but laugh. It really did break the ice, though.
"Jesus Christ! Would you look at these houses?!" He was pointing to some nice homes along the main street. They weren't mansions with security gates around them, but they were very definitely owned by the more affluent. "Can you fuckin' believe that? Those are single family homes, too, you know? Jesus! Who the hell needs all that?" (These may not have been his exact words, but they're pretty close.) I asked him where he lived. Turns out he's lived in the Bayview pretty much ever since he moved to San Francisco. For those who are unfamiliar with SF neighborhoods, the Bayview/Hunter's Point area is notorious for gang violence, drugs, theft, and other crimes. Parts of it have been gentrified, but the problems of poverty still remain. A large portion of the population is African American.
"Yeah," he said. "I don't like it much, but the rent is cheap." I could imagine. "Lots of crime, though," he pointed out. I told him I knew, and that I had worked in that area a few years back as a tutor for middle school students. "Yeah, it's tough living there. You don't wanna be around at night. Lots of crazy shit happens. You get robbed right in front of your house! You know why? Cuz when you're in front of your house, your guard is down. Shit, when I'm out driving in this thing, I'm always aware of what's around me. But when I'm home, late at night, I forget to think about all that." Turns out, he had been robbed a few times in his own house. Some teenagers had come in with guns once and took a bunch of his stuff. "And they weren't more than 14 or 16 years old."
There's no doubt that this is tragic, both for the victim (my cabbie) and the fact that the perpetrators were so young. As much as I felt for my driver, having worked with some of the kids from that area, I knew that these young boys he was talking about weren't just heinous criminals without a conscience. Ok, I didn't know 100% that that was the case, but I had a feeling. I attempted to talk about the root causes behind their behavior. A lot of kids from disadvantaged neighborhoods will take up the gun because it's easier for them to believe they have more power that way, rather than believing that they have something to offer the world. (*Cue "Dangerous Minds" theme.* Yeah, I know, I'm a white lady talking about this like I've lived it. I haven't, but I've caught a glimpse of what they go through and how they see themselves. It ain't pretty. I'm not offering it as an excuse for their behavior. Excuses are what allow things to stay the way they are. Reasons can lead to a closer examination, and hopefully change, of a situation. Which is what I was offering to the man driving me home from my cushy little gig.) I told him about how there's this image that young black men can take up about what a real man looks like, i.e. one who uses violence as a way to dominate and have control. Or that some young men become involved in that life out of fear for their own life. Well, let's face it...fear pretty much lies at the heart of all violent acts. (If you need further evidence of this, watch "Bowling for Columbine." Again.)
"You know what I call that? I call that an excuse," he replied to my sociological musings. "People make choices. They know what's right and what's not. Take me. I lived in a poor neighborhood all my life. I had a dad who would drink a lot and beat me every day. But I never thought that my life would be better if I went out and shoot [sic] somebody. So, saying it's because of where you come from, that's why you do those things, that's just an excuse." (I'm paraphrasing here.)
I respectfully disagreed with him, and tried to point out that I wasn't making excuses, but instead trying to acknowledge the way things were, the reality for the kids in Hunter's Point and other inner cities. "What it comes down to," he said, "is that a human being is a human being. No one is different. We're all human, we all make mistakes, but we can all correct our mistakes, do the right thing."
"Well, that may be true to an extent," I conceded. "But, people will do what's familiar to them. Someone living in a rough neighborhood may want to do the right thing and have a better life, but if all they're told by the people around them or society in general, that they're a thug or should be one or are expected to be one, then the likelihood is that they will take that path."
"It's true that people do what they know. That's true. But take me for example." I stopped him momentarily to tell him to turn on the next street. "Yeah, I used to drink a lot. Every day. I was an alcoholic. I went to meetings and all that shit. Then, one day, I just said, 'No, I'm not doing this anymore. I don't want to be like this.' And I quit."
I acknowledged that this was great for him, and that it was indeed possible for people to change. "They have to want to change," he interrupted. I agreed. But there was the additional problem of wanting to change, and others around you not wanting you to take that path. I would have gone on more, but we were getting close to my house and I had to give him additional directions to make sure we ended up in the right place.
I don't think either of us really changed our perspectives. I'm a bleeding heart liberal (might as well be honest) and while he was not a man of privilege, based on what he told me, his own personal experiences led him to his beliefs. More than that, the experiences led him to hold true to those beliefs. It was almost as if he changed his point of view, he might invalidate his own experience. He seemed to have the mentality of "Hey, I made it out ok. Why can't other people get their shit together?"
There's no question that our own experiences lead us to have a certain perspective of the world. That's fine, it creates us and can, in a way, create the environment in which we live. But there's more to it than that. If we only hold to our own truth as "the truth" then we miss out on whole other perspectives that could be just as valid, and could, in some cases, add to our perspectives. I'm not a pure relativist and believe that everyone's truth is all truth, nor do I believe in some one, objective "Truth." It's something in between those two extremes. It's the belief that there is truth to everyone's experience, and truth within our own, and that somehow some kind of blending occurs, or can occur through dialectic and/or shared experiences. This blending or amalgamation is not "Truth" or even moving towards some "greater Truth", but instead is just another piece to creating who we are and who we shall be.
I wonder what my next cabbie will be like.
Monday, May 31, 2010
I think this is what they call an Introduction
I may be a little late, but I'm always on time.
It's true. It's been said that from the time I was born, I've never done things until I was ready. I remember when people first started talking about blogging around 2002-2003ish. I also remember thinking how incredibly stupid it all was. I had friends who had online "journals" and whatnot, and at the time I thought how pointless it was to have a diary that everyone could read. Who would want to do that?! But, as the world of social networking grew and grew (and grew), and is still growing, that which previously made no sense now makes more sense than ever. Or at least has become a "norm."
I'm not a bandwagon jumper. Or at least, I prefer not to be. I don't do things because everyone else is doing them. I don't watch some show or listen to some band because everyone else is (or, in the hipster crowd, because no one else is). As stated before, I do things when I'm ready, when I want to.
So, the next question is Why? Why, after all this time would I want to start a blog? Is it because I overdosed on a Sex and the City marathon and have dreams of being the next Carrie Bradshaw? Because I want to be discovered for my fantastic natural writing ability and one day be published? Because I've come to realize what a narcissistic society we are, and that it's pointless to resist my own sense of narcissism, and wanting to be noticed for what I think, feel and say? Definitely not, most likely not, and maybe.
Let's face it. In the world of online social networking, online dating, and pretty much online anything, we as a society have recognized the ability for anyone to become noticed. Whether we're noticed in a positive or negative way is really a roll of the dice. It all depends on who is paying attention and what they're looking for. Those of us who have chosen to blog have done so for a variety of reasons, but the one that is at the bottom of it all is that we do want to be noticed. This isn't a bad thing in and of itself. We all deserve to be noticed. What matters is how we choose to meet that desire and need.
So, besides the above mentioned reason, why else have I started this blog? Well, first of all, I haven't written in any chronological journal for some time now. Any time I even think about making a new entry, I realize how much I will have to write in order to "catch up" and I soon abandon the idea. Secondly, while there are other forums to expose my thoughts, feelings and creativity (e.g. Facebook notes, journal entries on Ok Cupid, etc.), with this forum in particular, people actually seek out to read your thoughts, feelings and moments of creativity...if only to seek out what they can criticize and tear down. (Trust me, I've had it happen. It isn't fun. I welcome critique as long as it is thoughtful and conscious, not rude and seeking to make someone else feel bad.)
Lastly, I'd like to explain the origins of the title. There are at least two, with a tribute to Judith Butler somehow woven in. The first is a poem by Margaret Atwood called "You Fit Into Me."
you fit into melike a hook into an eyea fish hookan open eye.
That is the poem in its entirety. The first part, where she describes the person as fitting like "a hook into an eye" refers to a hook from the latch on a door fitting into the eye of the latch...or so the reader would suppose. The second part is just a cruel twist, reflecting the author's rage against the one who broke their heart. The poem itself was not necessarily the inspiration for the title of this blog. It was more of the imagery it produced, which leads to the second origin.
In an essay originally written for Bitch magazine (www.bitchmagazine.com) in 1999, and later published in a collection called Bitchfest, Vanessa Veselka wrote a piece entitled The Collapsible Woman: Cultural Response to Rape and Sexual Abuse. Veselka made the point that every single person, pretty much every single day, is wounded in some way.
Being wounded is not necessarily bad. (Veselka made the point that "With rape, the difference is the nature of the wound.") These wounds, good or bad, they create us. They make us who we are. We integrate these very wounds into our own selves, our own psyches. Through our interactions with the world, whether it is through the actual sense of sight, through the other physical senses, and more significantly through our emotional and spiritual lives, we allow ourselves to be vulnerable to being wounded. So, whether it is our physical sense of sight that is "pierced", or the eye of the mind or the soul, we are wounded and therefore never the same.
To expand on this slightly further, here's where I bring in that infuriating genius, Judith Butler. A post structural philosopher (think Foucault and Derrida and all those other guys), Butler wrote a book called "Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence". It would take too long to describe what the entire book is about, but one of the chapters discusses how and why we as human beings have an effect on each other, and the very "nature" of that effect, which is that we are "unbound" by each other.
In effect, we are wounded by each other through our interactions. Ok, so enough with this esoteric bullshit. What the hell does this have to do with a stupid blog?! Well, it helps to explain the premise of this particular blog. My hope is to present you with entries, be they essay, short stories, or poems, where it is particularly obvious that my own "eye" with which I view the world has been pierced. In short, I will be showing my wounds, my battle scars from this life. Glamorous, isn't it? Narcissistic? Most likely. But I have to wonder why we read blogs (those of us who do) if not to somehow peer into someone else's mind, to vicariously live someone else's experience, or to seek insight from another? Just a thought.
One last bit from Butler before closing out for now. This happens to be my favorite quote of all time, by the way.
And so it is.
If you've been raped or abused, you're scarred for life. You will never be as you were before the experience. This is also true for falling in love, getting your heart broken, going to war, having a child, or reading a great book. Everything that cuts deeply marks us. We're all scarred for life the second that we intimately relate to the outside world.
Being wounded is not necessarily bad. (Veselka made the point that "With rape, the difference is the nature of the wound.") These wounds, good or bad, they create us. They make us who we are. We integrate these very wounds into our own selves, our own psyches. Through our interactions with the world, whether it is through the actual sense of sight, through the other physical senses, and more significantly through our emotional and spiritual lives, we allow ourselves to be vulnerable to being wounded. So, whether it is our physical sense of sight that is "pierced", or the eye of the mind or the soul, we are wounded and therefore never the same.
To expand on this slightly further, here's where I bring in that infuriating genius, Judith Butler. A post structural philosopher (think Foucault and Derrida and all those other guys), Butler wrote a book called "Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence". It would take too long to describe what the entire book is about, but one of the chapters discusses how and why we as human beings have an effect on each other, and the very "nature" of that effect, which is that we are "unbound" by each other.
when we think about who we "are" and seek to represent ourselves, we cannot represent ourselves as merely bounded beings, for the primary others who are past for me not only live on in the fiber of the boundary that contains me (one meaning of "incorporation"), but they also haunt the way I am, as it were, periodically undone and open to becoming unbounded.
In effect, we are wounded by each other through our interactions. Ok, so enough with this esoteric bullshit. What the hell does this have to do with a stupid blog?! Well, it helps to explain the premise of this particular blog. My hope is to present you with entries, be they essay, short stories, or poems, where it is particularly obvious that my own "eye" with which I view the world has been pierced. In short, I will be showing my wounds, my battle scars from this life. Glamorous, isn't it? Narcissistic? Most likely. But I have to wonder why we read blogs (those of us who do) if not to somehow peer into someone else's mind, to vicariously live someone else's experience, or to seek insight from another? Just a thought.
One last bit from Butler before closing out for now. This happens to be my favorite quote of all time, by the way.
For if I am confounded by you, then you are already of me, and I am nowhere without you. I cannot muster the "we" except by finding the way in which I am tied to "you," by trying to translate but finding that my own language must break up and yield if I am to know you. You are what I gain through this disorientation and loss. This is how the human comes into being, again and again, as that which we have yet to know.
And so it is.
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