haikus in honor of the end-strike

This morning on the WNYC show hosted by Brian Lehrer they had a holiday greeting jam. I was too shy (imagine me shy!) and hyped up on too much coffee to call it in, and then I was, but I couldn't get through, so I'm sharing it with my public:

NEW YORK MORNINGS

I sip twice-sugared coffee
and turn a deaf ear
to the siren’s screams.


White shirt presses close—
no face attatched,
then, “Stand clear of the closing doors.”


This breath smelling
of sour sleep
creeps in as a lover.


The silence in a subway
through morning’s rush
rivals an abandoned desert.


We burst through turnstiles
briefly freed,
before the corralling begins.


I smile at the sunlight,
realizing the street’s joke
and jump into the lanes.

Peace and Joy on this Commuting Holiday!

strike or be struck

It's Day Two of the transit strike here in the city. Although I haven't had to go anywhere since yesterday, most of New York, including Tom, has had to deal with a complete dearth of public transportation. There is not a single subway or public bus running in any of the five boroughs. You realize how much you depend on something when it disappears from sight. Yesterday, Tom had to walk 19 blocks to 125th St., take the Metro North (which is not under the MTA) to Grand Central and then walked from 42nd St. to below Housten--a little less than four miles. When he came home he took a taxi. The taxi charged both him and a coworker who lives in the same complex as we do 20 dollars each to go nine miles. He didn't go to work today. We couldn't afford it. I'll have to deal with these same schenanigans tomorrow because I have to pick up medicine downtown and finish xmas shopping.

There's this little socialist part of me who cheers the Transit Workers Union on. Go for it, the little piece of me shouts, Stick it to the Man! But as I'm watching the news and seeing how it affects this (suddenly a lot bigger) city--businesses that only make a profit at this time of year, restaurants having to layoff waiters, people who live anywhere and are too poor to take taxis or have cars--I get pissed off. Mostly because these folks have a better deal with their jobs than many people. I knew a guy who made over 50,000 a year driving a bus. The transit workers have pension plans that require only a 2% take from their paycheck, a retirement age of 55 and health care.

What did the Metropolitan Transportation Authority want? A higher retirement age of 62 for all new workers, a 6% take for pensions and I believe a 2% worker contribution to health care. I felt that, at the very least, the retirement age was a little ridiculous. Because some of those jobs are a lot more physically demanding than others. They did drop that piece of the new three-year contract at the last minute before the strike, however.

It's not that I don't want these people to be paid well and have good benefits. They obviously do an important job for this city, even if they are jerks about it sometimes. It's just that they seem not to care that this does more than inconvenience people--it's hurting folks' livelihood.

What's so funny about this is the fact that there's a law in New York that forbids strikes by EMT workers, fire fighters, police, medical staff and public transportation operators. This law has a fine of 1 million dollars a day from the union plus two days' pay for every day from each individual. Basically, they're losing any kind of financial incentive through this strike. They say on the news that the hope is the city will "forgive" them when it's over and cancel the fines. I've heard Bloomberg talk about his feelings towards the union. I doubt he will do that.

laffy taffy

Today on the subway there was a group of girls, ages around 16 or 17, who were giggling up a storm and in general being loud. At first I was annoyed. But then they began rapping, saying something about "laffy taffy." One of the girls began shaking her generous booty, while the others egged her on. At one point she was swinging on the handrails. I couldn't help but laugh. There was one other white chick in the car, and she looked positively frightened, which made me laugh even harder. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Gap ad into a level of Dante's Inferno.

Later I was in a thrift store on 23rd St., and I overheard this conversation between two college girls:

Isn't this skirt cute-a-licious?

Totally cute-a-licious.

I'd say this top was cute-a-licious but I don't think the shoulder pads are very. Cute-a-licious.

Yeah, I see what you mean.

what would Linus do?

We had our first real snow this morning. I got up early and looked at the flakes wander down. It made the "courtyard" behind our building almost look pretty. But, by 10 a.m. the prettiness vanished beneath snowshovels and plows. Snow in New York is serene beauty for two seconds, maybe less, then turns into a slushy-dog pee-dog poop mess you have to pick your way through.

It's interesting to see how people dress for the snow around the city. Most people in Harlem seem to have sense. They usually wear enough coats and gloves. Down where we used to live, though, we'd see hipster chicks in tiny, and I mean TINY little skirts and little little coats and those horrible boots called "fugs." Tom and I call these wearers couchie-sicles. There's also the "professional hipsters" who think a sleek black unlined coat and a thin scarf and maybe gloves is all one needs against the winter winds around here. I've even seen some of the women wandering the slush with little high heels. I'm all for looking good even in the cold, but good grief.

Apparently there's evil in the world that's trying to take the "Christ" out of Christmas. Groups are boycotting stores that have signs that say Happy Holidays as opposed to Merry Christmas. Holiday Trees are oh so heinous compared with Christmas Trees. (I've been told that the whole existence of a Christmas Tree (not to mention the holiday used to be pagan but was changed over to Christian when things began leaning that way) comes from a pagan source--I need to consult with Lev, my Jewish Pagan friend from SLC.) Some even say that writing "Xmas" is from the devil--never mind that X stands for Christ, I believe in Greek. I seem to remember a philosopher who lived at Menno House sometimes signed his name: Xtopher.

What makes this all so funny is the fact that Christmas has been manhandled long before now, and it has nothing to do with the names of trees and so forth. I won't bore anyone with the whole materialistic, gift-obsessed society that we now call this holiday diatribe. Everyone knows it. It's funny that church-related groups are obsessed with these superficial trinkets of a holiday that is supposed to be about hope in winter, that the truest thing in the world is salvation born in an animal stall instead of a palace. In my high-falutin' mind they're the ones ruining Christmas for everyone. It's just like the whole Passion-Mel Gibson-style. It focuses on what's not so important. We'd rather cringe at the blood and gore and ignore what happened later that made Easter so miraculous.

The other day I watched A Charlie Brown Christmas on TV. (Thank you, Cable Gods!) I nearly wept when Linus got on the stage and quoted part of the birth of Christ from the New Testament. It wasn't so much the good Bible talk he shared as the attitude he shared it with. Seems to me he was just sharing what it meant to him but he didn't seem to care whether anyone else had the same idea. We need to be more accepting of things. If it means that some kid or adult who didn't grow up in a Christian heritage feels out of it when somebody says Merry Christmas, then we don't need to say it. It doesn't change what it means to us.

staple power

I realized yesterday how much our penal system depends on dopes who cling to their little seat of power in the big cog they call justice. We went to Valhalla to distribute the anthologies of the women's work. Although we had been told at the beginning not to bring any paperclips to the prison, since they can be used as weapons, nothing had been said about staples, and one of the teachers had seen things stapled to a bulletin board in the Unit, so the anthologies were bound with staples. Well, The Big Policeman at the front desk said No. Never mind that the anthologies have always been stapled since SLC started the program. Today TBP said No. We kept pushing the point, several guards congregated around the contraband, even the warden was called. He said No. So, we could either leave the anthologies behind or remove the staples by hand. We chose the latter. TBP, feeling good about his power play, granted us two staple removers to remove the staples from 60 anthologies. Once we finished there was only 30 minutes left for classtime. We hurried to the Unit, handed them out and had a reading then had to leave.

When I told one of the women why we had been so late, she laughed. The thing is, she explained, when they give us our mail, they have the letters stapled to the envelopes. We get staples all the time.

washers from hell

So, I had the fantasy of getting the laundry (that was piling up for over a week) done today. Apparently the gods of washing machines decided to play with me. Two of the triple loads were down, leaving only one of them operational--or so I thought. I loaded up this damned machine and went back to our studio for more. When I came back, the machine had stopped mid-cycle, and what I had to deal with was a pile of soaking wet, soapy jeans. Now, most of you are familiar with the weight of jeans when wet--especially wet ones. I had to lug these to the single load machines--one of those was out, but for some reason Delancey Village believes people need single loads more than triple loads, so there are six--and spend four-fifty on three loads, if my math is correct, PLUS the two-fifty from the broken machine. And this isn't counting the drying at one-twenty-five for thiry minutes. Grrrrrrr.

Once again, an operation that should have taken an hour and some change at most, is going to be an all-afternoon affair. (This has happened more than once, understand.) I know that these washers are being used by 17 floors of people, but you see laundromats chugging away just fine, and there has to be as many people using them. And the catch is, it's Friday--which means they won't be fixed until Monday, if we're lucky--but I'll be busy all day Monday and Tuesday, so Wednesday I'll have to face more laundry, including three sets of sheets and a huge pile of towels.

Now, I'm not a very good housewife; I don't really cook that much, Tom does that beautifully, I clean if I must, we have no children, but more and more I see how housewifing is a job in itself, and any man or woman who says it isn't I'd like to bust their balls or teeth, depending, of course, on gender. And, of course, I write this would only happen in my mind, but I would like to do it.

undercover

I have to make this quick. Tom and my brother, David, have left so I can get some work done, and of course, I want to work but the pull of the internet has me in its bosom. The picture you see to the left is Tom and myself last weekend when my other brother, Ben and his soon-to-be wife, Anna, came to visit and we went for a walk on Riverside Park. I always feel kick ass in these sunglasses I'm wearing, and I think I particularly look like someone undercover, roaming the streets looking for trouble, etc.

I'm feeling a little more than a person looking for trouble right now. I think I may have found it. It's a rather boring story but the gist of it is that a certain person who teaches at Valhalla has used me one too many times as her little go-fer. Today she called me and wanted my lesson materials from the last two weeks, because she was busy revising a part of a book that an agent wanted to look at. This is after I taught her group for two weeks in a row, not to mention those little tiny requests this entire semester that are, if looked at separately, not that big a deal but end up becoming a big deal because they keep coming. To top it off, when I told her nicely that I too had a lot of pressure on me with my work and didn't even know where the material was at the moment, she kept insinuating that because of her book contract possibility she was more important and I should scurry around and find it.

So, I found some of the material (not all, because I felt vindictive), sent it to her with a nice little email attached:

I honestly felt manipulated during our conversation tonight. Whether you meant to be so or not I'm not sure--obviously I'd like to be on the "not" side.

At any rate, though I recognize your crazy schedule and your worries about your manuscript, I felt that you belittled my own crazy schedule and deadlines. And though I know that you are having difficulties with your medication and so on, I too have many medical issues (a brain tumor that causes seizures which led to brain surgery and the loss of my left eye, two fingers amputated this summer, an ongoing struggle with a bone-related syndrome which is the cause of the above situations). This may be that "I've got more scratches than you" game, but I just wanted you to know that I empathize with your situation.

I feel that you have somewhat used me these past few weeks: asking me to take care of your class two weeks in a row and then expecting me to give my plans and materials to you because you are too busy--plans that are not difficult to create. In the time it took for our conversation to take place you could have found at least 20 pictures from the internet, and I'm not a computer savvy person either.

You have a possible book deal--I applaud you for that. And hope someday I'll be in the same boat. I have deadlines and responsibilites too that you know nothing about, but I take the extra time out of that schedule to create something small and hope the women take just a tiny bit out of it. If you feel that you can't do this, then I recommend you refrain from doing this during spring semester.

We are all stressed out people with a lot of work ahead of us. I'm not going to deny that. Everyone has things to do and needs help once in a while. But I feel I have been called to do too many things lately. You may be upset with me for writing these things, but I felt that I







wasn't being heard during our conversation earlier. If you want to talk about it during lunch tomorrow with Regina I'm all for it.

I found some of the pictures on my computer--I have not been able to find the hard copies I made for my class; they have wafted away to the Great Unknown--the rest must be on my SLC account; I have attached the ones from my computer. Hopefully they will help! jdp

I feel it was nice and to the point but still firm. Tom was pissed hearing just my end of the conversation on the phone. He says that he's learned from his work at the LESHRC that it's not the participants you want to kick, it's the people you work with. And I think it's true: I figure that the women at Valhalla won't let me down easy--but anyone who has enough money to go to SLC and spend all her time writing should know how to take care of things.

boys in the westchester hood

I don't know what's the matter with me and making trains, but for the second time in a row I nearly missed the train to school on Tuesday. This time the bus was the culprit--one didn't arrive at the stop until 2:15 or so, and because it was such a late bus there were a lot of people at every stop between 139th and 125th. Usually I don't think this, but I was glad there were no wheelchair bound folks that got on or off. I know, I'm a hideous person. Well, finally it arrived at 125th at 2:23; the train was due to arrive at 2:33, so I literally hightailed it, dodging traffic but not running (the sidewalks are hideous there--one more thing the city does to give a finger to the black and latino/a community). I had to buy a ticket yet. (I had this premonition on Monday when I came home and was out of punches on my 10-ride pass but didn't stop to get one.) Luckily there wasn't a line. I managed to get to the platform at 2:30. Yea for me! But at the Botanical Gardens stop about a million teenage boys got on the train and swarmed the entire car. These all were white prep school boys, going home I suppose to their comfy mansions in Fleetwood, Bronxville, Scarsdale (I've been told that Scarsdale makes Bronxville look like a ghetto.), etc. They mainly congregated right where I was sitting, which was at the back of the car, since no one but little me was sitting there. I usually choose this area if I can because sometimes the conductor doesn't see me behind the pane of glass, and I get a free ride. They were fencing with unbrellas and arguing, of all things, about which day of the week it was best to have a birthday on.

I think that Tuesday's best, one said.

No way. Tuesday sucks! said another. You have to be in school. Saturday's the best.

Sunday's definately the worse. Because school's the next day. There was a general murmur of agreement at this statement.

How old are you now? someone asked the boy sitting next to me.

Fifteen.

Fifteen! This boy was born when I was twelve years old and babysitting, I thought. I felt old at that moment.

I don't think they knew what to do with me. People sometimes have a hard time placing my age. (I have had people think I'm in high school and others think I am close to thirty--this one said it wasn't looks but my behavior. I'm still not sure how to take that one.) I had pulled out a big, fat literature book and pretended to ignore them. So they ignored me.

I wasn't sure how I was going to get off the train unless they got out en masse (I think that is the correct usage.) at Bronxville. There were so many of them. I've had to push my way through teenagers enough in the city to know it may involve cursing. But when I said, Excuse me, it was like the parting of the waters.

They were still young boys, I figured, and not city kids. I've heard city kids (black and white) as young as ten call someone a ho-bitch. And throngs of boys is never a good sign. Someone who'll let a woman get on the bus first will hoot at you when his friends are around.

jesus and me

My desk has officially become a disaster area. It has become covered to the point where little of the desk so lovingly bought at Ikea shows any longer. Unpaid bills, books that are either overdue or unread or borrowed, a pair of elephants, boxes of cards I like too dearly to send to anyone, a lamp that has, more or less, survived my various trundlings across this continent since I was eleven--though the lamp shade was broken in its most recent move and is now sporting a more modern glass--a Buddha meant to be a planter but a holder of jewelry, these are the things it now sports. Not to mention the space around the desk, filled with boxes of stories that need revision, receipts for meds, credit card statements and rent, lesson plans for Valhalla and a mound of recycled paper. I tell myself I need to fix this, organize and the like, but I don't listen. My excuse is that all the supplies I need to organize are downtown and I don't feel like lugging them around. A good but lazy excuse. This may be heresy and/or another excuse, but I feel like Jesus: I don't see through the messiness of people but the organized messiness of my little domain in the corner of our little apartment.

personality vs. person

Yesterday I ventured up to SLC on a non-class day to hear Jonathan Lethem read and have an after-the-big-read dinner with nine other SLC grad students. Getting to the reading was an adventure in itself. I almost missed the train, which proceeded to move very slowly and when it arrived in Bronxville it was already 6:20 (arrival time was scheduled for 6:13). Because it was dark with little sidewalks to speak of and late (the reading was at 6:30), I opted for a car service by the station, only to find there was only one car available with several people waiting. Finally one of the drivers took two townies and two SLC people (myself included), and instead of taking the nearest people first (the campus is barely a mile away), we were careening around Richville, getting on the Bronx River Express and winding around here and there. I sat fuming but helpless, hoping this driver wasn't going to charge me for the extra time--he didn't, thank the heavens. Finally I was deposited at the school's newest ugliest building, Heimbolt (there is a Barbara Walters wing to this building) at 6:43. Things always start late at this place, but not that late, so there was no seating on the ground floor, so I was relegated to the balcony.

I was immediately unsure about the situation, thinking I'd happened upon another reading, because the man reading looked nothing like the photo on the back of my copy of The Fortress of Solitude, which I'd actually remembered, unlike the reading featuring Tobias Wolff (I had a nice used copy of the novel Old School). Instead of the awkward, short haired, who-let-this-photo-in-this-book (he's sitting with his legs up so his crotch is center stage) young man, there was this suave, winged haired, dark rimmed glass'd, blazer wearing fellow. But as he read, I recognized his voice in the work and the fact that the narrator was named Lethem (he is, as he's admitted or so I've heard, self-obsessed) settled in to listen. It was hard at first, since all my preconceived ideas had been smashed. The geek I'd intended to love had disappeared into thin air. I was also disconcerted about the way he was reading. He attached verbal voices to the various characters, and waved his arms to describe the story. Now I am uncomfortable with writers that are awkward in their reading (I was once at one where the writer kept interrupting herself and laughing painfully), but I feel that the writing should speak for itself. After all, while reading The Fortress of Solitude I don't have a personal J.L. acting out the story for me. But after awhile I could ignore it and appreciate the narrative itself.

The Q&A session is always embarrassing for me, since people often ask stupid questions, but the questions were mostly good, and I warmed up to him quickly. At the dinner itself I was able to see him as he truly was: the glasses had been removed, I noticed his jeans were slightly high-waters, etc. I could see some of the geekiness seep through.

There was this one chick sitting next to him, her bosoms generously present, who often hijacked the conversation. One time she totally cut off one woman with some girly comment. She batted her eyelashes and looked at him with slitted, sex-bound eyes. I found myself more and more disgusted with her. I had a question myself, but I never found the right time. I don't like too much fawning on visiting writers and trying to be witty so somehow they'll remember me and help me to stardom.

I've had too many failed attempts myself.

But it was a good experience altogether, and more than worth the fifteen bucks I spent to get there.

a star in our midst

Tom was interviewed by a WNYC reporter on his Narcan trainings last week, and the story aired on Sunday. He sounds so grown up and official. I could say what exactly Narcan is, but I don't want to steal his thunder. He has been in print with the Village Voice, will be on the big TV screen with Channel 11 news at the end of the month and now this--all about Narcan. So, now all he has to do is figure out how to make money off of it and we're set.

valhalla blues II

Today at Valhalla I found out that the woman who had gotten out (the one who said she knew what she was doing when she stepped out the door) died of an overdose (the one who told me suspects it was heroin or a combo of some kind) less than 24 hours after she was released. I'm still not truly believing it.

Before I left last week I told her as she shook my hand: Behave yourself.

She laughed.

I know it is not my fault at all--that there was nothing I could do about it--that drugs are a hard thing to shake--but I wish I had said something more protective to her, like If you're gonna use, don't use the amount you did before you came here. Your body can't handle it. I wish I had told her to go to a needle exchange; to go to LESHRC; to see Tom. But we're told (by the Powers That Be at Valhalla) we can't share too much about ourselves. Not that I expect she would ever have hurt me, but users, Tom says, will do about anything to get what they want. They can't help it.

But none of this explains how I'm feeling at the moment. I don't know what I feel. I just feel this empty pit that gnaws and gnaws and I wonder when I'm going to feel something more concrete.

shouting in the streets

There's some kind of commotion going outside that I can't see out of our window. Someone's shouting into a microphone (I just made out the words Go! Go! Go!) but I haven't been able to hear the exact words to figure out what they're all shouting about. At first I thought it to be a kind of evangelical stunt--there's too many Baptist churches around here to shake a stick at--but the echoed music doesn't sound so Christian. This is another thing you'd never cross in our old neighborhood: people shouting in the streets and such things. Yesterday people were cruising the streets in minivans and megaphones encouraging people to vote (mayoral elections are Tuesday). Maybe it's political. Or a basketball tournament. Or really is a call to soul-savin'. It's funny how it could be any of those and more I haven't thought of. These are the things people need to shout in the streets about.

Interestingly enough, I have heard more than one helicopter fly low over here. Wonder what that says.

that couple

A good friend came to visit last week and I mentioned that we are having not only my brothers and Anna over for Thanksgiving, we are having some friends of mine from Sarah Lawrence who are originally from California for the big meal.

You're becoming That Couple! he exclaimed.

What?

You're becoming That Couple who takes in people for the holidays. The couple who supports the vagrant friends. You've already begun mailing Christmas cards!

I guess he's right. I don't know what I think about it. I mean, I like having people over, I always have. But I guess it's more grown up when you're taking in friends too far from home for holidays rather than going to your own parents'.

It's never been my intention to become That Couple. And how this particular instance came about is this: we always have the whole "who's parents are we seeing for [insert major holiday here] this year" problem. Though it's fun to see people it always costs money we don't necessarily have though the ever present Credit Card Will Take Care of That looms. So, this T-day we aren't going anywhere. We're letting family and/or friends come to us in that whole Over the River and Through the Woods thing.

Yes, we have become That Couple, I suppose. But don't think this will be your usual Grandmother's holiday--when three writers, a philosopher, a needle exchange worker, a Ph.D. candidate in Geography and an Acquisitions Editor for inflammatory social issues get together don't think we'll be drinking weak tea and playing scrabble. No, it will be cheap Papio wine (there are monkeys on the label, which is the wine's only real selling point) and dominos.

a long november

A long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leavin'
Now the days go by so fast

…

The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl

…

Drove up to Hillside Manor sometime after two a.m.
And talked a little while about the year
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,
Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her

And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass

And it's one more day up in the canyon
And it's one more night in Hollywood
It's been so long since I've seen the ocean...I guess I should

Now, it ain’t December (and Tom hates this band but I’ve always been a loyal follower of Counting Crows with their whining lead), but I’m getting that feeling I feel when December is crowding close. It’s that sense that the year is about to end and where did I think I’d be by this time, and where the hell was I a year ago, anyway?

I do recall living in Menno House with the specter of moving looming, and Tom and I were looking at this place in Harlem and I didn’t want to go because I couldn’t imagine living anywhere but around this part of the East Side but it was cheap and I did a brash thing and suggested to my brother (who lives in Ventura, CA) that he go to dinner with the sister (who lives in Worchester, MA) of my dear friend and he did and…

Now I’m living in a Manhattan-large studio in Harlem with a giant picture window when I swore I’d never live in a house with a picture window but maybe an apartment in Harlem is different and a while ago as I walked my old neighborhood for the first time I felt separated from it, like merely an observer of the woman always walking her three dogs and the priest who ignores my smiles and I’m trying to finish this darn MFA and my brother is getting married to said sister of said friend…

This is what I’m trying to get at but it’s not at the same time. I used to dislike Christmas, but now it’s grown on me—not the day or the demand for shopping but the build up to it: the Taize services, the old hymns, that part of me ignores my jaded self and still believes the miracle of the Nativity. That I actually walked those dirty, crowded streets that are called holy and I believe they are holy not because of what is said to have happened but because the spirit of the ancient poetry and the prosaic sense of sad reality. The dirtiness of the place comes to mind now when singing Lo, How a Rose 'er Blooming, not the praised to the skies purity.

valhalla blues

Ah, Halloween has come again. As the Sarah Lawrence van slipped from the confines of the Westchester County prison in Valhalla, I looked upon the scurrying cars, the turning leaves and listened to my fellow teachers’ conversation about how women seem to use this holiday as a reason to get sluttish (oh so true), I thought about how lonely that prison was. How isolated the reality is for those who must stay there day in and out. How our judicial system does nothing to really help these women change their lives. (One inmate is getting out tomorrow, and she joked about what she was going to do the minute she left—get high. And how she will get the money for this is of course…) How this system uses Sarah Lawrence’s Right to Write program as a bandage rather than having practical skills like harm reduction (gasp!), getting a job, finding health care—these are the things these women need. Not some ill-trained undergrad and grad students bumbling their love of language upon this unsuspecting population.

Frankly, I’ve been disheartened by this whole experience. The classes are mandatory, which sets up the whole thing for failure. Women whose lives are already so regulated have to sit and listen to me babble on about abstractism vs. concretism and “micro fiction” and what the author really is saying when she sets up a dysfunctional black family watching The Brady Bunch. Not that they’re not smart enough to grasp the concepts—two or three women in my group had very wise things to say—one woman wrote a prose poem titled “Valhalla Blues” that spoke to the loneliness of that place—they just seem tired of being herded from one thing to the next. So they are much more inclined to write letters with paper and pens that is begged off my person and read magazines or just gossip. I am just a blip on the screen of their reality. A reality I’ll never exist in.

One of the new women came up to talk to me when class ended. She was this tiny little thing with tracks on her hands and wrists and she asked me why we came here. I said the usual things I usually say: a way to get involved in the community, teaching experience and the like. But I don’t really know why. I feel like I’m that silly little boy sticking his finger in the dam to keep the flood out—only the dam has already broken and I just don’t know what else to do, if that makes any sense.

lady in red

Well, I dyed my hair a very vibrant red this morning.

I'd been contemplating this move for a long while, but various obstacles like time and time and getting the guts to do it myself have held it up. Don't think I haven't done this before; I've been dying off and on since October 2003. That was when I returned from Boston where I had radiation therapy. I decided I'd gone through enough shit so that I could do those things I'd only thought about. Namely, dying my hair red and getting my nose pierced. A month or so after my dyed-hair cherry was popped, I closed my eyes and got my nose pierced.

My main fear this time around was the fact that I no longer lived in a house where I could grab a housemate to do it. This time I was alone. Well, not exactly alone. My friend Ted was here but I decided against asking him to do it, though he'd henna'd my hair enough times. I decided this was something I needed to do myself--a rite of passage, you might say.

I haven't dyed my hair this particular shade of red in awhile. Last Christmas I had Anya do a more muted, auburn color. But this time I decided to return to my first love: fire red. It's a little hard to get used to. Every time I look in the mirror I'm a little shocked. But a little giddy as well. I feel rather, well, punky and Pippi Longstocking-ish.

off to war

The other day I was browsing blogs and came upon one that talked about thoughts of suicide. I wrote a comment about how I think of life and death at times, and how that speech of Macbeth in Act V comes to mind:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

This passage echoed in my head this morning when I read an article in the New York Times about a commander's attempt to cover-up some "nonlethal" force that ended in the death of an innocent Iraqi and ultimately led to the end of a brilliant military career. (It's quite a long article, so be prepared.) A large part of the story focused on the breakdown of discipline and the line between right and wrong in a counterinsurgent war--which is what Iraq has become. There is, of course, my righteous indignation as a pacifist at the behavior of the Army in its tactics. I reason that killing Iraqis is not going to end the violence--it will only increase it, for it is understandable for someone to refuse to stand by when a loved one is dead, whether he or she was involved in the insurgency or not? But then I see the other side, where these soldiers have friends dying all around them, why they would want to take their feelings out on whoever is nearby.

Tom and I found a great new documentary series on TV called "Off to War", which follows a National Guard brigade from Arkansas deployed in Iraq, near Baghdad. It has been sad and insane how these men who were trained for working with domestic disasters are now put in a situation completely different from what they'd signed up for. (One soldier says as he drives through Baghdad: Yep, this is my two weekends a month, two weeks a year.) They are forced to cover their Humvees with sheets of metal because they only have 4 armored vehicles; they must try to communicate with the locals through sign language because they have no one to translate--the list goes on. What's so great about this show is that they let the soldiers speak for themselves. No one is doing voice overs telling us which slant the directors are taking. At times I am so frustrated with them because they hold such ignorant (in my mind, of course) beliefs about the people they are supposed to protect. But then I reason it is because of what they've been brought up with--but how does that explain how soldiers from regular army have the same ideas about things? At the very least, the commanders are supposed to be better trained, better educated (for the most part) than your average National Guardsman. And yet the same issues come up. Does this mean that we all are in danger of throwing off our education and better senses to resort to such behavior to people in such a country?

Does this mean that I am just as susceptible to such behavior? It is an all-to-real possibility. It is easy for me to sit in the safety of my own home and diss such things. To forget the feelings these people might feel, that they may feel as Macbeth did--that life has become nothing but a tale told by an idiot, so why should we concern ourselves with our actions.

One soldier did admit that he could understand the violence directed at him: I would fight them too, he said, if they invaded Arkansas.

my friend, the dry cleaner

It's weird the kind of relationships that happen in this city. You may live next door to a person who remains a stranger forever, but you gain camaraderie with the clerk at your grocery, the guy who speaks little English at the corner bodega, the mail carrier, the coffee shop owner and the dry cleaner/seamstress. You might even know their name at one point. I guess that's because they are the people you depend on, see more than the guy upstairs who plays his music too loud or the woman who takes a bath every morning at six a.m. sharp--and whose bathroom is on the other side of the wall where your bed is.

I haven't gotten very far in establishing relationships here--except for the woman who bags groceries at the Met and calls me Momi (a term of endearment around here), the old Spanish dude who grins at me and the janitors in my building. I do realize we've only been here for six months, so maybe by the end of two or so years (the amount of time we lived in Menno House) things will have changed.

But I'm still stubborn in keeping up with my old friends. I've wandered into Gristidies a few times to say hi, as well as Bloomie's and the liquor store on 2nd Ave to buy sushi or a bottle of wine, repectively. Yesterday, I dragged a coat that needed alterations all the way down to 19th St. and 1st Ave to get it dry cleaned and fixed, because I had a repair with the woman who sewed there. Even though I hadn't been in there for months, she grinned as she greeted me. She once fixed a coat of mine for free. It was a small affair, so it probably took no time--and she's charging me this time, but still it made a difference. (And I know she wants my business, so of course she's going to be nice, but it's a pretty good act to do something like that.) Plus, since I know she knows what I need, I don't have to go through explanations, which frightens me away from the dry cleaner across the street from my building. It's okay for the random suit or skirt cleaning, but there's something different about someone who is measuring and seeing your body for the size and faults. Plus, the fact that she's a woman helps. I haven't yet seen any women by the sewing machine around here.

When we still lived at Menno House, Tom and I would often go down to this little hole-in-the-wall dumpling house. At first it was difficult to even place an order (Often in Asian places the idea of a line does not exist--it's who talks the loudest and speaks the language who gets served first. This line of thought even reaches into the subway. At Grand St on the B and D, these old grandmas and grandpas shove their way inside--the thought of waiting for the ones inside to get out doesn't occur to them. I once actually gave a grandpa a little elbow in frustration as he charged in to the right of me--never mind the left side of me was clear.), but after several several weeks, suddenly we were getting served as soon as we walked in. The lady of the house even granted us a smile--no small feat at this joint. I guess we made the cut, crossed a barrier, passed a test of some kind. She decided we weren't just some ghost (white) hipsters thinking it was oh so cool to be there.

trampled tourists

This morning on the train I sat behind a group of tourists going to the Botanical Gardens in the Bronx. If one was deaf, one would not know that they were tourists (they weren't wearing the uniform of "denim and sneakers"), but one could not help but hear them loudly conversing with each other to recognize their true nature. It took me a minute or two to realize that they were from Louisiana (Baton Rouge was often mentioned) they had a kind of accent that seems to come only to people who are Southern transplants, not natives. (I think I gathered one up while living in Virgina, and it comes out at weird times--when I'm with the women at Valhalla, I suddenly hear myself saying "y'all" "ain't" and "listen up!" more than usual.) They may have been some kind of "displaced persons" (some call them refugees--but until the people of Sudan are called refugees I'm keeping with "d.p.") living up here, I'm not sure. They spoke (in their loud voices--more than one of us in the train was annoyed) about flooding and how to prepare for another one. One of the women talked about wrapping the springs of someting in plastic bags and placing them in the attic--I never found out what she meant by that.

One of the men of the group was talking (loudly) on his cell phone most of the time. When he finally got off, he said something to another man, We've got the reservations now--I've got all the details. The man he said this to said with excitement: This place is rated number 3 out of all restaurants in New York City!

These displaced persons, if they were that, were obviously not hurting for cash.

I found myself feeling ashamed at my annoyed thoughts about these people, but my shame grew thin when another man suggested they fit out a room for other displaced persons when they returned home and charge anyone who stayed there.

It was then that I had a slight epiphany: just because you've gone through some very traumatic times doesn't mean you suddenly become a better person.

tired of possibilities

Whoever said most of a writer's life is avoiding writing was all too wise. For the past few days I've greeted the morning sun (well, this is figurative, not literal--another day of rain) with hope and determination, saying This will be the day I'll finally tackle that manuscript. This usually lasts till after the shower and some kind of breakfast. Then I wash the dishes, make the bed, clean the hair out of the drain. Then I decide to go and do some laundry--yesterday I washed the blankets (they had that summer musty scent), today it's the throw rugs and towels, tomorrow the clothes. During the intervals between the wash and dry cycles, I think about sitting down and working, but then I reason I won't be able to really focus, so I give myself a pass to goof off more. I did read some assignments today, so I've felt semi-productive today, and yesterday I worked on a resume and cover letter, so I don't totally waste time. But now I am at the computer not doing work--but blogging. Which is writing, but not for my thesis. And now it's 3:30, and I'm meeting some friends at a Tobias Wolff reading at 5:30, which means I need to be leaving the building by at least 4:50, and I haven't decided what to wear and where we'll eat after the reading. This is a huge task unto itself. In Harrisonburg you had limited choices: Little Grill if you want organic down home stuff, Calhoun's for good beer, Joshua Wilton if you wanted fancy-pants (one time BJV, Holly and I went for dessert and felt we should be drinking port and smoking cigars), Dave's Taverna for pizza, Sheetz for 3 in the morning hamburgers and Taste of Thai for when you want to be exotic. In Manhattan you have thousands of options, even when you take out all the super pricey and medium pricey restaurants. At times I get tired of possibilities. No wonder Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer always go to one restaurant.

yes, folks, there are two

Just now, out of curiosity's sake, I typed my name into the Google image site. Two Jessica ________ appeared, as you can see. (Can you figure out who's who?) Of course, both came from Mennonite college websites: Hesston College and Eastern Mennonite University. I remember when this picture was taken and what it was for. I had written a final opinion piece for the Weather Vane before graduation, and the staff photographer hunted me down in the English department. Ah, how young and innocent I looked on that day. Ah, how intelligent a writer I was even then!

blame it on the rain

For the past several days it has rained or threatened to rain. I like rain for a little while, but when you live in the city where you have to walk in it all the time, there's only so much wet-bag, soaked-shoes, damp-jean-legs you can handle. Street traffic becomes live or let die. Everyone's trying to get past everyone else with their cumbersome umbrellas. Cars careen close to pedestrians despite pools of water. And people dash about as if unaware that everything becomes slippery when wet. I saw a woman stampede down the subway stairs this morning. She slipped on one of the steps and rode down the rest of the way on her behind, her umbrella threatening to put someone's eye out.

And speaking of umbrellas--they're everywhere! Not only for sale by the subway or in Chinatown (where these guys come from--the guys at the subway--is anyone's guess--it starts to spurt a little and boom! they're there), but in the gutter, a few feet from garbage cans, a few in garbage cans, or seemingly flung down with disgust when they bust up. It's somewhat disgusting but so artistic at the same time.

I'll admit there was a day when I came out of the subway at Union Square without an umbrella. For some reason there was no one selling umbrellas at this particular entrance (it was a Sunday, though I doubt that was why), so I grabbed a newspaper and braved the storm. Fairly soon I was drenched. Furious, I shouted an epithet and flung it down with disgust, despite the fact that I've always detested people who litter.

We all have our weak moments.

the bridges of westchester county

When I march, rather breathlessly, up from the trainstation to Sarah Lawrence, I have two possible routes: the official way or the back way. These names have been made up by me of course. And really, I think the back way should be stated as the official way, because it leads to the most "official" entrance to the campus (i.e. there's an actual sign on a campus dearth of signage--I guess they figure if you aren't able to understand the campus you aren't smart enough to be there), but the Official Way is the first one I learned, the Back Way I learned only a few weeks into my first semester.

And so, I'm sure you're asking, what's the difference between them? The Official Way is more, well, official and to the point. Very sensible and easy to follow, with possible stops on the way for refreshment: a bagel shop, deli, pastry shop, bar and a Chinese restaurant. One downside is the fact that it quite matter-of-factly marches up the hill to Sarah Lawrence, no switchbacks to speak of. The Back Way has none of the aforesaid "luxuries." It meanders through cute little neighborhoods (some rather wealthy--the houses aren't necessarily mansions, but they have that solid look that shows the owners are wealthy enough and have been for some time--it doesn't need to show off like new rich). It too has a rather tiring escalation, but it winds just enough to give one a chance to catch the breath and soldier on.

I usually choose the Back Way unless I have to go to the duplicating office in North. My choice has some practical reasons because the Back Way is closer to the library, and all the buildings I use are on that end of the campus, but there is one other reason for my choice: the bridge of the Back Way.

There are bridges on both routes. The Official Way is more generic and over-passish. Both bridges are over-passes, but while to Official Way does nothing to hide this fact, the Back Way is more muted in its approach. Trees artfully arch over the nearby river and reach out to the three-lane traffic. A less chemicaled air rides the atmosphere. Water fowl dance around the treetops. When the leaves change the sight is spectacular. I always feel like belting out a hymn when I cross this bridge. It inspired one of the sonnets that got published in The Void this past spring.

hands

Growing up in a tiny farming town like Hillsboro, there was a plethora of farm folk around me. I got my ideas of what grown-ups were like through these unsuspecting subjects. One of these ideas was that all men have calloused hands. My dad has tough hands, as did many of the men I came into contact with when I was a kid. I figured it was some kind of thing that happened when boys grew up. Suddenly their hands turn from the white, frothy skin we all had, to a tanned rawhide was my summation. I don't remember when this notion left me, but I believe it may have been in full force until high school.

I didn't think that it was because of the line of work they were in. That the sun-drenched skin and farmer's tans and calloused hands were simply signs of what they did in life. It didn't quite occur to me that there were men with hands like my own.

I seem to need this lesson repeated over and over. For instance, just because I am a lover of the English language doesn't mean others have the same passion. Just because I can see how much a creative writing workshop would help the women I'm working with in Westchester County Prison doesn't mean they would see that too. Every Monday I go into the prison armed with Maya Angelou, paper and pens, sure they will see the light, and leave thinking how silly that thought is. What works for me won't work for others. Or, maybe I haven't presented it correctly.

birth & death

Well, I've hit the big two-seven. My brother, Ben, called me today to bug me about how I was "catching up" to him. It's funny and sad how much a birthday meant back in the day. When I was younger, it meant cake and a party. (My most memorable ones are the one in which I had a "dress up" party; the other was when my mama had a cake professionally made. There are pictures of both. I especially recall Mom trying to take a picture of me blowing out the candles (a posed shot, I remember) while wearing a white dress (Mom made a dress with the left-over fabric for my one and for a long time only Barbie), but I kept leaning too close, making the plate before me rise up.) When I was a teenager a birthday meant I was that much closer to adulthood: driving at 14 (I was a farm kid, so I got a special permit), real driving at 16, voting at 18, drinking at 21. When I turned 21 I was in the Middle East, living in Beit Sahour. My group threw a party for me and some other October birthdays at this weird little bar in Bethlehem. I barely drank (I didn't like the taste of alcohol then), though others got seriously trashed. It's strange to think that a milestone like that (for Americans, at least) was reached in the dusty town that's only claim to fame is the place of Jesus's birth.

And now I'm officially a grown-up. I don't feel like much of an adult, though I'm married, pay rent, buy groceries and have a ton of school debt. Birthdays now are a strange concoction for me. On the one hand, it's nice to get gifts (Tom gave me cool jewelry and a box of dominoes) and having an excuse to eat out somewhere a little nicer than usual (we ate at a funky little Mexican place in the Lower East Side), but it's just a symbolic reminder that death is always at the doorstep and that someday I won't be the young person that can wear weird outfits and not be gossiped about.

Also, when I don't get calls from people on the day of my birth I feel like people don't love me as much as I think they do. But then, of course, I remember all the birthdays I've forgotten.

Earlier this week when I heard about the subway threat, and the fact that it was possibly scheduled for October 9th, it was just an extra list of terror and death in my life. Anwar Sadat was assassinated the day I was diagnosed with Ollier's, my brain surgery was on the September 11th and now this. But, the day has passed so far without horror, at least here in the city, although I can't say the same for South Asia yesterday. A possible 20,000. A difficult number to wrap around.

hair & terrorism

Between the two of us, Tom and I have too much hair. Of course, thank goodness, he's hairier than I in some places, but since I've been growing my hair out the hair count has risen higher and higher. The bathtub drain easily clogs up with a little ball of it and somehow hair appears in the main room constantly. We swept and mopped early yesterday, and half the dirt is hair! What is up with this? I guess when one has carpet it is soaked up. Which is rather disgusting. It seems as if our carpet is simply a modern-day medieval rushes they used to toss on the floors. So maybe our horrible linoleum floor is a blessing in disguise.

The gods of homeland security have told us that there's a possible threat of subway bombings in the next several days here in the city. Apparently they may be in the guise of strollers. Strollers! As if there isn't enough trouble with dealing with strollers in the subway. Now they could be armed. The powers that be, mainly the Bush camp, has said the claims aren't credible, but the city isn't going to ignore it. What's funny in a horrible way is the suggestion that people not take strollers. Now, I don't have children, but the idea of having to cart your baby around for blocks and blocks seems rather crazy. One news channel stated in wonderment that folks were still using the subway. As if people had any choice! Many don't have cars or the money to take cabs. What else are people to do?

As I made my way downtown yesterday, I really looked at the people around me. Not because I suspected anyone, but because of their human-ness. Humans trying to get to work or home or playing (sometimes annoying) music. One woman was singing Is there Life After Love, and another danced to her voice. And I was angry at these terrorists. Not that I wasn't angry before, but it just seems to me the people they want to destroy are the weaker ones that don't have anything to do with what the US does. These people are often poor. The ones who can't pay for a cab on a whim. They are easy targets. They'd never get Bush or the rich. So they go for the defenseless. Frankly, they're cowards. It sounds so un PC to me. So un-Mennonite. But how is a peace and justice model to deal with this? I honestly don't know. Someone wiser than I am, I'm sure.

pain & joy

I had a thesis conference with Carolyn today, and she really ripped apart one of the stories I submitted. But she did it in such a way that I could honestly laugh about it, though I'd secretly thought it was a genius tome. She is so capable of putting the right face to her critiques, which can certainly be a tough thing to do. And I'm flattered in a way that she felt free to be so honest with me. That she didn't feel I had to have my hand held as she told me frankly what she was thinking. It makes me feel like she's deemed me worthy of being able to face some harsh realities about my writing. I know she can put on a very mothering face to some people. I listened in to (very bad I know) a conference before mine, and she basically was giving a counseling session rather than a workshop conference.

So yay and sigh. I've got some work to do, and its always easy to think about working without doing the work.

clothes horse

Well, the weather's finally gone brisk in New York--at least for a day, and I finally got myself (after much rumination before the god of the closet) into a fall outfit: jeans, brown polyestering dress, those hippie beads that are so popular now and flip flops (I'd use the word "thongs" but Tom is always fake appalled when I say it: you go home (Kansas, for the totally ignorant) for a week and come back saying "pop" and "thongs," he complains). Even my hair behaved and I let it down instead of up.

I'm always at a loss (well, more than a loss than usual) when the seasons change. When summer comes I feel half-naked for weeks. Then fall arrives and I'm shivering in my cotton skirts and t-shirts. Fashion-wise I've always liked Fall and Winter better. You get to be more creative then; throw on a scarf or a hat or layer something upon something and you look like you actually have a little fashion sense--at least I think so. But in the summer there's not a lot of options, and unless you're a skinny minnie the options are even less. I have gotten into the whole New Yorkified skirt trend. I think I wore jeans or pants just a few times this summer.

I'm ashamed at times how much I think about clothes. There are people in the world starving and this is what I think about! And I give excuses like: well, I mainly shop in thrift stores, so at least I'm not giving it to The Man and forcing some tiny Chinese child to make my 500 dollar dress and she gets 5 cents. (And yes, I know the whole "well, they need those jobs in those countries so it's okay" argument--I'm not going there in this blog I'm merely being totally self-centered right now.) This is one of those few days I think: I wish I was having my picture taken right now, instead of at those usual inopportune times. Sigh.

crush

For the first time in quite some time I've discovered something: I have a crush. An honest to god, certifiable crush! Some may think I shouldn't be crowing about such a thing, since I am a married woman. And I am. A very happily married woman. But I still have eyes and a mind and I'm human, so there you have it. Tom and I discuss our crushes openly. In college we once held crushes at the same time, and when we saw each other's crush we'd report it to the other: Hey, I saw your crush today in the library, etc. I think it's healthier that way, being honest about attractions. A friend once dealing with a relationship that was at a crux moment confided in me that he still liked other women, so maybe the relationship shouldn't continue. I told him about my crushes, and that it didn't mean my love was any less deep for Tom; it meant I'm human. And you know how most crushes eventually die out, but the love we have is real and palatable and tough. Frankly, I'm glad Tom knows there's other women in the world. Because the fact that he comes home to me every night means I've won out above those ladies, and it makes me feel more attractive.

Last night I was telling Tom about my crush, and he said: describe him, so I know if I need to be jealous. I did, and he laughed, because my current crush is such a huge geek.

complete and utter waste of time

I did nothing at all this weekend, beyond mandatory reading and critiquing. Nothing. I was slightly ill with a random cold and so drugged up on medicine, so that's partly my excuse. Tom and I did finish the Firefly series, and eagerly await the opening of the movie next weekend. We're actually going to see a movie for the first time in months. Movies are so expensive here, and there haven't been any worth paying the 10+ dollars to see, so this is quite an event. If anyone out there in blogworld has time, you should rent the series. It's awesome. I also watched my beloved Pride and Predjudice, starring the ever hot Colin Firth. I have no idea how many times I've watched this film, and so many literary types pooh pooh it, but I have a soft spot in my heart of hearts for Jane Austen--and the A&E version is suberb, minus a few weird mirror scenes. I've a few partners in crime, however, which includes BJV and Kansas, so I feel good about my love. Once upon a time on a cold cold day in beloved Stone House we ended up watching the entire 6 hours in one sitting. We had homework and a newspaper to run, but Colin and Jennifer called. I also found out that Carolyn Ferrell, my advisor for my thesis and a beautiful writer likes Jane as well, so I'm in good company.

my life flows on

Something came to me as I rode the 3 train downtown today, listening to a couple of 16 year olds complain about a scratch on a new watch and about the letter people were writing to Bush (for a class project, I presume) all in the same breath.

He ain't gonna read it, really, so you can say whatever the fuck you want. Don't matter.

I'd tell that motherfucker what for, you know? I can't believe anyone actually voted for him.

Something came to me as I heard this exchange: I like the messed-up-don't-make-no-senseness of New York. I can hear a conversation like this and smile, not because of the political sentiment, but because, and I'm going to put this poorly, I like it when things don't make sense. I don't need things to be logical. Didn't someone big time say that things that are logically correct aren't always true? (I seem to remember in logic class (which somehow I got an A in--don't ask me how) that we as a class decided Clinton never actually lied about the whole Oval Office debacle, but that he didn't tell the truth, either.)I can see why people want/need things to be one certain way, whether it's religion, politics, philosophies, etc. Heck, I want that myself, at times. But I don't need it, if that makes any sense.

I like things up in the air, things unwilling to be caught with a firm hand. It's like I'm on a two-legged stool, wobbling around on the one side, then moving to the other side with ease. Not to say I don't tie myself to things, either. It's a human reaction to desire a hold on something--and that is an idea I tie myself to gladly.

That hymn, my life flows on, has been in my head off and on these few days. The imagery of a river has struck me, I guess. A river flows with the ground it finds, but it has power to move the earth, to carve stones, to give life and, unfortunately, destruction.

My life flows on in endless song,
above earth's lamentation.
I hear the clear, though faroff hymn
that hails a new creation.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that Rock I'm clinging.
Since love is Lord of heaven and earth,
how can I keep from singing?

I wouldn't mind being a river. I like to move among the ways of the world. I want to make a mark. I want to give life. I don't want to destroy, but we are all destructive somehow, I suppose.

prison break II

Let's just say I saw our governmental justice system at work on Monday. Women between 18-40-something housed in small, small cells, with a population of 42. All but a few were black or hispanic. Why were most of them there? Not for violent crimes, but for drug sentences. They cannot go outdoors ever, but have a little fenced in balcony for their recreation. They only have TV access between Monday thru Thursday. No newspapers. You can't tell me in a nation whose majority is white that there are so few white drug users in this country. But because often they have access to money and better representation, they receive lighter to no sentencing, if they are prosecuted at all. Our nation is not colorblind. It is not classblind. I probably will regret this, but upon google search I found this paper documenting the things I mentioned above. I haven't yet had time to read all of it, thus my probable regret, but upon skimming I found significant data, not to mention "on the ground" data from Tom's workplace.

bus stop patience

As I was waiting quite some time for the M1 to take me home the other day, with a fair amount of others waiting with, when an older, rather buxom woman began to speak in exasperation, and I paraphrase: This bus ain't comin cause that president is down there at the UN, tying up traffic, telling more lies, lies that got people killed down south and are killing folks in Iraq. But you know, you reap what you sow, and I can't wait to see him reap. Cause God knows what he did, yes he does.

People around me grunted their agreement. He was at the UN that day with Kofi and the like, was soon to make big speeches, etc., and was tying up traffic downtown with the extra security, which meant that anyone uptown had to wait.

I found myself wanting to sound an AMEN to her voice. Although the politically-conscious side of myself wanted to say, not necessarily to her but to my own amening self: even though it's annoying to deal with all the security issues at the UN, and though a lot of it is going to be grandstanding with Bush and the like, the UN is trying to bring good to the world, and we should be happy that such a thing is happening here in New York City.

But there was the tired-out New Yorker in me. The federal government, the state of Louisiana, and the president had failed its poorest in New Orleans. The president was allowing the dead US soldiers (not to mention Iraqis, etc.), litter the ground because of his lies. And now he was tying up traffic during rush hour when people like us who just want to get home and sit down for a moment before the rest of the day jumps upon us. It is a small thing, but its usually the small things that break the back, because finally you just get fed up. The woman who spoke probably knew people from down south; she might have a relative in Iraq. She had more than a right to her disgust.

prison break

I found myself in jail for the first time in my life--not as a prisoner, but as part of my orientation for the Right to Write program. The Right to Write program was started by one of my workshop teachers, I believe, or at least began to involve Sarah Lawrence students with it, several years ago. Once a week, I and 13 other SLC students will be leading several classes of incarcerated women in creative writing workshops. Today we sat through a discussion about what to do and not to do around inmates (can't give them paperclips, must count out pens and take them back at the end of the session, never give or take things from inmates, don't give out personal information like where you live, etc.), got fingerprinted and photos taken and received volunteer "badges"--an ID card. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to talk about it in my blog, with issues of confidentiality and such. One officer told us he had to sign a paper saying he wouldn't write anything about his experiences until he had retired.

To tell you the truth, I wasn't very frightened by the experience of walking among prisoners--all male. Not that I was enjoying myself or anything. I guess the knowledge that there were all kinds of officers around lessened some stress. I don't know. It will be different when I'm in a room full of them, attempting to sound like I know anything and seeing them as people.

vote or die

That was the slogan used during the prez election back when. I don't know if that was national or just in the city. I never quite got it. It didn't seem to encourage me to vote, but maybe I'm strange. If you've read Tom's blog, you know we voted in the democratic primary this morning. It was the most streamlined voting experience ever. At our old place, the volunteers were confusing and hostile. Here it was grandmas and grandpas kindly directing the way. What interested me most was the tooting-horn-poster-draped vans that roamed the streets, shouting out campaign slogans and hispanic music. I didn't think people did that anymore. It seems like something out of the 30s.

stupid people

Today as I ate my lunch by the "Pub"--the name students gave SLC's snack shop, a young, obviously too impressed by himself undergrad swept onto the porch and exclaimed to his friends: The library doesn't have A Streetcar Named Desire!!!! This college doesn't have one of our nations most important scripts!

He went on and on, talking about how horrible this was. He had looked in the catalogue, typed in the name of the play, and nothing came up. I thought about suggesting he put in the name of the author, and look for anthologies--but I recalled the pertness I received last year when a self-satisfied senior talked about the stupidity of an MFA program in writing, so I said nothing. When I came to the library later, I did just that. And I found the play within an anthology entitled "Plays." This took me maybe a minute.

This boy's parents are paying 46 grand for his intelligence. He needs to go to Library Use 101 first.

millenium approached--and left

Sadness is one thing--sorrow another. I realized this morning as I listened to a piece about a widow of a fireman who died on September 11 on the Brian Lehrer Show that the fourth anniversary is in only a few days. I've had this sort of numb, tired feeling ever since. For both myself and the people of that place and that time. I've found myself truly thinking and grieving for the permanent damage to my left eye lately, but more acutely as this day approaches. For those who don't know, I was in an operating table in the INOVA-Fairfax Hospital, just miles from the Pentagon when the planes were crashed into those buildings. A portion of my head was popped open and part of a very large tumor was extracted from my brain. Besides some mild and temporary paralysis of my right side, trouble speaking, etc., a nerve in my left eye was damaged and the muscles controlling my eye movements have never returned to normal.

I have wondered at times whether I would have gone through with it if I'd truly known how devastating this surgery was. Although I had seizures that were growing worse, and danger to my right eye was being monitored--I honestly don't know if I would have done it. Because of the pain and all that went with it, of course, but for vanity's sake: my eye will be forever shut to the world. I remember taking my contacts out the morning of the surgery, not realizing that I'd never use the left one again. It's silly I know, but it is as if I'd begun to bury it at that moment.

It was weeks before I understood in an emotional sense what had taken place on that day. I knew it had happened, but I didn't know it. I began to wolf down every bit of information I could get my hands on. I watched all the TV shows that everyone else was weary of. I tried and tried to wrap my mind over how a tiny plane in a fuzzy camcorder shot could wreak such pain and anguish to thousands. Perhaps it is now that I'm letting myself really feel the pain of my own personal loss without the guilt of reminding myself that at least I am alive in the world, and no one I knew had been directly affected. It doesn't make my pain any less real.

In 1999, everyone obsessed about Y2K and the end of the world as the millenium approached, even though technically, it wasn't until 2001 that the true millenium came. And I wonder if that was a millenium moment in the world. The world will never be the same again. And now we have left the millenium behind, shooting in the darkness at what we can't see, can't feel.

My own personal millenium came that day at the very least. My sight has been cut in half. Life will never be the same for this little body of mine.

dear old golden rule days...

Well, I'm back to school and avoiding those urges to overachieve and overwhelm myself with extra activites. I did NOT go up front and volunteer as a mentor for new grads. I decided NOT to join the campus choir which would require my prescence on campus an extra day. I am thinking about auditing a class, however. Mainly I'd like to do a craft class, to keep me reading books. We'll see.

Although the humidity was around 87% this morning, thanks to Katrina--though that is nothing compared to what folks are going through down south--my walk from the trainstation to SLC was lovely. It's nice to be back. At least for right now, when the specter of work is merely that--a specter. I have gotten some inspirations for some stories though. We'll see what happens.

A note about my earlier post:

What I'm most unhappy with our new place, dear as it is, is the end of anonynimity. I'm white in a black and hispanic world. The old woman and the sock guy would've happened anywhere I lived, and I liked those encounters, but the whole short chubby guy thing is just one more example of how otherness I feel in this neighborhood. I'm not wearing spray-painted clothes like a lot of women do here, I'm not calling attention to myself in any way--as far as I know, but I still get comments, and situations like yesterday. I mean, it was sortof funny yesterday, but what if it were night and no people around. What would I have felt then? More than likely he wouldn't have done anything. I still believe in the general goodness of people, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't be scared. I definately don't get the amount of shit I did when we first moved--at least in the immediate neighborhood--but once I get past a certain street, I become a target again. I know this is no different than the shit black people often get, but it doesn't make it any easier. I miss the anonymous feel I had downtown. Now I feel like I'm on display every moment that I step out of my building until the subway hits 96th St., where most of the white folks get on.

personal encounters

Encounter 1:

Today as I was minding my own business walking down 135th St. to the M1 bus, a youngish fellow tapped the glass of the Bx33 bus enclosure. I stopped, confused, trying to think if I'd met this guy. He was short, black, a little chubby and had a mustache. Before I could compose myself enough to get away he was by my side. I began to walk. He puffed alongside me, firing questions at me like there was no tomorrow. Of course he tried to figure out my name and when I was coming back up here and so on. (Do men ever expect women to answer these questions? Truthfully?)

We could get together maybe.

I don't think my husband would like that, I said.

He asked me where my husband was. At work. Where does he work? All over. Yeah? I do too. Cause I'm a doctor. Really. (I didn't want to disbelieve him because for all I know he was, but I figured it was really a ploy to get me more interested in him. Who knows.)

I think he realized by this point I wasn't too moved by his doctor business, cause he said, Hey, we got to go! The bus is coming! (He meant the Bx33) I'm not taking that bus, I said. He commenced to a walk-run. For some reason I think he may have thought that I would follow. I slowed down and let him move as far from me as possible. He kept glancing back.

Encounter 2:

I finally got on the M1, having sucessfully lost this doctor fellow. I sat next to a tiny old woman in a straw hat who was hunched over her purse, carefully looking at a set of various cards, from volunteer IDs to AT&T numbers. At around 106th St., someone called on her cell phone, and she pawed through her bag, looking for it. She finally found it, but not before it stopped ringing. She called whoever it was back and began a conversation I didn't hear. But as soon as she got off the phone, she began talking to me. At first I was annoyed at being noticed, since I'd been noticed not long before, but soon she drew me in. She was going on a cruise in the Carribean, and she had to pick up her birth certificate and passport from her safety deposit box at a bank downtown.

Me, of all people! I have to prove I'm an American! She touched her arm and rubbed it. She had to do it a few times before I realized: she means she's black. I mean, I'm an American. P'shaw, (she really said "p'shaw"--it was great and so endearing--I'd never heard anyone say that before in all earnestness) they can look in my bags if they want to.

Eventually we started talking about homeland security and the Trade Center and why they weren't doing these things before.

If I tried to go and get a pilot's license, would they give one to me? No, because I'm black and an Indian. But they gave those men theirs, and look what happened.

(I asked what tribe she's from. Cherokee, she said. I'd recently seen an article about how some tribes don't accept blacks as Indians--but it makes sense to me. Africans intermarried with Indians I'm sure. They did it with whites. Tom's got some Cherokee in him somewhere. Maybe he and this woman are related.)

Encounter 3:

I was waiting at the M86 bus stop to go across Central Park for my PT session when a guy in amazing dreadlocks said to me: I just have to say, I love your socks. You want to trade? (I'm wearing my striped orange, blue, green and white knee highs today.) Mine are just white. I laughed. Sorry. I think I'll keep my own.

A chick with a tiny little mop of a dog walked by. The dog wore a sweater. That thing probably thinks it's too good to shit outside, he said.

And it's too hot for a sweater, I said.

Yeah, he said, the dog's probably thinking, why the hell am I wearing this, bitch?

We laughed. The bus pulled up. He was with a guy in a wheelchair, so they went up on the little elevator. Take care, he said.

Take care, I said.

you have such beautiful eyes...

Five or so years ago when I was living at this convent (named Ece Homo as in "behold, the man"--which is a station in the Via Dolorosa as in "The Way of the Rose" i.e. Christ) in the Old City of Jerusalem, this guy who worked at a carpet shop nearby would accost me almost every day, trying to get me to talk to him. I spurned his attempts as nicely as possible, and it usually worked. One evening (this happened to be on Thanksgiving) I was walking home, alone, and he showed up by my side, asking if I'd like to go to his shop and have some tea. I said, no, I'm meeting some friends and I'm late, and walked on. He did not give up as easily as he had other times. I suppose he felt more bold because of the lateness of the hour and lack of people around, and followed me to the convent door.

You and I have this connection, I believe, he said.

We don't know each other, said I.

But there are ways of knowing each other beyond words, no? Your eyes--your eyes they are so beautiful.

This made me laugh, because I almost always wore sunglasses during the day, and it was now very dark and I wore my regular glasses that evening. You can't see my eyes, I said.

There was a little camera by the door, and I think the guy at the gate saw what was afoot and he buzzed me in and I dashed inside.

He never bothered me again.

I was scared at the time, but soon could laugh about it. To this day sometimes Tom will repeat Your eyes--your eyes they are so beautiful! And we will fall into a fit of giggles.

Today the "beautiful eyes" comment returned. This time from a guy handing out New York Times job market papers for free. I had noticed him earlier in the day, as I sat in a little Starbuck's courtyard on 3rd and St. Mark's, proofreading a training manual for the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, and had made a mental note of getting one before he left, since I am again on the job hunt. He wasn't around when I left, however, so I sighed and went to Kmart to purchase a swiffer (I didn't get that brand, however). When I exited the store through the subway (people who live here know what I mean), there he was, like a knight in a blue smock. I smiled and took one. He recognized me and said, Looking for one of these?

Yeah, I said. I'm searching for a job right now, so I need this.

Well, you wouldn't have to look for one if you had a degree.

I do. I'm in grad school right now.

Oh yeah? What for?

A Master of Fine Arts in writing.

His eyebrows went up.

So, it doesn't make any money, I admitted.

Yeah, unless you write a book.

But I need to eat before that happens. I turned to leave. He caught my hand and held it to his heart.

Hey, what's your name?

I thought fast. Bethy, I said. I thought--what kind of weirdo name is Bethy?

I'm Malcolm. I'm pleased to meet you.

And I you, I said, trying to pull my hand free. I thought about somehow mentioning my rather tall husband, but this dude was bigger than Tom and I decided I wasn't going to depend on men to get out of this situation.

You have such beautiful eyes, Malcolm said.

Thank you, I laughed. I decided not to question how he knew this since I was wearing my Elton John sunglasses, both at Starbuck's and right then. It was a total game, I knew. Complete bull all the way around. He was fairly good looking, so I'm sure he'd done this before and probably won.

I finally pulled my hand from his and began to walk away. You got to run, girl? His voice sounded disappointed in a jovial way.

Yeah, I got to run, I said over my shoulder, pushing my way through traffic.

By the way, a piece of artwork I wanted to paste but the copyright gods are against me is on a site by the artist. The title? You Have Beautiful Eyes, of course, by a scampering artist who sneaked his own work into the Met.

silence in the city

Monday, after my physical therapy (during which I do fun things like dip my hand into liquid wax, plunge my hand in a box of fake snow and play with "the sand machine"--this is 20 times easier than any other PT sessions I've had in life), I took my lunch in Central Park and admired the quiet grandeur that is usually remiss in the Park. No one was around, it being a workday and all. Well, people were around, but so few and far between it seemed almost creepy. As I walked across the Park to the Upper East Side, I could smell this kind of ancient musk you usually only encounter in ancient forest, and literally felt the silence around me, wrapping me up in a nice cool blanket.

Weird, I thought. Weird this silence in a city filled with constant noise.

Just as I felt myself panicking from all this muffled life, I heard the faint rumble of traffic. Then a siren burst through the fibers and all you could do was hang on as the city triumphantly and violently reappeared.

This may be a stretch, but all the evacuations going on in Gaza right now feels much the same to me. When I was in Israel, Gaza and the West Bank in 1999, some parts of the country were teeming, rumbling with violence and hatred and life and death. Other places seemed serene and out of the way, as if it were not troubled with what went on mere kilometers away. When I was (briefly) in Gaza, a strange kind of insane calm hovered. The hotel we stayed at was like any other hotel in the Middle East, complete with a beach side view of the Sea, but just north of us was Yasser Arafat's compound, which we were admonished not to photograph, decimated mosques, Gaza University with young men determined to believe that all Americans only care about TV and fast food and boys who followed some of the women calling out "bitches! whores!". I never saw any of the settlements, but I did see the cattle corrals that Palestinians had to go through to get to Israel to work or see relatives each day.

I'm not sure where exactly I'm going with this. As I listen to the news and watch the footage of the Jewish Israelis being evacuated (which is a little strange term--it seems to suggest there will be a return), I feel bad for them but I do not at the same time. When Palestinians have been forced from their homes there is no comfy buffer period to prepare, their homes are bulldozed suddenly, giving them only moments to retrieve their children and some belongings. And if one uses the argument that the destruction of the homes punishes the families of terrorists, the IDF has used it as an excuse to create "buffer zones" for settlements, etc. Acres of ancient olive groves are destroyed, and no money is offered as recompense. There is no where for these families to go, unlike the settlers. The Israeli government is offering housing and money to them. Not that it takes the pain away, but it is more that has been offered to others.

No matter what, the pain the settlers are feeling is very real. I truly can't even imagine what it is like. But it is no different than the pain the Palestinians felt when Israel came to Gaza, to the West Bank, to Israel proper. This pain is a direct result of the colonization-mentality the settlers have: enter an area, subdue it, live separate from the population and use all the resources for yourself.

The same mentality that the USA has had on a larger scale. Heck, at least the Jews once lived there, though I believe most of Gaza has no real tie of the sons and daughters of Abraham. Which makes me ask myself: if the Native Americans would insist that we as a people leave land that once belonged to them, what would I feel? This drives the question more at home with me. I would have to agree they had a point. The trees of Central Park would disappear from me for all time. Perhaps the rush of traffic would be permanently silenced. But would I do it?