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.