Since the explosion of social networking sites, I’ve been utterly unimpressed by what they have to offer. Sure, MySpace provides a fabulous arena for me to spell out all my preferences in a detailed profile. I could display in cyberspace my myriad musical tastes and dislikes, while also posting funny pics of my face. Of course, I could just as easily have a conversation over coffee, allowing my companion to join in, debating over the finer points of metal while I defend the old-world sensibility of Ella Fitzgerald.
And sure, Facebook allows users to keep up with old school pals who you never thought you’d hear from again. While you might not want to literally talk to them, you can so easily, with a click of button, view intimate details about their current lives halfway across the country. Isn’t it wonderful? This is the beauty of the technological era and sweeping tides of the information wave, right? Not for me. I’ve never signed up for an account on any social networking site and plan to uphold my abstention.
The American youth culture doesn’t take this cyber-celibacy lightly, however. Now, people at bars no longer ask for your number at the end of the night; they ask for your Facebook account. They want to friend you online. When I respond as I always respond in these situations – “I’m not on Facebook or MySpace” – reactions range from mild surprise to utter contempt:
“You’re joking, right? Everyone’s on Facebook.”
“You don’t even use MySpace? Don’t you have friends? How do you ever know what’s going on?”
“Oh god. Are you one of those I-hate-technology-and-wish-we-could-all-write-letters-and-go-on-picnics girls?”
I must have been at the park while the whole world swirled into squares. I’ve been completely blindsided by social circles transforming themselves onto rectangular computer screens. But it all chalks up to the simple fact that I just don’t want to be involved. Already my friends talk their MySpace and Facebook jargon around me constantly:
“Kelly updated her profile. It says she’s in a relationship now. Who do you think it is?”
“Jon tried to friend me online. I felt too bad to decline him. Am I going to have to return his comments, too?”
It’s difficult enough to navigate real-world gossip and social awkwardness. Why would I want to sift through an entirely new set of rules in self-imposed tracking devices? Call me crazy, but I don’t want Billy-who-used-to-eat-glue from my second grade class finding me on Facebook and asking to be my friend. The only thing we had in common then was a height problem and an affinity for arts and crafts. What could we possibly have in common now? Not much that I can tell, except maybe that we have a long list of Facebook friends, which makes us feel better about the fact that our eyes are going cross-eyed from staring into mega-pixels that vaguely resemble meaning.
So while I hold my ground, distancing myself from social networking sites in the name of human interaction, I feel that perhaps I’m the one standing alone outside the circle. At lunch with friends a few weeks ago, we eagerly discussed weekend plans. My friend Tyler wanted to throw a party and informed us that he’d send an e-vite via Facebook. Then it dawned on him, and he rolled his eyes purposefully and annoyed. “Oh right,” he said, irritated. “Jenna doesn’t do Facebook. I guess I’ll have to send her an email.” It’s possible that my aim to be more socially involved will inevitably make me socially detached. I never did receive that email.
And aren’t these functions that are supposed to make keeping in touch easier, actually complicating things tenfold? The news of late is inundated with stories of employees freaked out that their bosses are friending them on Facebook, reports of businesspeople in droves leaving LinkedIn in favor of the hipper medium, follow-ups about the unappealing mesh of social networking and business networking online, instructional advice to censoring profiles, and cultural think-pieces about the socio-economic disparity between MySpace and Facebook. What world have we created when the complex matrices of social well-being have been transferred to the internet? The Marxist war cry echoed that the machine of capitalism would, like Frankenstein, overtake and destroy society as we know it. Have we created another mechanical monster?
Friday, August 10, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
What I Am...
“A job defines you,” my mother once said. “So choose wisely.”
“But think of all the possibilities,” I replied. “How could I ever choose just one?”
I had to think a while about my life’s mission. Maybe I could be a singer. I certainly enjoyed busting out notes in the shower. I constantly had tunes stuck in my head, and I was a first-rate hummer. I didn’t know how to play an instrument, though, and I wasn’t too amped about not eating in order to maintain the 90-pound body of a star. Plus, I’ve always had trouble walking in heels. A painter, on the other hand, could go barefoot because that would be artistic. Perhaps I could be the next Warhol, plastering pictures of hamburgers on canvases and charging $25,000 each. Or maybe my style would be minimalist, and I’d paint blue triangles on the sides of old garbage cans to express the erosion of childhood in the consumerist wasteland of Western capitalism. That might be fun.
Perchance I’d lead a simpler life as a schoolteacher. Then I could shape the minds of the next generation. I’d probably be pretty good at teaching English and grammar, provided a six-year-old didn’t hold a gun to my head for assigning him detention. No, never mind, teaching would be too risky. I could make a good living as an architect, though. I’m a fan of skyscrapers, and it doesn’t look too difficult to design one. I’d be able to boost the economy by providing 120 floors of luxury office space, and I’d only have to bulldoze through a neighborhood or two. I could plant the seeds of change. Actually, though, I think a lot of math’s involved, and that would be a bore.
It probably isn’t necessary to think too deeply in the bug-control profession. It would never get old to introduce myself as “The Exterminator” in Arnold’s accent, and then exclaim, “Hasta la vista baby!” as I assassinated menacing insects with my spray gun. It might make me sad, however, to be in the killing business. I don’t know if I’d feel right about invading the creepy-crawly culture and using violence to force my will. Ants have rights, too, you know. This isn’t Iraq we’re talking about.
Potentially, I could be the soothing voice-over on drug commercials. It didn’t embarrass me to talk about bothersome flatulence or vaginal dryness. These were social issues that should be addressed. Then again, I’m not sure if I’d be able to verbalize all the products’ side-effects quickly enough without jumbling my words. I never was very good at tongue-twisters as a child. I am a huge coffee-lover, though, and it wouldn’t be hard to find a job as a barista at Starbucks. There’s sure to be an opening at one of the 57 in the Union Square area. I’d take orders of iced-venti-decaf-double-macchiatos-with-soy-milk and-a-dash-of-foam like a pro, charging them my hourly wage with a bat of my eye. However, the occupation might send me spiraling downward on a toxic road of caffeine addiction, and it could be dangerous to work in such close proximity to the cappuccino machine.
I guess I could cross that one off the list. Likewise, I adore animals, but I could never be a dog walker. I’d find it distasteful, and a bit smelly, to scrape turds off hot Manhattan sidewalks. On the contrary, I would enjoy opening up a pet bed-and-breakfast for visiting pooches and felines. We might speak different languages, but every species understands the universal meaning of luxury. I’d pamper them with paw massages, paint their little claws pink and purple, and take them on Madison Avenue Pet Supermarket shopping sprees. Every out-of-towner needs a chew toy and five-star lodging to rest their snouts. Of course, it might become frustrating that the complimentary slippers needed constant replacing due to teeth marks.
I could be a flight attendant; I’m very good at pointing out exit signs. I could farm a marijuana field in Brazil – work on my Portuguese and my tan in one bold stroke. I could be a bar-tender or a psychiatrist. There’s little difference between them, after all. I could be the announcer at Yankee stadium (that’s job security) or the person who sells dirty water dogs on the corner of 40th and Lex. I could be a taxi-driver, a real-estate broker, a lawyer or a professional sky-diver. I could make boats, sell jewelry, tighten braces, protect the ozone layer, fill pot-holes or trade stocks. This is America!
“Mom, I think I’ll be a writer,” I said. “That way, I could tell stories about all the possibilities, and all the people exploring them. That sounds like a decent job. Plus, you can make a lot of money that way… right?”
“But think of all the possibilities,” I replied. “How could I ever choose just one?”
I had to think a while about my life’s mission. Maybe I could be a singer. I certainly enjoyed busting out notes in the shower. I constantly had tunes stuck in my head, and I was a first-rate hummer. I didn’t know how to play an instrument, though, and I wasn’t too amped about not eating in order to maintain the 90-pound body of a star. Plus, I’ve always had trouble walking in heels. A painter, on the other hand, could go barefoot because that would be artistic. Perhaps I could be the next Warhol, plastering pictures of hamburgers on canvases and charging $25,000 each. Or maybe my style would be minimalist, and I’d paint blue triangles on the sides of old garbage cans to express the erosion of childhood in the consumerist wasteland of Western capitalism. That might be fun.
Perchance I’d lead a simpler life as a schoolteacher. Then I could shape the minds of the next generation. I’d probably be pretty good at teaching English and grammar, provided a six-year-old didn’t hold a gun to my head for assigning him detention. No, never mind, teaching would be too risky. I could make a good living as an architect, though. I’m a fan of skyscrapers, and it doesn’t look too difficult to design one. I’d be able to boost the economy by providing 120 floors of luxury office space, and I’d only have to bulldoze through a neighborhood or two. I could plant the seeds of change. Actually, though, I think a lot of math’s involved, and that would be a bore.
It probably isn’t necessary to think too deeply in the bug-control profession. It would never get old to introduce myself as “The Exterminator” in Arnold’s accent, and then exclaim, “Hasta la vista baby!” as I assassinated menacing insects with my spray gun. It might make me sad, however, to be in the killing business. I don’t know if I’d feel right about invading the creepy-crawly culture and using violence to force my will. Ants have rights, too, you know. This isn’t Iraq we’re talking about.
Potentially, I could be the soothing voice-over on drug commercials. It didn’t embarrass me to talk about bothersome flatulence or vaginal dryness. These were social issues that should be addressed. Then again, I’m not sure if I’d be able to verbalize all the products’ side-effects quickly enough without jumbling my words. I never was very good at tongue-twisters as a child. I am a huge coffee-lover, though, and it wouldn’t be hard to find a job as a barista at Starbucks. There’s sure to be an opening at one of the 57 in the Union Square area. I’d take orders of iced-venti-decaf-double-macchiatos-with-soy-milk and-a-dash-of-foam like a pro, charging them my hourly wage with a bat of my eye. However, the occupation might send me spiraling downward on a toxic road of caffeine addiction, and it could be dangerous to work in such close proximity to the cappuccino machine.
I guess I could cross that one off the list. Likewise, I adore animals, but I could never be a dog walker. I’d find it distasteful, and a bit smelly, to scrape turds off hot Manhattan sidewalks. On the contrary, I would enjoy opening up a pet bed-and-breakfast for visiting pooches and felines. We might speak different languages, but every species understands the universal meaning of luxury. I’d pamper them with paw massages, paint their little claws pink and purple, and take them on Madison Avenue Pet Supermarket shopping sprees. Every out-of-towner needs a chew toy and five-star lodging to rest their snouts. Of course, it might become frustrating that the complimentary slippers needed constant replacing due to teeth marks.
I could be a flight attendant; I’m very good at pointing out exit signs. I could farm a marijuana field in Brazil – work on my Portuguese and my tan in one bold stroke. I could be a bar-tender or a psychiatrist. There’s little difference between them, after all. I could be the announcer at Yankee stadium (that’s job security) or the person who sells dirty water dogs on the corner of 40th and Lex. I could be a taxi-driver, a real-estate broker, a lawyer or a professional sky-diver. I could make boats, sell jewelry, tighten braces, protect the ozone layer, fill pot-holes or trade stocks. This is America!
“Mom, I think I’ll be a writer,” I said. “That way, I could tell stories about all the possibilities, and all the people exploring them. That sounds like a decent job. Plus, you can make a lot of money that way… right?”
Monday, August 6, 2007
Life as a Box
New York City is entirely composed of squares and rectangles. You wake up in a tiny box and cross linear streets at right angles. Then you climb into rectangular transportation to arrive at your daily cubical – where you talk into a box, type on little boxes and check off yet another box on the calendar, as the days wind down inside strict contours. While I do enjoy circles, the geometrical design of the city had never really been a problem for me until recently. A short time ago, I faced the frightening realization that the lease was up on one of my boxes, and I’d have to find a new apartment for the summer.
I’m a college student; 21 and already city-savvy. I’ve only lived in Manhattan for about eight months now, but I feel like I own it. Nothing would have prepared me for apartment-hunting, however. That’s when all the crazies come out. After careful consideration, I finally decided that I would go in on a place with my boyfriend, Andrew, and his college roommate, Jesse. We could divide up the rent three ways and save money. The only thing left was to actually find a place.
I don’t trust Craigslist, but it’s really the only way to go if you don’t want to pay broker fees. I began checking Craigslist daily, weeding through the $6000 loft apartments in Manhattan and the 10 square-foot crawl spaces on the Staten Island shore. We needed something specific: 2 bedrooms, furnished, available four months and near a subway stop. Our box didn’t need to be beautiful, just functional.
The first apartment we got excited about was in Bushwick, Brooklyn. It seemed to be everything we wanted, until we realized that the quaint little $1400 apartment was situated snuggly between two enormous high-rise projects. I didn’t want to end up in a box six feet underground, so I determined that living there would be a bad idea and crossed it off my list.
The next possibility was almost $2000, but the pictures posted online were exquisite. The upper Manhattan residence was located right near a park, the listing said. There were hardwood floors, colorful art on the walls, and stylish furniture. I was ready to write a check. On the hour-long subway ride to 191st Street, I pictured how I would decorate my new box. I exited the subway station still daydreaming and was struck suddenly by the overwhelming reality of the situation. Mine was the only white face beaming from a sea of browns and blacks muttering in Spanish and peering at me curiously.
I met up with Andrew and Jesse, both dressed to impress, donning conservative sweater vests and blazers. We walked together to see the sublet. Trash littered the streets, Reggaeton blared from curbside delis, and groups of men loitered, smoking cigarettes. We walked up the graffiti-smeared staircase to the third floor to meet Ivan, the landlord. He wore baggy camouflage cargo pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. A silver tooth shined in his mouth, which smirked in amusement when he saw us. I knew some Spanish. I made all A’s in that class in high school. I could bluff my way through this.
After greeting each other, I asked, “Habla espanol, Ivan?”
“Si, es mi primera lengua,” he responded. “Y tu?”
“Si, pero solamente un poco,” I said, pleased that I might convince him that we could fit in here.
He opened the door to our exquisite apartment and billows of marijuana smoke swirled into the hallway. A bag of weed rested on a cigarette-burned coffee table and an inch of dust and dirt covered the hardwood floors. The rickety furniture did not look so stylish in person, and for fear of dirtying my coat by brushing against the walls, I remained in the center of every room. Andrew and Jesse’s eyes cut back and forth, as they stood awkwardly and silently, forcing Ivan and I to carry on conversation.
We stayed for about 10 minutes out of courtesy and didn’t exhale until we were safely on the 1 train headed back down to my comfortable, affluent lower Manhattan neighborhood. All was not lost, however, because I’d made an appointment to see another Brooklyn apartment the next day.
The following morning spilled sunlight through my window. Andrew and I proceeded to the remaining option. I only had around two weeks to find someplace before I’d be kicked out of my current residence. We traveled to Carroll Gardens saying little, sipping 75-cent coffee. Emerging from the subway terminal into the outside air, I was pleasantly surprised to find clean, tidy streets lined with elegant brownstones. Blossoming trees swayed in the breeze and children zipped about on bikes and scooters. I’d found a suburban square in the midst of one of the biggest cities on earth!
The apartment was sparse but spotless, and Leo, the man who showed it to us, seemed trustworthy.
“We’ll take it!” I said, beaming.
“Great,” Leo replied, with an unknown accent. “You have the money now?”
“Well, we can pay the security deposit at least,” Andrew answered. “We can get the first month’s rent together within the next couple days.”
“Okay. I’ll call the landlord and let him know. And I’ll give you his bank account number,” Leo said.
“Wait a second, is there a lease first?” I asked.
“Oh, um, right, a lease,” Leo stuttered. “I don’t think I have one with me, but I can have the landlord email it to you. You can pay the deposit, and then it will be set.”
“I’d prefer to give you the lease in person,” I said. “Can we come back tomorrow and handle it then?”
“Um, tomorrow?” Leo hesitated. “Yeah, okay. I’ll have the landlord call you, and we can figure it all out.”
We left and walked around our beautiful soon-to-be new neighborhood. Andrew and I were delighted, looking at the various outdoor cafes, basketball courts and crowded parks. The next few days thereafter were increasingly more confusing. I began receiving multiple calls and emails from Leo and Zvi, the unseen landlord with an accent so thick his words were barely comprehendible. The two didn’t seem to be communicating with each other and were feeding us conflicting information.
At first, Leo said someone else was interested in the apartment for a year, and they’d get preference. Then Zvi continuously emailed us a “tenant questionnaire” (pronounced “question-are-y”), asking us to fill it out about four times, even though we already had days earlier. He called from a mysterious 11-digit number that didn’t match any listed country codes. Zvi told us to call Leo, and Leo told us to talk to Zvi.
I decided that it was a scam – that they would never give us keys to the place. Then, magically, Leo sent a text message telling me to check my email, and I found a lease in my inbox. Everything looked in order, and it appeared to be a standard New York contract. Something ate at me, though. Could I trust this? We emailed back, saying that we just needed to meet to hand over the lease, pay by check and pick up the keys.
I waited for a day to hear back, nervously, expecting the worst. Finally, Zvi called from the strange number and left a message saying that he actually needed three months rent upfront as a security deposit and all of our social security numbers to run “credit checks.” No beautiful suburban box for us. I told Andrew to call back and tell them we were done.
The next day I went from cube to cube disheartened, stressed out because I kept crossing off boxes on the calendar and soon would have nowhere to live.
I write this now in a box, with the walls closing in. I still haven’t found a place, and I have exactly ten days time to do it. I’m hoping that there’s a master architect behind this design and that all will resolve itself. But there’s one thing I know for sure, I’ll never attempt to sublet in the city again on my own. If I need an apartment, I’ll hire a broker and hand over little green rectangles in exchange for a clean and simple box to store myself and my many boxes.
I’m a college student; 21 and already city-savvy. I’ve only lived in Manhattan for about eight months now, but I feel like I own it. Nothing would have prepared me for apartment-hunting, however. That’s when all the crazies come out. After careful consideration, I finally decided that I would go in on a place with my boyfriend, Andrew, and his college roommate, Jesse. We could divide up the rent three ways and save money. The only thing left was to actually find a place.
I don’t trust Craigslist, but it’s really the only way to go if you don’t want to pay broker fees. I began checking Craigslist daily, weeding through the $6000 loft apartments in Manhattan and the 10 square-foot crawl spaces on the Staten Island shore. We needed something specific: 2 bedrooms, furnished, available four months and near a subway stop. Our box didn’t need to be beautiful, just functional.
The first apartment we got excited about was in Bushwick, Brooklyn. It seemed to be everything we wanted, until we realized that the quaint little $1400 apartment was situated snuggly between two enormous high-rise projects. I didn’t want to end up in a box six feet underground, so I determined that living there would be a bad idea and crossed it off my list.
The next possibility was almost $2000, but the pictures posted online were exquisite. The upper Manhattan residence was located right near a park, the listing said. There were hardwood floors, colorful art on the walls, and stylish furniture. I was ready to write a check. On the hour-long subway ride to 191st Street, I pictured how I would decorate my new box. I exited the subway station still daydreaming and was struck suddenly by the overwhelming reality of the situation. Mine was the only white face beaming from a sea of browns and blacks muttering in Spanish and peering at me curiously.
I met up with Andrew and Jesse, both dressed to impress, donning conservative sweater vests and blazers. We walked together to see the sublet. Trash littered the streets, Reggaeton blared from curbside delis, and groups of men loitered, smoking cigarettes. We walked up the graffiti-smeared staircase to the third floor to meet Ivan, the landlord. He wore baggy camouflage cargo pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. A silver tooth shined in his mouth, which smirked in amusement when he saw us. I knew some Spanish. I made all A’s in that class in high school. I could bluff my way through this.
After greeting each other, I asked, “Habla espanol, Ivan?”
“Si, es mi primera lengua,” he responded. “Y tu?”
“Si, pero solamente un poco,” I said, pleased that I might convince him that we could fit in here.
He opened the door to our exquisite apartment and billows of marijuana smoke swirled into the hallway. A bag of weed rested on a cigarette-burned coffee table and an inch of dust and dirt covered the hardwood floors. The rickety furniture did not look so stylish in person, and for fear of dirtying my coat by brushing against the walls, I remained in the center of every room. Andrew and Jesse’s eyes cut back and forth, as they stood awkwardly and silently, forcing Ivan and I to carry on conversation.
We stayed for about 10 minutes out of courtesy and didn’t exhale until we were safely on the 1 train headed back down to my comfortable, affluent lower Manhattan neighborhood. All was not lost, however, because I’d made an appointment to see another Brooklyn apartment the next day.
The following morning spilled sunlight through my window. Andrew and I proceeded to the remaining option. I only had around two weeks to find someplace before I’d be kicked out of my current residence. We traveled to Carroll Gardens saying little, sipping 75-cent coffee. Emerging from the subway terminal into the outside air, I was pleasantly surprised to find clean, tidy streets lined with elegant brownstones. Blossoming trees swayed in the breeze and children zipped about on bikes and scooters. I’d found a suburban square in the midst of one of the biggest cities on earth!
The apartment was sparse but spotless, and Leo, the man who showed it to us, seemed trustworthy.
“We’ll take it!” I said, beaming.
“Great,” Leo replied, with an unknown accent. “You have the money now?”
“Well, we can pay the security deposit at least,” Andrew answered. “We can get the first month’s rent together within the next couple days.”
“Okay. I’ll call the landlord and let him know. And I’ll give you his bank account number,” Leo said.
“Wait a second, is there a lease first?” I asked.
“Oh, um, right, a lease,” Leo stuttered. “I don’t think I have one with me, but I can have the landlord email it to you. You can pay the deposit, and then it will be set.”
“I’d prefer to give you the lease in person,” I said. “Can we come back tomorrow and handle it then?”
“Um, tomorrow?” Leo hesitated. “Yeah, okay. I’ll have the landlord call you, and we can figure it all out.”
We left and walked around our beautiful soon-to-be new neighborhood. Andrew and I were delighted, looking at the various outdoor cafes, basketball courts and crowded parks. The next few days thereafter were increasingly more confusing. I began receiving multiple calls and emails from Leo and Zvi, the unseen landlord with an accent so thick his words were barely comprehendible. The two didn’t seem to be communicating with each other and were feeding us conflicting information.
At first, Leo said someone else was interested in the apartment for a year, and they’d get preference. Then Zvi continuously emailed us a “tenant questionnaire” (pronounced “question-are-y”), asking us to fill it out about four times, even though we already had days earlier. He called from a mysterious 11-digit number that didn’t match any listed country codes. Zvi told us to call Leo, and Leo told us to talk to Zvi.
I decided that it was a scam – that they would never give us keys to the place. Then, magically, Leo sent a text message telling me to check my email, and I found a lease in my inbox. Everything looked in order, and it appeared to be a standard New York contract. Something ate at me, though. Could I trust this? We emailed back, saying that we just needed to meet to hand over the lease, pay by check and pick up the keys.
I waited for a day to hear back, nervously, expecting the worst. Finally, Zvi called from the strange number and left a message saying that he actually needed three months rent upfront as a security deposit and all of our social security numbers to run “credit checks.” No beautiful suburban box for us. I told Andrew to call back and tell them we were done.
The next day I went from cube to cube disheartened, stressed out because I kept crossing off boxes on the calendar and soon would have nowhere to live.
I write this now in a box, with the walls closing in. I still haven’t found a place, and I have exactly ten days time to do it. I’m hoping that there’s a master architect behind this design and that all will resolve itself. But there’s one thing I know for sure, I’ll never attempt to sublet in the city again on my own. If I need an apartment, I’ll hire a broker and hand over little green rectangles in exchange for a clean and simple box to store myself and my many boxes.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Chance and Cheesesteaks
I stood, frozen, amid rush-hour afternoon traffic in midtown Manhattan, staring at the wad of cash a few feet away from me on the sidewalk. The sun was low, hidden behind the New York skyline, and men and women in suits zipped around me on foot while cars skidded toward the nearby stoplight. I, too, had been rushing here and there to make train times and keep appointments. This was the first moment of stillness. My body stood in the eye of a hurricane of movement and sound. My eyes focused on the abandoned money near the drain. What were the chances that I was the only one who’d seen it out of the millions scurrying around in this vertical anthill? This must be my lucky day.
Earlier that morning, resting comfortably on a train to Philadelphia, I’d mused at the luck of the draw. My college writing class had been sent on an all-expenses-paid daytrip to the city of Brotherly Love, randomly receiving a mode of transportation. My name was the last called, and I’d somehow stumbled onto the most luxurious, time-efficient vehicle: an hour-and-a-half ride on Amtrak. With two of my other fortunate classmates, I gazed out the window as states flew by. I wondered at all the steps that had led to this point, reflecting on the choices I’d made and those that had been made for me. I chuckled at the strange phenomenon of life – wandering blindly toward a distant light, banking on the chance it would all work out in the end.
I’d never been to Philadelphia, and luckily my fellow travelers, Lida and Bryan were regulars of the city. Surfacing from the underground tracks, my eyes widened at the breathtaking sight of the 30th Street Station. The high slope of the ceiling, grandiose light fixtures and extravagant molding arched overhead. I breathed in the soft air. It was early still, only about 9:30, and we decided to walk the streets of Center City. The sun warmed my skin as I soaked up the scenery. Bryan led us down aged streets, lined with restored 19th century homes and window boxes overflowing with springtime blossoms. The pace was slower here than in my familiar metropolis of New York. Fewer faces filled the walkways and those present seemed less hurried, languidly plugging forward.
I trailed behind my tour guides, ignorant of street signs or directions of the compass. I liked not knowing where I was and appreciating the view. There was a freedom in it. Soon we met up with another classmate, Alyssa, and began toward the Mutter Museum on 22nd Street. They’d wanted to go, and I’d agreed. I’d never heard of the place, but I liked museums. It wasn’t until I entered the gallery that I realized what was on display. Body parts. Skeletons. The disfigured and the diseased. It was a freak show of medical oddities and malformations.
I looked into the glass cases with awe and horror. There were backlit jars of fetuses with two heads or three arms. Babies were displayed with noses protruding from their foreheads, engorged limbs and missing jaws. Their tiny figures were contorted at unnatural angles and distorted to monstrous proportions. At 21, I’m only five years younger than my mother when she had me. What if I stood there, gaping at the terrifying possibility of what could have been? What if I cringed at the child I might bring to life with my own body? The hair stood up straight on my perfectly formed arm. I wrapped my sweater tighter around my young, normal midsection, thankful that it remained intact.
I went from exhibit to exhibit in no logical order. When something caught my eye, I gravitated toward it. There was a great emphasis on conjoined twins. I spent a long time near the body molds of the first recorded conjoined twins, Chang and Eng, from what once was Siam. The men were connected by the torso near their rib cages, and spent a lifetime bathing, eating, sleeping and working together. Surprisingly, they led full lives. Each was married, and together they had a total of 11 children. They’d spend a week at Eng’s estate with his wife and then alternate, spending a week at Chang’s home with his wife and kids.
I’d learned about Siamese twins in a high school anatomy class. I remember being fascinated by the simplicity of the occurrence. In the zygote phase of normal babies, cells fuse together with their compliments and begin building the tissues and organs of the developing infant. Sometimes, in the case of twins, a cell becomes confused by its sibling’s cells and begins fusing with the other zygote. One in a billion of the body’s cells becomes confused and two beings grow together. Chang and Eng lived attached to each other in the 1800s, joined mostly by cartilage and tissue. If they’d been born just one century later, it would have been a fairly easy surgery to separate them.
I began feeling queasy by the abnormalities. We left. I followed Bryan and the group to northern Philadelphia, where we’d planned to meet the remainder of our class and our professor. At the Foodery in Spring Gardens, we ate sandwiches and told of the day’s adventures. I looked at the youthful, healthy faces of my peers and the others eating and serving food. I couldn’t help but wonder if they knew how lucky they were.
I tried to sleep on the train ride back to New York, but I’d gotten the aisle seat and passengers kept bumping into me on their way to the bathroom. Enviously, I looked at Lida nuzzled against the window, snoring quietly. Later, we shouted goodbye to each other through mobs of rushing travelers in Penn Station. On the street, it was chaos. Friday yanked at people to begin the weekend. I also had plans. I was getting on another train to join my boyfriend in Westchester County for an outdoor weekend music festival. I’d promised to be there in time to see the first band.
I played the lights, crossing down or over whenever I had the right-of-way. I wove through children and tourists, dodging bikers and speeding to my destination. I was dying to grab a shower, and I didn’t have much time. Rounding the corner of 26th Street and 3rd Ave, I was only a block away from my apartment. I’d been keeping pace with a twenty-something man in a stylish red-velvet blazer. I didn’t look at him directly, but kept track of him in my peripheral vision. My purse weighed heavy on my shoulder while I made a mental list of items I needed to pack for the weekend. That’s when I noticed the bundle of bills just up ahead on the sidewalk.
I stopped suddenly. The woman walking behind me ran right into my arm, cursing as she passed. My eyes focused on the abandoned money near the drain. What were the chances that I was the only person who’d caught sight of it? It didn’t seem to belong to anyone. I approached it slowly, waiting for someone to realize they’d dropped it. I bent at the legs and scooped up the mass of dollars. Looking around, I anticipated some sort of repercussion. I caught the eye of the man in the red blazer. He’d stopped, too, and had been watching me.
Smiling, he said, “This must be your lucky day.”
I returned his smile, shoving the found treasure in my pocket. “It must be,” I said. “It really must be.”
Earlier that morning, resting comfortably on a train to Philadelphia, I’d mused at the luck of the draw. My college writing class had been sent on an all-expenses-paid daytrip to the city of Brotherly Love, randomly receiving a mode of transportation. My name was the last called, and I’d somehow stumbled onto the most luxurious, time-efficient vehicle: an hour-and-a-half ride on Amtrak. With two of my other fortunate classmates, I gazed out the window as states flew by. I wondered at all the steps that had led to this point, reflecting on the choices I’d made and those that had been made for me. I chuckled at the strange phenomenon of life – wandering blindly toward a distant light, banking on the chance it would all work out in the end.
I’d never been to Philadelphia, and luckily my fellow travelers, Lida and Bryan were regulars of the city. Surfacing from the underground tracks, my eyes widened at the breathtaking sight of the 30th Street Station. The high slope of the ceiling, grandiose light fixtures and extravagant molding arched overhead. I breathed in the soft air. It was early still, only about 9:30, and we decided to walk the streets of Center City. The sun warmed my skin as I soaked up the scenery. Bryan led us down aged streets, lined with restored 19th century homes and window boxes overflowing with springtime blossoms. The pace was slower here than in my familiar metropolis of New York. Fewer faces filled the walkways and those present seemed less hurried, languidly plugging forward.
I trailed behind my tour guides, ignorant of street signs or directions of the compass. I liked not knowing where I was and appreciating the view. There was a freedom in it. Soon we met up with another classmate, Alyssa, and began toward the Mutter Museum on 22nd Street. They’d wanted to go, and I’d agreed. I’d never heard of the place, but I liked museums. It wasn’t until I entered the gallery that I realized what was on display. Body parts. Skeletons. The disfigured and the diseased. It was a freak show of medical oddities and malformations.
I looked into the glass cases with awe and horror. There were backlit jars of fetuses with two heads or three arms. Babies were displayed with noses protruding from their foreheads, engorged limbs and missing jaws. Their tiny figures were contorted at unnatural angles and distorted to monstrous proportions. At 21, I’m only five years younger than my mother when she had me. What if I stood there, gaping at the terrifying possibility of what could have been? What if I cringed at the child I might bring to life with my own body? The hair stood up straight on my perfectly formed arm. I wrapped my sweater tighter around my young, normal midsection, thankful that it remained intact.
I went from exhibit to exhibit in no logical order. When something caught my eye, I gravitated toward it. There was a great emphasis on conjoined twins. I spent a long time near the body molds of the first recorded conjoined twins, Chang and Eng, from what once was Siam. The men were connected by the torso near their rib cages, and spent a lifetime bathing, eating, sleeping and working together. Surprisingly, they led full lives. Each was married, and together they had a total of 11 children. They’d spend a week at Eng’s estate with his wife and then alternate, spending a week at Chang’s home with his wife and kids.
I’d learned about Siamese twins in a high school anatomy class. I remember being fascinated by the simplicity of the occurrence. In the zygote phase of normal babies, cells fuse together with their compliments and begin building the tissues and organs of the developing infant. Sometimes, in the case of twins, a cell becomes confused by its sibling’s cells and begins fusing with the other zygote. One in a billion of the body’s cells becomes confused and two beings grow together. Chang and Eng lived attached to each other in the 1800s, joined mostly by cartilage and tissue. If they’d been born just one century later, it would have been a fairly easy surgery to separate them.
I began feeling queasy by the abnormalities. We left. I followed Bryan and the group to northern Philadelphia, where we’d planned to meet the remainder of our class and our professor. At the Foodery in Spring Gardens, we ate sandwiches and told of the day’s adventures. I looked at the youthful, healthy faces of my peers and the others eating and serving food. I couldn’t help but wonder if they knew how lucky they were.
I tried to sleep on the train ride back to New York, but I’d gotten the aisle seat and passengers kept bumping into me on their way to the bathroom. Enviously, I looked at Lida nuzzled against the window, snoring quietly. Later, we shouted goodbye to each other through mobs of rushing travelers in Penn Station. On the street, it was chaos. Friday yanked at people to begin the weekend. I also had plans. I was getting on another train to join my boyfriend in Westchester County for an outdoor weekend music festival. I’d promised to be there in time to see the first band.
I played the lights, crossing down or over whenever I had the right-of-way. I wove through children and tourists, dodging bikers and speeding to my destination. I was dying to grab a shower, and I didn’t have much time. Rounding the corner of 26th Street and 3rd Ave, I was only a block away from my apartment. I’d been keeping pace with a twenty-something man in a stylish red-velvet blazer. I didn’t look at him directly, but kept track of him in my peripheral vision. My purse weighed heavy on my shoulder while I made a mental list of items I needed to pack for the weekend. That’s when I noticed the bundle of bills just up ahead on the sidewalk.
I stopped suddenly. The woman walking behind me ran right into my arm, cursing as she passed. My eyes focused on the abandoned money near the drain. What were the chances that I was the only person who’d caught sight of it? It didn’t seem to belong to anyone. I approached it slowly, waiting for someone to realize they’d dropped it. I bent at the legs and scooped up the mass of dollars. Looking around, I anticipated some sort of repercussion. I caught the eye of the man in the red blazer. He’d stopped, too, and had been watching me.
Smiling, he said, “This must be your lucky day.”
I returned his smile, shoving the found treasure in my pocket. “It must be,” I said. “It really must be.”
Saturday, August 4, 2007
The Bully
I used to stare out the dirt-streaked windows of the bus on the way to and from middle school. I didn’t like to sit on the aisle, where people would bump into me with their backpacks and lunchboxes. I preferred to look out into the world, watching the trees slide by in strokes of green and the life on the sidewalks. When the bus waited at traffic lights and the other kids screamed and threw paper across the seats, I glimpsed into car windows on the street, wondering what those people wondered about. Intently, I studied their faces, tracing their profiles with my eyes. I thought that if I looked long enough I could will them into turning towards me. I thought I could will them into noticing me. And sometimes, not always, they would turn. Our eyes would lock in a moment separated by panes of glass and air, and I felt that we could see each other. I felt like I’d made a connection.
My friends Jill and Jodi Rogers often interrupted my window-gazing with their bubbly anecdotes of the day. Identical twins, they were constantly confused by teachers, and they used it to their utmost advantage. Jodi was brilliant at math and painted her fingernails black. Jill liked to wear her sand-colored hair in pigtails and flirt. Whenever Jill had a math test, she talked her sister into taking off the polish and stepping into her shoes. Jodi agreed for the thrill, and no one ever found out except their closest friends. I’d known them since kindergarten, and they seemed nothing alike to me.
The three of us rode the bus together to our low-cost apartment complex in Jacksonville, FL, and talked about all the things that concern the minds of 12-year-old girls. One Friday afternoon of seventh grade, we weren’t free to talk in peace. A girl whom I didn’t know and didn’t like seethed for some unknown reason and sneered at the twins. Taller and wider than most girls in our grade, Shanika was infamously mean. Her mouth spewed so much foul language it had soured her breath. The ashy texture of her black skin made her appear a dark gray, and her cheap weave sat awkwardly atop her head.
From the seat across from Jill and Jodi, Shanika taunted them. The twins did their best to ignore her malicious words and talked to me as if nothing was wrong. When the bus rolled into the stop outside our neighborhood, which Shanika shared, the verbal abuse escalated to physical gestures and facial expressions. Jill and Jodi seemed scared and weak. They didn’t know what to say or how to defend themselves. Climbing down the bus steps, Shanika threatened to kick their asses if they didn’t respond. We were surrounded by a group of people as the bus skidded away. I could see Jill and Jodi shaking, unsure of what had brought this on and how to handle it.
I hadn’t opened my mouth until then. I thought if I said nothing she would eventually stop and move on. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand there and watch while she insulted my friends.
“Leave them alone,” I said. “They’ve done nothing to you.”
Suddenly it was as if she saw me for the first time. Her eyes flashed white, and her entire body tightened. She’d found a new target.
“Don’t tell me what to do, you little bitch,” she shot back.
Twice my size and weight, I had no intention of getting in a fight with Shanika. She’d win, and we both knew it.
I turned on my heels, offering her my back and heading toward my apartment at the far end of the street. Jill and Jodi hadn’t said a word, but just watched in awe. Shanika followed me, taunting me, daring me to look her in the face. My heartbeat pounded in my head. It was so loud I could barely hear her. She began jabbing me in the back with her finger as I walked.
“Turn around you little piss ant,” she spouted with every stab of her finger. “Why don’t you just turn around?”
My palms were moist and my breathing shortened. I kept my head up high; I didn’t want her to think she had any affect on me. Jill and Jodi did nothing. I was only a few minutes walk away from home. I could put up with it.
The prodding intensified. She thrust more and more weight behind the finger that she jammed incessantly into my back. The pain began shooting up my spine. Maybe if I looked at her she’d stop. Maybe I could talk my way out of this. I paused. I turned with my mouth parted to form words, and I saw just a blur of motion as her fist smashed into my face. I barely had time to register the explosion of nerve endings in my cheek, when she grabbed me by the hair and rammed my body into the pavement. She jerked me around by the roots of my hair, as I thrashed at her bulky limbs, trying to make contact. I could hear other kids cheering in the distance. Finally I got a grip on one of her ankles and yanked with all my force, causing her to topple onto her side. She’d let loose of my hair. In a crumpled ball, I lied on the sidewalk, face wet with tears I couldn’t even remember releasing.
Shanika stood, and abruptly turned as if she’d lost interest. Jill and Jodi rushed to my side, asking if I was okay. Now, conveniently, they were willing to assist.
“Go home,” I snapped. Gathering energy, I hoisted myself up and trudged the remaining distance home limply.
I never rode the school bus again after that day, and once my mother knew of the incident, she made it her personal mission to get us out of that neighborhood. The twins and I remained friends, but I could never look at them the same way. I was never mean, and I rarely mentioned that it had happened at all. But somewhere in the midst of that five to ten minute blur, they’d lost my respect.
That was the last time Shanika and I ever talked. I never even knew her last name. I saw her in the halls sometimes at school, and our eyes met. I thought I would see something in them – some measure of regret, of fury, of recognition even – but they were vacant. It was as if she was just another stranger whose face I viewed from behind panes of glass. But there was no connection, only miles of empty air.
My friends Jill and Jodi Rogers often interrupted my window-gazing with their bubbly anecdotes of the day. Identical twins, they were constantly confused by teachers, and they used it to their utmost advantage. Jodi was brilliant at math and painted her fingernails black. Jill liked to wear her sand-colored hair in pigtails and flirt. Whenever Jill had a math test, she talked her sister into taking off the polish and stepping into her shoes. Jodi agreed for the thrill, and no one ever found out except their closest friends. I’d known them since kindergarten, and they seemed nothing alike to me.
The three of us rode the bus together to our low-cost apartment complex in Jacksonville, FL, and talked about all the things that concern the minds of 12-year-old girls. One Friday afternoon of seventh grade, we weren’t free to talk in peace. A girl whom I didn’t know and didn’t like seethed for some unknown reason and sneered at the twins. Taller and wider than most girls in our grade, Shanika was infamously mean. Her mouth spewed so much foul language it had soured her breath. The ashy texture of her black skin made her appear a dark gray, and her cheap weave sat awkwardly atop her head.
From the seat across from Jill and Jodi, Shanika taunted them. The twins did their best to ignore her malicious words and talked to me as if nothing was wrong. When the bus rolled into the stop outside our neighborhood, which Shanika shared, the verbal abuse escalated to physical gestures and facial expressions. Jill and Jodi seemed scared and weak. They didn’t know what to say or how to defend themselves. Climbing down the bus steps, Shanika threatened to kick their asses if they didn’t respond. We were surrounded by a group of people as the bus skidded away. I could see Jill and Jodi shaking, unsure of what had brought this on and how to handle it.
I hadn’t opened my mouth until then. I thought if I said nothing she would eventually stop and move on. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand there and watch while she insulted my friends.
“Leave them alone,” I said. “They’ve done nothing to you.”
Suddenly it was as if she saw me for the first time. Her eyes flashed white, and her entire body tightened. She’d found a new target.
“Don’t tell me what to do, you little bitch,” she shot back.
Twice my size and weight, I had no intention of getting in a fight with Shanika. She’d win, and we both knew it.
I turned on my heels, offering her my back and heading toward my apartment at the far end of the street. Jill and Jodi hadn’t said a word, but just watched in awe. Shanika followed me, taunting me, daring me to look her in the face. My heartbeat pounded in my head. It was so loud I could barely hear her. She began jabbing me in the back with her finger as I walked.
“Turn around you little piss ant,” she spouted with every stab of her finger. “Why don’t you just turn around?”
My palms were moist and my breathing shortened. I kept my head up high; I didn’t want her to think she had any affect on me. Jill and Jodi did nothing. I was only a few minutes walk away from home. I could put up with it.
The prodding intensified. She thrust more and more weight behind the finger that she jammed incessantly into my back. The pain began shooting up my spine. Maybe if I looked at her she’d stop. Maybe I could talk my way out of this. I paused. I turned with my mouth parted to form words, and I saw just a blur of motion as her fist smashed into my face. I barely had time to register the explosion of nerve endings in my cheek, when she grabbed me by the hair and rammed my body into the pavement. She jerked me around by the roots of my hair, as I thrashed at her bulky limbs, trying to make contact. I could hear other kids cheering in the distance. Finally I got a grip on one of her ankles and yanked with all my force, causing her to topple onto her side. She’d let loose of my hair. In a crumpled ball, I lied on the sidewalk, face wet with tears I couldn’t even remember releasing.
Shanika stood, and abruptly turned as if she’d lost interest. Jill and Jodi rushed to my side, asking if I was okay. Now, conveniently, they were willing to assist.
“Go home,” I snapped. Gathering energy, I hoisted myself up and trudged the remaining distance home limply.
I never rode the school bus again after that day, and once my mother knew of the incident, she made it her personal mission to get us out of that neighborhood. The twins and I remained friends, but I could never look at them the same way. I was never mean, and I rarely mentioned that it had happened at all. But somewhere in the midst of that five to ten minute blur, they’d lost my respect.
That was the last time Shanika and I ever talked. I never even knew her last name. I saw her in the halls sometimes at school, and our eyes met. I thought I would see something in them – some measure of regret, of fury, of recognition even – but they were vacant. It was as if she was just another stranger whose face I viewed from behind panes of glass. But there was no connection, only miles of empty air.
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