I don’t have a quote today.
My circle of college friends suffered a horrible loss today, on Christmas Eve, and to write about anything else seems small and inappropriate.
In the early hours of the morning of December 24, my dear friend Stephen Hentchel was in a single-car accident, and he passed away.
I’m having a difficult time really understanding that he is gone from this world. All I can think about is what he was like when he was here.
Stephen liked bookstores. And milk. And toast topped with his mother’s jam. He drove a series of poorly maintained red minivans. He was man enough to admit he liked musicals.
He liked to write. Though he ended up with a double major in math and English, and also spent his last few years in the Navy, what he really wanted was to write for TV. I always wanted him to make it, though I was never completely convinced he’d be able to schmooze well enough to break into the industry.
You see, Stephen was kind of a jackass. He knew it, and strove to maintain that reputation. He did things the way he felt like doing them, and he didn’t really give a shit if it bothered anyone else.
This doesn’t sound like much of a tribute, does it? Yet it is the truth, and I don’t think he would want me to pretend that it wasn’t. Stephen knew who he was, and he didn’t apologize for it. While this caused us to get in our fair share of fights, there was always something admirable about that, too.
And more importantly, when it came right down to it, Stephen was a fiercely loyal friend. He would make me hopping mad one day, then not hesitate to stand up for me the next.
I saw him nearly every single day during my last year in college. He was my neighbor and practically my brother. In the years since then, the thing I appreciated the most about him was the ease with which we always picked up our relationship. I didn’t see or speak to him all that often in the last 5 and a half years, but each time I did, there was not a speck of awkwardness. There was never any undertone of guilt about the amount of time that had passed between phone calls. There were no long silences when either of us did not know what to say. Instead, we just traded banter much like we always had.
The last time I spoke with him was shortly before the date of the Chicago Marathon. He had corrected my grammar on a facebook post, and I made a snide remark back. Instead of posting again, he called me. We ended up talking for quite some time about my upcoming marathon and his impending move to Japan. It was an effortless conversation, like it always has been. I hung up the phone thinking our next conversation would be similar.
But he’s gone now. I won’t talk to him again. Ever. And I find that I cannot help but wonder where he is now.
Oddly enough, the thought makes me smile just a little bit. Because, you see, Stephen did not believe in God, or heaven, or any kind of afterlife. It was a rather sore spot in his relationship with me and the rest of the people in our circle of friends. The discussions (and fights) we had about this were never very productive, though, because really – who can know for sure?
Now, Stephen is the first to know. And I do believe he is still out there, somewhere, in some form. Because I can still feel him. It makes me laugh to think of him wherever he is now, pissed off because the rest of us were right, but also drumming his fingers with an evil laugh because he knows he’ll be able to point and laugh as he watches the rest of us do stupid things for the rest of our lives.
Wherever you are, Stephen, know that I will miss you. You were sometimes lazy, often thoughtless, and always a pain in the ass – but also always a good friend, in the end. You did not deserve to die that night. And I promise you, every time I feel you laughing at me for the rest of my life, I will take a moment to think of you -- and tell you to shut up.
I love you, jackass. Always.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Almost Truth
“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.”
-from Emma by Jane Austen
A few weeks ago, a woman I did not know walked into my office at work. “Are you Katie?” she asked. I debated saying, “That depends on what you want,” and instead admitted that I was, indeed, Katie. She told me her name and said that she had just starting working there a few days ago. Someone told her to come and introduce herself to me because she was a recent graduate of the Northwestern Learning Sciences master’s program – the same program from which I received my M.A. from in 2007.
We chatted for a bit about the people and the program, exchanging war stories and name dropping. When she left, she said something to the effect of “Well, it’s nice to know that there’s someone around here that knows what learning sciences is!” I agreed, and admitted that I often tell people that my master’s is in curriculum design, even though that’s not exactly true.
That small lie is just easier than explaining that design is only one of the three pillars of learning sciences, the others being cognitive science and social influences on learning. And actually, the design pillar is instructional design, which is broader than curriculum design, because it includes… well, I’ll stop there, because I think I’ve made my point. Learning sciences is a broad and complicated field, and since I am using my degree to work in the development of a math curriculum, it’s easier to just tell people that my entire program was about the narrow focus where I ended up career-wise. It’s not outright deception – the fields are so closely related that most people walk away with the right idea. But it’s not the truth.
This isn’t the only regular lie I tell, either. Just this morning, I was sitting next to my friend Meg at a volunteer training, and someone asked how we know each other. I said that we went to college together. Technically, this is not a lie; Meg and I did go to the same university for undergrad, and we each knew who the other was at the time. But we didn’t become friends until much later. I tell people that we went to college together because the truth is much too complicated and personal to tell to people that we don’t know; it involves liking the same guy, going through a period of disliking each other, and then finding out that the guy was not worth it. This all happened in Chicago, nearly a year after I graduated. So, “we went to college together” is not really a truthful answer to how we know each other.
The longer I think about this, the more of these habitual lies come to mind. Yes, I loved my study abroad program! (Actually, while I did love parts of it, my semester abroad was one of the darkest times in my life when it came to social anxiety and depression.) Yes, I understand that some people just are not good at math. (While I definitely believe that some people have a stronger natural affinity for math than others, I do not believe that there are any people who are inherently incapable of learning calculus. It’s all about your teacher and your attitude.) The list goes on and on.
These lies are, for the most part, harmless. Telling the whole truth would lead to many bad things; I’d bore the listener to death, say socially inappropriate things, or betray the trust of a friend. Yet sometimes I wonder if, each time I tell one of these lies, I slide further down a slippery slope. When do I cross the line from innocent glossing-over of the truth into outright deception? Am I slowly building up my tolerance for deceit, until one day I will feel justified in saying just about anything I like?
That thought truly frightens me, because I do not want to be a liar. Without a doubt, some of the most painful episodes in my life have been a result of finding out that someone I trusted lied to me. I don’t want to inflict that feeling on another person.
The funny thing that occurred to my while I was writing this, though, is that while there are clearly some situations in which I am reluctant to tell the truth, I’m perfectly willing to post the truth on the internet, knowing full well that at least a handful of people will read it. Maybe more people will read it than I’ll ever know. The people that think I have an M.A. in curriculum design could find out it’s really in learning sciences. People who think Meg and I know each other from college will find out we barely spoke there. But I don’t care.
It’s not that I’m unwilling to tell the truth. I just think the truth is, on some occasions, inappropriate. When I start to be afraid of what happens when the truth comes out, that’s when I’ll know I crossed a line. But until then, I’ll continue to spare people a speech on the three pillars of learning sciences. I think future casual inquirers into my education will be grateful.
-from Emma by Jane Austen
A few weeks ago, a woman I did not know walked into my office at work. “Are you Katie?” she asked. I debated saying, “That depends on what you want,” and instead admitted that I was, indeed, Katie. She told me her name and said that she had just starting working there a few days ago. Someone told her to come and introduce herself to me because she was a recent graduate of the Northwestern Learning Sciences master’s program – the same program from which I received my M.A. from in 2007.
We chatted for a bit about the people and the program, exchanging war stories and name dropping. When she left, she said something to the effect of “Well, it’s nice to know that there’s someone around here that knows what learning sciences is!” I agreed, and admitted that I often tell people that my master’s is in curriculum design, even though that’s not exactly true.
That small lie is just easier than explaining that design is only one of the three pillars of learning sciences, the others being cognitive science and social influences on learning. And actually, the design pillar is instructional design, which is broader than curriculum design, because it includes… well, I’ll stop there, because I think I’ve made my point. Learning sciences is a broad and complicated field, and since I am using my degree to work in the development of a math curriculum, it’s easier to just tell people that my entire program was about the narrow focus where I ended up career-wise. It’s not outright deception – the fields are so closely related that most people walk away with the right idea. But it’s not the truth.
This isn’t the only regular lie I tell, either. Just this morning, I was sitting next to my friend Meg at a volunteer training, and someone asked how we know each other. I said that we went to college together. Technically, this is not a lie; Meg and I did go to the same university for undergrad, and we each knew who the other was at the time. But we didn’t become friends until much later. I tell people that we went to college together because the truth is much too complicated and personal to tell to people that we don’t know; it involves liking the same guy, going through a period of disliking each other, and then finding out that the guy was not worth it. This all happened in Chicago, nearly a year after I graduated. So, “we went to college together” is not really a truthful answer to how we know each other.
The longer I think about this, the more of these habitual lies come to mind. Yes, I loved my study abroad program! (Actually, while I did love parts of it, my semester abroad was one of the darkest times in my life when it came to social anxiety and depression.) Yes, I understand that some people just are not good at math. (While I definitely believe that some people have a stronger natural affinity for math than others, I do not believe that there are any people who are inherently incapable of learning calculus. It’s all about your teacher and your attitude.) The list goes on and on.
These lies are, for the most part, harmless. Telling the whole truth would lead to many bad things; I’d bore the listener to death, say socially inappropriate things, or betray the trust of a friend. Yet sometimes I wonder if, each time I tell one of these lies, I slide further down a slippery slope. When do I cross the line from innocent glossing-over of the truth into outright deception? Am I slowly building up my tolerance for deceit, until one day I will feel justified in saying just about anything I like?
That thought truly frightens me, because I do not want to be a liar. Without a doubt, some of the most painful episodes in my life have been a result of finding out that someone I trusted lied to me. I don’t want to inflict that feeling on another person.
The funny thing that occurred to my while I was writing this, though, is that while there are clearly some situations in which I am reluctant to tell the truth, I’m perfectly willing to post the truth on the internet, knowing full well that at least a handful of people will read it. Maybe more people will read it than I’ll ever know. The people that think I have an M.A. in curriculum design could find out it’s really in learning sciences. People who think Meg and I know each other from college will find out we barely spoke there. But I don’t care.
It’s not that I’m unwilling to tell the truth. I just think the truth is, on some occasions, inappropriate. When I start to be afraid of what happens when the truth comes out, that’s when I’ll know I crossed a line. But until then, I’ll continue to spare people a speech on the three pillars of learning sciences. I think future casual inquirers into my education will be grateful.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Pronownseeashun
"Hermione was now teaching Krum to say her name properly; he kept calling her 'Hermy-own.'
'Her-my-oh-nee,' she said slowly and clearly.
'Herm-own-ninny.'
'Close enough,' she said, catching Harry's eye and grinning."
-from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling
I consider myself to be pretty good with words. I can write reasonably well. I'm an excellent editor. (Of other people's work, at least -- not so much with this blog.) I have a respectable vocabulary. However, there is one aspect of language with which I am miserable: pronunciation.
Sometimes, the root of the problem is simply that I've never heard a word before. If that's the case, my brain simply tries to pronounce every letter and take a guess at the stress syllables. These guesses are usually based on a word I know. It seems like a reasonable plan, right?
But it doesn't always work. I clearly remember reading the passage above, because up until that point, I had pronounced Hermione's name as Her-mee-OH-nee. Why? Because that's the only way I could figure out to pronounce all the vowels, and because her name looked vaguely like minestrone.
Other times, words are very long and my brain just gets overwhelmed. For instance, there is an outdoor market in Daley Plaza in Chicago every year at Christmastime. The name of this market is as follows: Christkindlmarket. It is pronounced just like it looks: krist-kin-dle-mar-ket. However, for some reason, my brain just cannot translate this word into sounds. I usually give up and say the some other words I know that are close: Kris Kringle Market. I'm sure the Germans are thrilled with the way I slaughter their language.
So, I can't pronounce unfamiliar words, and I can't pronounce long words. That doesn't seem so bad. But alas, there are occasions when words both short and familiar still come out wrong. Early in my editing career, I learned that the word "leading" is used to refer to the space between lines of text. Not knowing any better, I read this word as leed-ing. I figured it referred to one line leading to the next. Almost a year later, I found out that the word was led-ing, referring to lead parts of old printing presses. I know now that the word is led-ing, but if I am not concentrating, I still say leed-ing. I hate it, because it makes me seem like I don't know what I'm talking about. Curse you, English language! You AND your heteronyms.
You would think that hearing words before seeing them written would solve a lot of my problems, but that's not always true, either. Just as I can't always translate words into the correct sounds, I don't always assign the right letters to sounds that I hear. I can still remember an episode from 15+ years ago when I was playing Catchphrase, a game that requires you to describe words or phrases for your teammates to guess. My turn came, and this is the word I saw: quiche. Having never seen the word before, I tried to think of a word that sounded like those letters might be pronounced, and I came up with the word cliche. I spent my allotted 30 seconds trying to get my team to say cliche, and I failed. Somehow, it came out that the word was actually quiche. My teammates were annoyed, the opposing team found it hysterical, and I was monumentally embarrassed.
So, to everyone out there that has suffered from my terrible pronunciation -- people with unusual names, audiences at my presentations, and my teammates during Catchphrase -- my sincerest apologies. Next time I simply smile and nod, you'll know why.
'Her-my-oh-nee,' she said slowly and clearly.
'Herm-own-ninny.'
'Close enough,' she said, catching Harry's eye and grinning."
-from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling
I consider myself to be pretty good with words. I can write reasonably well. I'm an excellent editor. (Of other people's work, at least -- not so much with this blog.) I have a respectable vocabulary. However, there is one aspect of language with which I am miserable: pronunciation.
Sometimes, the root of the problem is simply that I've never heard a word before. If that's the case, my brain simply tries to pronounce every letter and take a guess at the stress syllables. These guesses are usually based on a word I know. It seems like a reasonable plan, right?
But it doesn't always work. I clearly remember reading the passage above, because up until that point, I had pronounced Hermione's name as Her-mee-OH-nee. Why? Because that's the only way I could figure out to pronounce all the vowels, and because her name looked vaguely like minestrone.
Other times, words are very long and my brain just gets overwhelmed. For instance, there is an outdoor market in Daley Plaza in Chicago every year at Christmastime. The name of this market is as follows: Christkindlmarket. It is pronounced just like it looks: krist-kin-dle-mar-ket. However, for some reason, my brain just cannot translate this word into sounds. I usually give up and say the some other words I know that are close: Kris Kringle Market. I'm sure the Germans are thrilled with the way I slaughter their language.
So, I can't pronounce unfamiliar words, and I can't pronounce long words. That doesn't seem so bad. But alas, there are occasions when words both short and familiar still come out wrong. Early in my editing career, I learned that the word "leading" is used to refer to the space between lines of text. Not knowing any better, I read this word as leed-ing. I figured it referred to one line leading to the next. Almost a year later, I found out that the word was led-ing, referring to lead parts of old printing presses. I know now that the word is led-ing, but if I am not concentrating, I still say leed-ing. I hate it, because it makes me seem like I don't know what I'm talking about. Curse you, English language! You AND your heteronyms.
You would think that hearing words before seeing them written would solve a lot of my problems, but that's not always true, either. Just as I can't always translate words into the correct sounds, I don't always assign the right letters to sounds that I hear. I can still remember an episode from 15+ years ago when I was playing Catchphrase, a game that requires you to describe words or phrases for your teammates to guess. My turn came, and this is the word I saw: quiche. Having never seen the word before, I tried to think of a word that sounded like those letters might be pronounced, and I came up with the word cliche. I spent my allotted 30 seconds trying to get my team to say cliche, and I failed. Somehow, it came out that the word was actually quiche. My teammates were annoyed, the opposing team found it hysterical, and I was monumentally embarrassed.
So, to everyone out there that has suffered from my terrible pronunciation -- people with unusual names, audiences at my presentations, and my teammates during Catchphrase -- my sincerest apologies. Next time I simply smile and nod, you'll know why.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Echoes
"Egypt loved the lotus because it never dies. It is the same for people who are loved. Thus can something as insignificant as a name -- two syllables, one high, one sweet -- summon up the innumerable smiles and tears, signs and dreams of a human life. ... My heart brims with thanks for the kindness you have shown me by sitting on the bank of this river, by visiting the echoes of my name."
- from The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
I've always thought that names had an interesting, powerful quality. They are chosen for us either before we are born or very early in life, yet they become the most important words we will ever use. Names sum up an entire identity in a way that no other phrase can. When I think of a person's name, a flood of images, characteristics, and episodes come to mind immediately.
Just today, I heard the name of someone I have not spoken to or heard from in years. I won't actually say her name here, but these are the sorts of things that immediately came to mind: She loved to talk, that one. Still, she listened too. I don't think she had any idea what she wanted to do with her life, but at least she owned that. She didn't fake it the way I did. She said and did some weird things, but she was a good friend. She took good care of my on my birthday that year. She had read a ridiculous number of books.
At times when I have a flood of thoughts of a person, I sometimes wonder the kinds of things that come to mind when people hear my name, whether they have talked to me recently or not. Here's a few of the things I'm betting come to mind:
I never understood how she finished her work that fast. Though I am not a mathematician by trade, I still think in mostly mathematical terms. I'm always quantifying the time and effort involved in tasks and looking for the most efficient way to get things done. Thus, I have found that I can accomplish a 10-week quarter's worth of work in 8 weeks. Lest this sound like bragging, let me assure you that this makes me miserable for 8 weeks, and usually is not worth the 2 extra weeks of freedom. Yet, I can't help it. I'm always afraid of running out of time, and so I try to do things as fast as I possibly can.
Man, that one used to cry a lot. I have virtually no control over my tear ducts. I have cried in front of every boss I have ever had, my advisors in both undergrad and graduate school, and probably every friend I've ever had. Genetics are partially to blame -- my mother is the same way. Still, I am a crier all on my own.
She wasn't fast, but she never quit. Running has become a part of my identity in recent years, and I don't see it going away for some time. Most days, I think "runner" is a generous term, as I don't run fast and usually don't run far. However, motivation is definitely not my problem. I get out there at least four times a week. And I have to be very, very injured or discouraged to quit a training program. I think people remember that about me.
Wow. Paranoid much? She can worry about anything! I am quite the anticipator. I will sit and analyze something that is coming until I have found every possible thing that could go wrong. I have to give a presentation? I have definitely misinterpreted the assignment, and I will fail. I'm going to this party later? No one I know will show up, and I stand awkwardly in a corner for a while, then leave. I have the worst headache of my life? This definitely means it's a brain tumor. Know me long enough, and I'm certain you will remember me for my inane worries.
She's nothing if not punctual. I hate being late. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Thus, I am always on time or early, to the point that people call me, worried, if I am not there 3 minutes after something is supposed to start.
That girl was unhealthily obsessed with showtunes. What can I say? I can sing every word of several Broadway scores. I've seen 66 different musicals. I just love musical theater. I've yet to meet anyone else with quite the same appreciation for musicals. It's something uniquely me.
Obviously, I'm prouder of some of these things than others. But overall, I'm comfortable with what I imagine are the "echoes of my name." Part of me thinks I should aspire to change my echoes to things like She really gave of herself, but another part of me is content to be thought of as a real, multidimensional person. If these are the things that people remember when they hear my name, then I can at least be content that they really knew me. That's enough for now.
- from The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
I've always thought that names had an interesting, powerful quality. They are chosen for us either before we are born or very early in life, yet they become the most important words we will ever use. Names sum up an entire identity in a way that no other phrase can. When I think of a person's name, a flood of images, characteristics, and episodes come to mind immediately.
Just today, I heard the name of someone I have not spoken to or heard from in years. I won't actually say her name here, but these are the sorts of things that immediately came to mind: She loved to talk, that one. Still, she listened too. I don't think she had any idea what she wanted to do with her life, but at least she owned that. She didn't fake it the way I did. She said and did some weird things, but she was a good friend. She took good care of my on my birthday that year. She had read a ridiculous number of books.
At times when I have a flood of thoughts of a person, I sometimes wonder the kinds of things that come to mind when people hear my name, whether they have talked to me recently or not. Here's a few of the things I'm betting come to mind:
I never understood how she finished her work that fast. Though I am not a mathematician by trade, I still think in mostly mathematical terms. I'm always quantifying the time and effort involved in tasks and looking for the most efficient way to get things done. Thus, I have found that I can accomplish a 10-week quarter's worth of work in 8 weeks. Lest this sound like bragging, let me assure you that this makes me miserable for 8 weeks, and usually is not worth the 2 extra weeks of freedom. Yet, I can't help it. I'm always afraid of running out of time, and so I try to do things as fast as I possibly can.
Man, that one used to cry a lot. I have virtually no control over my tear ducts. I have cried in front of every boss I have ever had, my advisors in both undergrad and graduate school, and probably every friend I've ever had. Genetics are partially to blame -- my mother is the same way. Still, I am a crier all on my own.
She wasn't fast, but she never quit. Running has become a part of my identity in recent years, and I don't see it going away for some time. Most days, I think "runner" is a generous term, as I don't run fast and usually don't run far. However, motivation is definitely not my problem. I get out there at least four times a week. And I have to be very, very injured or discouraged to quit a training program. I think people remember that about me.
Wow. Paranoid much? She can worry about anything! I am quite the anticipator. I will sit and analyze something that is coming until I have found every possible thing that could go wrong. I have to give a presentation? I have definitely misinterpreted the assignment, and I will fail. I'm going to this party later? No one I know will show up, and I stand awkwardly in a corner for a while, then leave. I have the worst headache of my life? This definitely means it's a brain tumor. Know me long enough, and I'm certain you will remember me for my inane worries.
She's nothing if not punctual. I hate being late. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Thus, I am always on time or early, to the point that people call me, worried, if I am not there 3 minutes after something is supposed to start.
That girl was unhealthily obsessed with showtunes. What can I say? I can sing every word of several Broadway scores. I've seen 66 different musicals. I just love musical theater. I've yet to meet anyone else with quite the same appreciation for musicals. It's something uniquely me.
Obviously, I'm prouder of some of these things than others. But overall, I'm comfortable with what I imagine are the "echoes of my name." Part of me thinks I should aspire to change my echoes to things like She really gave of herself, but another part of me is content to be thought of as a real, multidimensional person. If these are the things that people remember when they hear my name, then I can at least be content that they really knew me. That's enough for now.
Monday, November 29, 2010
When Sweden killed the McFlurry
“The only regional cuisine I haven’t enjoyed is Swedish. I figured I’d be all over it, considering how much I adore the meatballs and ligonberry sauce in the IKEA food court. But when we ate at a Swedish joint, they served us a dish that was scary enough to change my opinion of the entire country. Fletch ordered potato sausages, which sounded great, right? We imagined thick country pork sausage, nicely seasoned with sage, blended into a chunky patty, studded with red potatoes, and browned to perfection. Maybe they’d even come with gravy!
What we got was a bowl of two-inch-long glistening pink tubes. They were so phallic that we had to cover them with a napkin.”
- from My Fair Lazy by Jen Lancaster
During my junior year of college, I spent a semester abroad in Växjö, Sweden. Particularly during my first month there, I did an enormous number of stupid things. For instance, wasted an entire bottle of laundry detergent because I did not realize the reservoirs in the washing machines drained directly into the tub; I just kept pouring, waiting for the stupid thing to fill up, until I ran out of detergent. I also managed to get stranded at 3am so I had to resort to hitchhiking. I went to Rome without really knowing what the Roman Forum was. And, in one of my proudest moments, I got locked in a shipping yard.
Still, some of my funniest memories of Sweden have to do with disgusting Swedish food. Don’t get me wrong. The Swedes have many delightful dishes that I genuinely miss eating. Pytt i panna, a dish consisting of fried sausage and potatoes, topped with a fried egg and beets, was a staple for me while I was there. I’ve tried to recreate it with some success, but I wish I could just buy it frozen again. Swedish bolognaise pizza is delectable. Our version of thin-crust pizza just does not make the cut. For years, I looked for and attempted to bake my own Swedish chocolate balls, which are a chewy pastry flavored with coffee. I did finally taste their awesomeness again last year at Russian Tea Time in Chicago, but that’s the only place I’ve seen them. I’m starting to lose hope that I will ever taste a meatball-and-beetroot-salad sandwich or genuine Swedish pear cider again.
So yes, I did enjoy some types of Swedish cuisine. However, there are some other foods that the Swedes eat that are downright horrifying. And due to my complete ignorance of Swedish language and culture when I arrived there, I tasted much more of the horror than I intended.
My troubles started at the grocery store on the day I arrived. I was completely terrified and overwhelmed, and I basically wandered around the store throwing anything that looked vaguely familiar into my basket. One of those things was a package of brownish deli meat that I took to be roast beef, because really – what other processed deli mean is that color? Let me tell you what other processed deli meat: horsemeat. I bought, and eventually ate, horsemeat. Sweden – 1, Katie – 0.
Many of my other food issues revolved around seafood. While I’ve grown to like fish in recent years, it’s still not my favorite, and at age 21 I still didn’t like it much at all. Still, I knew that the Swedes were big on caviar and herring, so I had resolved to try some. Then I found out that they eat caviar by squeezing it out of a tube onto toast. Out of a tube. Onto toast. Their breakfasts look like someone smeared cinnamon-flavored toothpaste on bread. And the herring? They don’t eat it until it is fermented. Fermented. As in, broken down by bacteria. And believe me, it smells just as bad as you are imagining right now. I found out these little pearls of information before I actually tried either one, so I was going to give myself the point on seafood.
However, later in the semester, the international student organization hosted a dinner featuring several traditional Swedish dishes. One of these dishes was crawfish. Full-bodied, still-in-the-shell crawfish. As the poor thing was already boiled and on the plate in front of me, I decided to try it. The native Swedes told us how we should go about eating the crawfish. First, pick it up and suck the juice out, they said. Ok, I thought. THAT is gross. I’ll just skip that part and move on. Next, they told me to use my thumbs to break the shell. This part I did – and sprayed my entire table with crawfish juice. Oh. That’s why they suck the juice out first. Sweden – 2, Katie – 0.
As I experienced these horrors and others, I’m only a little bit ashamed to say that I often retreated to somewhere familiar: McDonald’s. I couldn’t go wrong there, right? The apple pies were a little different (better, actually), but otherwise the menu was close to the same. One day, I decided to splurge and get a McFlurry. The worker asked what mix-in I wanted, and I pointed to the Oreos. She pointed to the bit and said, “This?” while raising her eyebrows in a way that seemed to ask, “Are you sure?” I said yes, that, thinking something along the lines of I happen to like Oreos, ok?
As I walked back to my dorm, I put the first spoonful in my mouth, expecting bliss. Know what I got instead? Black licorice, with salt on it, mixed in ice cream. The Swedes eat salty black licorice the way we eat the red kind, and that is what was in that bin, not Oreos. Despite the warning from the McDonald’s cashier, I had ordered and tasted a salty black licorice McFlurry. FAIL. Sweden – 3, Katie – 0.
Yes, I definitely had some bad food experiences in Sweden. They were disgusting and embarrassing, but they make great stories. And, in some cases, they also make for FANTASTIC pictures.
What we got was a bowl of two-inch-long glistening pink tubes. They were so phallic that we had to cover them with a napkin.”
- from My Fair Lazy by Jen Lancaster
During my junior year of college, I spent a semester abroad in Växjö, Sweden. Particularly during my first month there, I did an enormous number of stupid things. For instance, wasted an entire bottle of laundry detergent because I did not realize the reservoirs in the washing machines drained directly into the tub; I just kept pouring, waiting for the stupid thing to fill up, until I ran out of detergent. I also managed to get stranded at 3am so I had to resort to hitchhiking. I went to Rome without really knowing what the Roman Forum was. And, in one of my proudest moments, I got locked in a shipping yard.
Still, some of my funniest memories of Sweden have to do with disgusting Swedish food. Don’t get me wrong. The Swedes have many delightful dishes that I genuinely miss eating. Pytt i panna, a dish consisting of fried sausage and potatoes, topped with a fried egg and beets, was a staple for me while I was there. I’ve tried to recreate it with some success, but I wish I could just buy it frozen again. Swedish bolognaise pizza is delectable. Our version of thin-crust pizza just does not make the cut. For years, I looked for and attempted to bake my own Swedish chocolate balls, which are a chewy pastry flavored with coffee. I did finally taste their awesomeness again last year at Russian Tea Time in Chicago, but that’s the only place I’ve seen them. I’m starting to lose hope that I will ever taste a meatball-and-beetroot-salad sandwich or genuine Swedish pear cider again.
So yes, I did enjoy some types of Swedish cuisine. However, there are some other foods that the Swedes eat that are downright horrifying. And due to my complete ignorance of Swedish language and culture when I arrived there, I tasted much more of the horror than I intended.
My troubles started at the grocery store on the day I arrived. I was completely terrified and overwhelmed, and I basically wandered around the store throwing anything that looked vaguely familiar into my basket. One of those things was a package of brownish deli meat that I took to be roast beef, because really – what other processed deli mean is that color? Let me tell you what other processed deli meat: horsemeat. I bought, and eventually ate, horsemeat. Sweden – 1, Katie – 0.
Many of my other food issues revolved around seafood. While I’ve grown to like fish in recent years, it’s still not my favorite, and at age 21 I still didn’t like it much at all. Still, I knew that the Swedes were big on caviar and herring, so I had resolved to try some. Then I found out that they eat caviar by squeezing it out of a tube onto toast. Out of a tube. Onto toast. Their breakfasts look like someone smeared cinnamon-flavored toothpaste on bread. And the herring? They don’t eat it until it is fermented. Fermented. As in, broken down by bacteria. And believe me, it smells just as bad as you are imagining right now. I found out these little pearls of information before I actually tried either one, so I was going to give myself the point on seafood.
However, later in the semester, the international student organization hosted a dinner featuring several traditional Swedish dishes. One of these dishes was crawfish. Full-bodied, still-in-the-shell crawfish. As the poor thing was already boiled and on the plate in front of me, I decided to try it. The native Swedes told us how we should go about eating the crawfish. First, pick it up and suck the juice out, they said. Ok, I thought. THAT is gross. I’ll just skip that part and move on. Next, they told me to use my thumbs to break the shell. This part I did – and sprayed my entire table with crawfish juice. Oh. That’s why they suck the juice out first. Sweden – 2, Katie – 0.
As I experienced these horrors and others, I’m only a little bit ashamed to say that I often retreated to somewhere familiar: McDonald’s. I couldn’t go wrong there, right? The apple pies were a little different (better, actually), but otherwise the menu was close to the same. One day, I decided to splurge and get a McFlurry. The worker asked what mix-in I wanted, and I pointed to the Oreos. She pointed to the bit and said, “This?” while raising her eyebrows in a way that seemed to ask, “Are you sure?” I said yes, that, thinking something along the lines of I happen to like Oreos, ok?
As I walked back to my dorm, I put the first spoonful in my mouth, expecting bliss. Know what I got instead? Black licorice, with salt on it, mixed in ice cream. The Swedes eat salty black licorice the way we eat the red kind, and that is what was in that bin, not Oreos. Despite the warning from the McDonald’s cashier, I had ordered and tasted a salty black licorice McFlurry. FAIL. Sweden – 3, Katie – 0.
Yes, I definitely had some bad food experiences in Sweden. They were disgusting and embarrassing, but they make great stories. And, in some cases, they also make for FANTASTIC pictures.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Autopilot
"Jane Edelsborough was a widow in her early fifties. A statuesque but untidy woman, she normally dressed in loose ethnic clothes and sandals. She had a commanding intellect, but no one would have guessed it to look at her. Berrington found such people baffling. If you were clever, he thought, why disguise yourself as an idiot by dressing badly? Yet universities were full of such people--in fact, he was exceptional in taking care over his appearance."
-from The Third Twin by Ken Follett
When I was an undergrad, I had a professor who wore the ugliest shirts I have ever seen. He seemed to only have three or four shirts that he just cycled through repeatedly. The least offensive of the bunch was a plain red turtleneck, which he always wore with a pair of brown corduroy pants. They took steps for the worse from there, with the worst one being a mustard-yellow sweater that had huge patches on the elbows and shoulders. The patches were red, green, blue, and brown -- each one a different hideous color.
He was the only instructor that earned the title "ugly-shirt prof," but I had plenty of others professors that clearly put very little effort into what they were wearing. The clothes might not always be so ugly, but they were usually plain, and each professor seemed to own only a handful. Every couple of weeks, the outfits (that's a generous term, really) would repeat.
Now that I work on the fringes of academia, I have found that this phenomenon is not isolated to my alma mater. Professors everywhere seem to dress the same way. They are always clean and somewhat presentable, but almost never stylish or even neat.
This trend fascinates me. Over the years, I have formulated several theories that could explain why academians seem to put so little effort into their appearance. At first I thought it was just laziness. Most professors who fit this profile of wearing the same boring clothes over and over had been doctors of their subjects for a while. They had already finished a PhD and attained a job in their respective fields, so why bother dressing sharply? After years of being forced to sell their ideas to others, there was simply no one left to impress. But this first theory went out the window when I got to grad school and noted that many PhD students (who still have a long way to climb) also fit the pattern.
Next I thought it was more of an issue of comfort. Academians tend to work long, late hours. They almost never operate on a traditional 9-to-5 schedule. Instead, they work against deadlines, alternating periods of 3-hour days with periods of 14-hour days. Maybe they just dress in simple, comfortable clothes just to make those long days more tolerable. But after a couple years of working at a university, I discovered that most professors don't mind those long days so much. They are so interested in what they are doing that it usually don't seem like such a sacrifice to them. I really doubt that they are making wardrobe choices on account of their schedules.
I'm now on to a third theory that feels like it is close to the truth. Over the past few years, I have had the privilege of working with some of the most brilliant minds in my field. My bosses are the rock stars of mathematics education. And I can tell you the one thing they have in common, the one thing that has set them apart: they are always thinking. Always. Their minds work like conveyor belts; when they solve one problem, all the rest are waiting on the belt. They never stop thinking about their work.
This means that the rest of the things that us average joes think about -- like the clothes that we wear -- don't get any time in the conscious brain. Academians just operate on autopilot. You know how, when you wake up late and have to rush out, you end up having no memory of choosing your clothes? I imagine that it's like that for academians all the time.
People in all walks and phases of my life have branded me as a smart person. I was on top of my class in high school, and no one was surprised when I graduated from college cum laude or got accepted to a prestigious graduate school. Many of these people are probably expecting me to get a doctorate someday. It's just what smart people do. But this line of thought has only made me more sure that academia is not where I belong.
The people that succeed in academia are the ones that choose their clothes on autopilot. I, on the other hand, go to autopilot while I am running so that I can spend that time deciding what I will wear that day.
I could never become a research scientist or professor. I love cognitive science and I love math -- but I also love the moments when I can stop thinking about them.
-from The Third Twin by Ken Follett
When I was an undergrad, I had a professor who wore the ugliest shirts I have ever seen. He seemed to only have three or four shirts that he just cycled through repeatedly. The least offensive of the bunch was a plain red turtleneck, which he always wore with a pair of brown corduroy pants. They took steps for the worse from there, with the worst one being a mustard-yellow sweater that had huge patches on the elbows and shoulders. The patches were red, green, blue, and brown -- each one a different hideous color.
He was the only instructor that earned the title "ugly-shirt prof," but I had plenty of others professors that clearly put very little effort into what they were wearing. The clothes might not always be so ugly, but they were usually plain, and each professor seemed to own only a handful. Every couple of weeks, the outfits (that's a generous term, really) would repeat.
Now that I work on the fringes of academia, I have found that this phenomenon is not isolated to my alma mater. Professors everywhere seem to dress the same way. They are always clean and somewhat presentable, but almost never stylish or even neat.
This trend fascinates me. Over the years, I have formulated several theories that could explain why academians seem to put so little effort into their appearance. At first I thought it was just laziness. Most professors who fit this profile of wearing the same boring clothes over and over had been doctors of their subjects for a while. They had already finished a PhD and attained a job in their respective fields, so why bother dressing sharply? After years of being forced to sell their ideas to others, there was simply no one left to impress. But this first theory went out the window when I got to grad school and noted that many PhD students (who still have a long way to climb) also fit the pattern.
Next I thought it was more of an issue of comfort. Academians tend to work long, late hours. They almost never operate on a traditional 9-to-5 schedule. Instead, they work against deadlines, alternating periods of 3-hour days with periods of 14-hour days. Maybe they just dress in simple, comfortable clothes just to make those long days more tolerable. But after a couple years of working at a university, I discovered that most professors don't mind those long days so much. They are so interested in what they are doing that it usually don't seem like such a sacrifice to them. I really doubt that they are making wardrobe choices on account of their schedules.
I'm now on to a third theory that feels like it is close to the truth. Over the past few years, I have had the privilege of working with some of the most brilliant minds in my field. My bosses are the rock stars of mathematics education. And I can tell you the one thing they have in common, the one thing that has set them apart: they are always thinking. Always. Their minds work like conveyor belts; when they solve one problem, all the rest are waiting on the belt. They never stop thinking about their work.
This means that the rest of the things that us average joes think about -- like the clothes that we wear -- don't get any time in the conscious brain. Academians just operate on autopilot. You know how, when you wake up late and have to rush out, you end up having no memory of choosing your clothes? I imagine that it's like that for academians all the time.
People in all walks and phases of my life have branded me as a smart person. I was on top of my class in high school, and no one was surprised when I graduated from college cum laude or got accepted to a prestigious graduate school. Many of these people are probably expecting me to get a doctorate someday. It's just what smart people do. But this line of thought has only made me more sure that academia is not where I belong.
The people that succeed in academia are the ones that choose their clothes on autopilot. I, on the other hand, go to autopilot while I am running so that I can spend that time deciding what I will wear that day.
I could never become a research scientist or professor. I love cognitive science and I love math -- but I also love the moments when I can stop thinking about them.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Time
“’This is the first time I’ve known what time it was, since I left the Sherstons’ house.’ Bree was ignoring both Mrs. Bug’s raptures and the instrument in her hands. I saw her meet Roger’s eyes, and smile—and after a moment, his own lopsided smile in return. How long had it been for him?
Everyone was squinting at the setting sun, waving clouds of gnats from their eyes and discussing when they had last known the time. How very odd, I thought, with some amusement. Why this preoccupation with measuring time? And yet I had it too.
…
I laid my hand on his, where it rested on the box. His skin was warm with work and the heat of the day, and he smelt of clean sweat. The hairs on his forearms shone red and gold in the sun, and I understood well just then, why it is that men measure time. They wish to fix a moment, in the vain hope that so doing will keep it from departing.”
~from The Fiery Cross by Diana Gabaldon
Last Saturday, I visited the Museum of Science and Industry with my friend Shannon. One of the highlights of the visit was meeting Kate, the “museum roommate.” Kate won the Month at the Museum contest, and has been living at the museum for almost 30 days now. She’s had unprecedented access to all areas of the museum, gone on fantastic trips around the city to make appearances, and met some remarkable people, including astronaut Jim Lovell. I’m sure it has been an amazing experience. I’m insanely jealous.
But some part of me has felt bad for her over the last few days, too. Her blog posts and videos have started to frequently mention how close she is to the end of the month. When I think about how I would feel if I were in her shoes, my heart aches in sympathy. I’m sure I would be a total mess.
You see, I’m afraid of endings. At least, I’m afraid of endings of good things. I don’t just dislike them. They tend to send me into a spiral of obsessive panic, and here’s why: I can’t stop them from coming. No matter what I do, I can’t stop time. I can’t even slow it down. It just keeps passing, whether I am ready or not. The ending always comes. Time is one force that I simply cannot control.
I know that the mysterious and unstoppable nature of time is just a fact of life. That hasn’t stopped me from trying to find ways to control it. For many, many years, every time I saw the end of a good thing coming, I did anything I could to make it seem farther away. When good things did end, I did anything I could to pretend otherwise.
This play I am in is over? I think I’ll protest when they try to strike the set. I’m graduating high school? I’ll come back in the fall to help with band camp. I got a job in Chicago? Yes, but I’m only going to keep it for a year – then I’ll be back!
Obviously, they took down the set of my senior play, I did eventually go to college, and although I did give up my first Chicago job after a year, I did not move back to Michigan. The endings all came, and they were permanent, despite my protests.
In the past few years, I’ve come to better terms with the reality of endings. I know they will come, and I try to deal with it as best I can. Instead of pathetic attempts to pause, slow down, or reverse time, I instead try to make the most of the time I have. My mission in life now is to live in a way that always makes me feel like I’ve done the best I can. It sounds like a good and healthy thing, but sometimes it leads to its own brand of worries.
I live in constant fear of regret. My goal is to feel like I’ve taken every opportunity that’s available to me and made the most of all of them, and quite honestly – I never feel that way. For example, I’ve followed museum roommate Kate through her blog, and wondered every day if I should have applied for the job. It would have meant risking my real-life job. I had enough vacation, but we had a ton of work this month and they might have hired someone to replace me if I had requested 30 days off. Yet some part of me whispers, “There would have been other jobs, but that experience would have been once in a lifetime.”
This same obsessive compulsion is also what drove me to study abroad, go to graduate school, apply to the Peace Corps, and run the marathon. There’s always something bigger and better I feel like I should be doing. It is all an attempt to escape the fear that someday, I will look back at my 20s and wonder why I wasted them going to a 9-to-5 job. When I read friends’ newsfeeds on Facebook, and I see them teaching in China and Uganda or touring the world on a cruise ship, I feel like I am probably not making the most of my life. And the worst part of it is that there are no do-overs. Not only is time unstoppable, there is no rewind.
But there is one thing that I try to keep in mind when I get into a panic over this: no matter how much I do, there will always be something bigger, better, braver, and more amazing that I could have done. Even when I have taken the big, risky opportunities, I often look back and wonder if I made the very best of them. Like I said earlier, if I were museum roommate Kate right now, I’d be in a frenzy, trying to make sure my last few days were everything they possibly could be.
After a lot of reflection, I’ve come to realize that there is only one thing I could regret forever, and that is doing nothing. I may not always be seizing every day for its extreme potential, but as long as I am spending my days working a job I love, getting out into the community to do some volunteer work I enjoy, and spending time with people who make me happy, I don’t believe I will look back with any great regrets. I don’t have to do everything. I just have to do something.
It’s easier to say all that than to make myself really believe it, of course. But as I sit in my quiet apartment right now, listening to the ticking clock mark the passing time, it feels like the truth. I can’t go back and take opportunities I missed, but time will continue to pass, and there will be more opportunities tomorrow.
Everyone was squinting at the setting sun, waving clouds of gnats from their eyes and discussing when they had last known the time. How very odd, I thought, with some amusement. Why this preoccupation with measuring time? And yet I had it too.
…
I laid my hand on his, where it rested on the box. His skin was warm with work and the heat of the day, and he smelt of clean sweat. The hairs on his forearms shone red and gold in the sun, and I understood well just then, why it is that men measure time. They wish to fix a moment, in the vain hope that so doing will keep it from departing.”
~from The Fiery Cross by Diana Gabaldon
Last Saturday, I visited the Museum of Science and Industry with my friend Shannon. One of the highlights of the visit was meeting Kate, the “museum roommate.” Kate won the Month at the Museum contest, and has been living at the museum for almost 30 days now. She’s had unprecedented access to all areas of the museum, gone on fantastic trips around the city to make appearances, and met some remarkable people, including astronaut Jim Lovell. I’m sure it has been an amazing experience. I’m insanely jealous.
But some part of me has felt bad for her over the last few days, too. Her blog posts and videos have started to frequently mention how close she is to the end of the month. When I think about how I would feel if I were in her shoes, my heart aches in sympathy. I’m sure I would be a total mess.
You see, I’m afraid of endings. At least, I’m afraid of endings of good things. I don’t just dislike them. They tend to send me into a spiral of obsessive panic, and here’s why: I can’t stop them from coming. No matter what I do, I can’t stop time. I can’t even slow it down. It just keeps passing, whether I am ready or not. The ending always comes. Time is one force that I simply cannot control.
I know that the mysterious and unstoppable nature of time is just a fact of life. That hasn’t stopped me from trying to find ways to control it. For many, many years, every time I saw the end of a good thing coming, I did anything I could to make it seem farther away. When good things did end, I did anything I could to pretend otherwise.
This play I am in is over? I think I’ll protest when they try to strike the set. I’m graduating high school? I’ll come back in the fall to help with band camp. I got a job in Chicago? Yes, but I’m only going to keep it for a year – then I’ll be back!
Obviously, they took down the set of my senior play, I did eventually go to college, and although I did give up my first Chicago job after a year, I did not move back to Michigan. The endings all came, and they were permanent, despite my protests.
In the past few years, I’ve come to better terms with the reality of endings. I know they will come, and I try to deal with it as best I can. Instead of pathetic attempts to pause, slow down, or reverse time, I instead try to make the most of the time I have. My mission in life now is to live in a way that always makes me feel like I’ve done the best I can. It sounds like a good and healthy thing, but sometimes it leads to its own brand of worries.
I live in constant fear of regret. My goal is to feel like I’ve taken every opportunity that’s available to me and made the most of all of them, and quite honestly – I never feel that way. For example, I’ve followed museum roommate Kate through her blog, and wondered every day if I should have applied for the job. It would have meant risking my real-life job. I had enough vacation, but we had a ton of work this month and they might have hired someone to replace me if I had requested 30 days off. Yet some part of me whispers, “There would have been other jobs, but that experience would have been once in a lifetime.”
This same obsessive compulsion is also what drove me to study abroad, go to graduate school, apply to the Peace Corps, and run the marathon. There’s always something bigger and better I feel like I should be doing. It is all an attempt to escape the fear that someday, I will look back at my 20s and wonder why I wasted them going to a 9-to-5 job. When I read friends’ newsfeeds on Facebook, and I see them teaching in China and Uganda or touring the world on a cruise ship, I feel like I am probably not making the most of my life. And the worst part of it is that there are no do-overs. Not only is time unstoppable, there is no rewind.
But there is one thing that I try to keep in mind when I get into a panic over this: no matter how much I do, there will always be something bigger, better, braver, and more amazing that I could have done. Even when I have taken the big, risky opportunities, I often look back and wonder if I made the very best of them. Like I said earlier, if I were museum roommate Kate right now, I’d be in a frenzy, trying to make sure my last few days were everything they possibly could be.
After a lot of reflection, I’ve come to realize that there is only one thing I could regret forever, and that is doing nothing. I may not always be seizing every day for its extreme potential, but as long as I am spending my days working a job I love, getting out into the community to do some volunteer work I enjoy, and spending time with people who make me happy, I don’t believe I will look back with any great regrets. I don’t have to do everything. I just have to do something.
It’s easier to say all that than to make myself really believe it, of course. But as I sit in my quiet apartment right now, listening to the ticking clock mark the passing time, it feels like the truth. I can’t go back and take opportunities I missed, but time will continue to pass, and there will be more opportunities tomorrow.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Unique
"All of us take pride and pleasure in the fact that we are unique, but I'm afraid that when all is said and done, the police are right: it all comes down to fingerprints."
-from "SantaLand Diaries" in Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris
On Saturday, several of my friends were running in a 5K race, and I set out to cheer them on. Armed with pieces of computer paper lamely decorated with Sharpie markers, I went out and stood along the course, hoping to pick my six friends out of the 30,000 runners.
I stood near the start at first, then after all of the runners had gone by me, I moved to a spot about a third of a mile from the end of the course. At this point, the runners had gone about 2.8 miles, but because there was also a 15K race that was coming up behind them, the sign at that spot said 9 miles.
As I walked up, I heard one runner say, “9 miles? Wow, we have gone farther than I thought!” His out-of-breath friends chuckled at the lame joke, and they kept running. Less than a minute later, someone else said, “Wow! Miles 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 just flew by!” Then, someone else: “9 miles! We are such rock stars!”
For the whole 30 minutes or so that I stood there, it was a constant chorus of the same thing. I’d say at least one in every 20 runners saw the 9-mile marker, knew it was absurd, and felt the need to make some clever remark.
I have to admit that I smiled at the first couple of cracks. It’s mildly amusing. But after about 5 minutes, it got really old. I understand that as each person said something, it was the first time they had heard it, not the fiftieth. To each person, it was a new joke, and he or she happened to be the first person within earshot to come up with it. And since they weren’t standing there like I was, all of them got to just keep running, and therefore continue believing that their jokes were original.
It’s generally an innocent and harmless thing, thinking you are saying something new and clever. The phenomenon’s worst effect is annoyance. For example, while I only had to put up with the 9-mile jokes for half an hour, I have put up with people asking, “So, are you rich?” after seeing my surname for the entire 27 years I have been on this earth. Every time, I force a smile and give my stock answer: “In spirit only.” But every time, I want pull out a tally and say, “I am not laughing because you are the 1,443rd person to say that to me. That doesn’t count the people who have said it more than once.”
I try not to hold this kind of thing against people. I know my level of annoyance with unoriginality borders on irrational. But I like to think the one positive effect of my surliness is that I don’t see myself as all that clever, funny, or unique. I’m just a very good conversationalist. I hate small talk. It makes me feel fake. So, I usually don’t force people to listen to my lame jokes and expect them to act like they’ve never heard them before. (Or at least, I don’t think I do. Leave a comment if you disagree. Seriously. I don’t want to be that person.)
But as I was thinking about this issue, I realized that I can’t let myself completely off the hook. I may not think I am unique in positive ways. I don’t see myself as funnier than average, or more organized, or prettier. I have never even really thought of myself as smarter than average. Even though I always knew that I was at the top of my classes, I was never really thought about how I compared to others. I cared that I did well, but if everyone else did equally well, that was ok by me. I just wanted to be good -- not better.
However, I do often see myself as unique in negative ways, and typically, that belief is completely false. And the result is never low self-esteem. The result is always a completely lame and unjustified pity party.
The classic example of this is my reaction to my injuries during marathon training. I struggled with shin splints while I was training for the half marathon last year, but I was able to push through that. This year, I felt like there was no way I could struggle like that a second time. But, I did. In the first half of the training season, my shin splints got so bad that I had to drop out of one of my bigger races.
After that, I got my gait analyzed, and for quite a while, my shin splints went away. I was so relieved, and felt like I had solved the problem. But eventually, despite the fact that my running form was greatly improved, they came back. Hundreds of miles into a marathon training program, despite the fact that I went through some grueling and embarrassing training sessions with a coach, my shin splints came back anyway.
I started to get angry. It just did not feel fair. Why I was I the one struggling so much with this? I was working really hard; I was completely dedicated to my training. Other people were wimping out and skipping runs and losing motivation. I would happily run all my miles if I could. Other people may be struggling with minor injuries, but I was the only one to be chronically injured despite my dedication. It just was not fair.
With the help of a friend, I was able to get past my shin splints and get through my big long runs. I felt vindicated. But then, two weeks before the marathon, I developed a brand new knee injury during a taper run. Then I was mad again. Sure, there may be a lot of people who get injured during training, but I was the only one to get injured during taper. I was the only one having to face the choice of trying the race with the risk of serious injury or sitting it out with the risk of serious regret. Only me; just me; I have it worse than anyone else.
I seriously thought like that. And clearly, none of that is true. I’m sure there were hundreds of runners that fought injuries during taper, and hundreds more that are still fighting with shin splints. I believed I was singled out by the powers of the universe to suffer. And it’s not the first time.
So, I have a new project. I call it “Project: Get Over It.” I’m going to work on not seeing myself as such a victim all the time. I’m going try to stop being so jealous of all the people that don’t have the same problem as me, and remind myself that there are people who do have the same problem as me.
It’s not going to be easy. But with a little self awareness, I think I can do it. It’ll take some positive vibes, but I think I can manage those. After all, I am rich… in spirit only.
-from "SantaLand Diaries" in Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris
On Saturday, several of my friends were running in a 5K race, and I set out to cheer them on. Armed with pieces of computer paper lamely decorated with Sharpie markers, I went out and stood along the course, hoping to pick my six friends out of the 30,000 runners.
I stood near the start at first, then after all of the runners had gone by me, I moved to a spot about a third of a mile from the end of the course. At this point, the runners had gone about 2.8 miles, but because there was also a 15K race that was coming up behind them, the sign at that spot said 9 miles.
As I walked up, I heard one runner say, “9 miles? Wow, we have gone farther than I thought!” His out-of-breath friends chuckled at the lame joke, and they kept running. Less than a minute later, someone else said, “Wow! Miles 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 just flew by!” Then, someone else: “9 miles! We are such rock stars!”
For the whole 30 minutes or so that I stood there, it was a constant chorus of the same thing. I’d say at least one in every 20 runners saw the 9-mile marker, knew it was absurd, and felt the need to make some clever remark.
I have to admit that I smiled at the first couple of cracks. It’s mildly amusing. But after about 5 minutes, it got really old. I understand that as each person said something, it was the first time they had heard it, not the fiftieth. To each person, it was a new joke, and he or she happened to be the first person within earshot to come up with it. And since they weren’t standing there like I was, all of them got to just keep running, and therefore continue believing that their jokes were original.
It’s generally an innocent and harmless thing, thinking you are saying something new and clever. The phenomenon’s worst effect is annoyance. For example, while I only had to put up with the 9-mile jokes for half an hour, I have put up with people asking, “So, are you rich?” after seeing my surname for the entire 27 years I have been on this earth. Every time, I force a smile and give my stock answer: “In spirit only.” But every time, I want pull out a tally and say, “I am not laughing because you are the 1,443rd person to say that to me. That doesn’t count the people who have said it more than once.”
I try not to hold this kind of thing against people. I know my level of annoyance with unoriginality borders on irrational. But I like to think the one positive effect of my surliness is that I don’t see myself as all that clever, funny, or unique. I’m just a very good conversationalist. I hate small talk. It makes me feel fake. So, I usually don’t force people to listen to my lame jokes and expect them to act like they’ve never heard them before. (Or at least, I don’t think I do. Leave a comment if you disagree. Seriously. I don’t want to be that person.)
But as I was thinking about this issue, I realized that I can’t let myself completely off the hook. I may not think I am unique in positive ways. I don’t see myself as funnier than average, or more organized, or prettier. I have never even really thought of myself as smarter than average. Even though I always knew that I was at the top of my classes, I was never really thought about how I compared to others. I cared that I did well, but if everyone else did equally well, that was ok by me. I just wanted to be good -- not better.
However, I do often see myself as unique in negative ways, and typically, that belief is completely false. And the result is never low self-esteem. The result is always a completely lame and unjustified pity party.
The classic example of this is my reaction to my injuries during marathon training. I struggled with shin splints while I was training for the half marathon last year, but I was able to push through that. This year, I felt like there was no way I could struggle like that a second time. But, I did. In the first half of the training season, my shin splints got so bad that I had to drop out of one of my bigger races.
After that, I got my gait analyzed, and for quite a while, my shin splints went away. I was so relieved, and felt like I had solved the problem. But eventually, despite the fact that my running form was greatly improved, they came back. Hundreds of miles into a marathon training program, despite the fact that I went through some grueling and embarrassing training sessions with a coach, my shin splints came back anyway.
I started to get angry. It just did not feel fair. Why I was I the one struggling so much with this? I was working really hard; I was completely dedicated to my training. Other people were wimping out and skipping runs and losing motivation. I would happily run all my miles if I could. Other people may be struggling with minor injuries, but I was the only one to be chronically injured despite my dedication. It just was not fair.
With the help of a friend, I was able to get past my shin splints and get through my big long runs. I felt vindicated. But then, two weeks before the marathon, I developed a brand new knee injury during a taper run. Then I was mad again. Sure, there may be a lot of people who get injured during training, but I was the only one to get injured during taper. I was the only one having to face the choice of trying the race with the risk of serious injury or sitting it out with the risk of serious regret. Only me; just me; I have it worse than anyone else.
I seriously thought like that. And clearly, none of that is true. I’m sure there were hundreds of runners that fought injuries during taper, and hundreds more that are still fighting with shin splints. I believed I was singled out by the powers of the universe to suffer. And it’s not the first time.
So, I have a new project. I call it “Project: Get Over It.” I’m going to work on not seeing myself as such a victim all the time. I’m going try to stop being so jealous of all the people that don’t have the same problem as me, and remind myself that there are people who do have the same problem as me.
It’s not going to be easy. But with a little self awareness, I think I can do it. It’ll take some positive vibes, but I think I can manage those. After all, I am rich… in spirit only.
Monday, November 01, 2010
City Mystique
“Just as Daisy’s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.”
--from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
I love Chicago. It’s been 5 years and 5 months since I moved here, and I feel as though the city has seeped into my soul. I love the natural beauty of the lakefront, and I love the engineered splendor of the architecture. I love the hundreds of free outdoor activities in the summer, and I love the festive atmosphere of the streets and stores in the winter. I love the easy accessibility of downtown, and I love the diversity of the sprawling neighborhoods. I was terrified to move to Chicago, and honestly, I probably never would have done it if I had felt like I had any other viable alternative. But now I am truly happy here. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
That’s why the past couple of months have been more, shall we say, pensive than I expected. It’s been a little more than three years since I finished my master’s program, and I’ve been asked many times if I am thinking about going back to school for a doctorate. This question never really comes a surprise to me. I have always been good at school. “Smart” has always been a part of my identity. I’m sure many people – even me, at times – expect me to someday become Dr. Katie.
I am not opposed to the idea of it. I think that studying a subject that I really cared about could be a personally and professionally satisfying episode in my life. Once I put some space between myself and my master’s program, and after I got over the emotional trauma of finding a job, I started to entertain the idea of entering a doctoral program.
The first step was to identify and narrow the field I was interested in. That turned out to be easy. Based on my experience in the Learning Sciences program, I think the ideal program for me would be in cognitive science, with an emphasis on mathematical learning and education. With that in mind, I started to research programs. In a pretty exhaustive search, I found one program that I felt was in line with my requirements; that is, there appears to be only one program in the country that is specific enough to my interests that it would feel worth it to me to invest the time, money, and energy to apply, let alone enroll. It was the Mathematics and Science Education Ph.D. program offered jointly by two universities: UCSD and SDSU – both in San Diego.
I visited San Diego earlier this year for a completely different reason, and I have to admit that I really liked it there. It was really lovely. Easy to walk, lots to see, and the feel of a big city but without the gritty, intimidating feeling I get from New York or Los Angeles. And the weather? Glorious. I would miss snow at Christmas time, but I’ve never been a fan of cold, and the climate of San Diego has its appeal. I found I could entertain the idea of living there.
What I could not entertain, however, was the thought of leaving Chicago. I really do love it here. Beyond everything I said at the beginning of this blog, the nature of this city has really helped me to come into myself. Living here forced me to face a lot of my anxiety demons and learn how to do things on my own. It forced me to figure out the things I really care about and the things I could let go.
I moved here as terrified, panic-stricken Katie. Now I am comfortable, usually-not-panicking Katie. I’m Chicago Katie. And I like her better than the old version of me. Even on the bad days, when I feel myself slipping back into feelings of ineptitude and helplessness, I can go and take a walk to remind myself that living here on my own is not something a helpless person could do. No, I just could not entertain the thought of leaving. I put the thought of the doctoral program out of my head.
Then, yesterday, I was looking at train schedule in and out of Kalamazoo, MI in an attempt to find a way home for the Thanksgiving holiday. I spent my undergrad in Kalamazoo, and I found myself thinking about my time there. When I started my freshman year, I looked forward to trips back to my hometown, because I felt safer and more confident there. I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever really live anywhere else. Later on, once I was comfortable, I hated being away from Kalamazoo, because I felt safer and more confident there. Kalamazoo became the place I could never possibly leave. Even after I graduated and got a job in Chicago, I told myself the move would not be permanent. I couldn’t possibly leave Kalamazoo.
I think you see the pattern here. It’s really kind of silly for me to think that I could not learn to be happy, safe, and confident living somewhere else. In fact, my record shows that I learn to really love almost anywhere I find myself. And each place has, in its own way, changed me for the better.
So, I don’t fear that I’ll regress into someone I don’t want to be if I move away. But I would miss it here. There’s no question about that. And I do wonder if, assuming I move away, Chicago might lose its mystique. If I go away, am I running the risk of never being able to come back? Would Chicago ever be the same for me again?
The answer is likely no. I no longer have any desire to live in either Saginaw or Kalamazoo. I can’t picture myself living there the way I can picture myself living in San Diego. However, after some reflection, I realize that Chicago would probably never go back to what it was before I moved here, either. Every time I ride the train through Kalamazoo or drive through my hometown, I get a little flash of excitement as memories flood me. Even though both places feel a little empty because most of the people I knew there are gone, they are still just a little bit magical for me. I’m sure Chicago would inspire the same thrill for me if I ever left.
I’m not saying that I’ve decided to move to San Diego, or even to apply to the program. There are a number of other compelling reasons why I don’t want to do that. I have a job that I love with the potential to advance into the very things that the doctoral program would prepare me for, without having to sacrifice thousands of dollars or four years of my life. My family is near enough to be accessible, and that wouldn’t be the case if I were in San Diego. And even though I always end up being successful in school, I don’t always handle the pressure well.
All I’m really saying is that the idea of leaving Chicago doesn’t scare me any more. As speaking as someone who has spent much of her life being afraid, any day I can cross a fear off my list is a good day.
--from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
I love Chicago. It’s been 5 years and 5 months since I moved here, and I feel as though the city has seeped into my soul. I love the natural beauty of the lakefront, and I love the engineered splendor of the architecture. I love the hundreds of free outdoor activities in the summer, and I love the festive atmosphere of the streets and stores in the winter. I love the easy accessibility of downtown, and I love the diversity of the sprawling neighborhoods. I was terrified to move to Chicago, and honestly, I probably never would have done it if I had felt like I had any other viable alternative. But now I am truly happy here. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
That’s why the past couple of months have been more, shall we say, pensive than I expected. It’s been a little more than three years since I finished my master’s program, and I’ve been asked many times if I am thinking about going back to school for a doctorate. This question never really comes a surprise to me. I have always been good at school. “Smart” has always been a part of my identity. I’m sure many people – even me, at times – expect me to someday become Dr. Katie.
I am not opposed to the idea of it. I think that studying a subject that I really cared about could be a personally and professionally satisfying episode in my life. Once I put some space between myself and my master’s program, and after I got over the emotional trauma of finding a job, I started to entertain the idea of entering a doctoral program.
The first step was to identify and narrow the field I was interested in. That turned out to be easy. Based on my experience in the Learning Sciences program, I think the ideal program for me would be in cognitive science, with an emphasis on mathematical learning and education. With that in mind, I started to research programs. In a pretty exhaustive search, I found one program that I felt was in line with my requirements; that is, there appears to be only one program in the country that is specific enough to my interests that it would feel worth it to me to invest the time, money, and energy to apply, let alone enroll. It was the Mathematics and Science Education Ph.D. program offered jointly by two universities: UCSD and SDSU – both in San Diego.
I visited San Diego earlier this year for a completely different reason, and I have to admit that I really liked it there. It was really lovely. Easy to walk, lots to see, and the feel of a big city but without the gritty, intimidating feeling I get from New York or Los Angeles. And the weather? Glorious. I would miss snow at Christmas time, but I’ve never been a fan of cold, and the climate of San Diego has its appeal. I found I could entertain the idea of living there.
What I could not entertain, however, was the thought of leaving Chicago. I really do love it here. Beyond everything I said at the beginning of this blog, the nature of this city has really helped me to come into myself. Living here forced me to face a lot of my anxiety demons and learn how to do things on my own. It forced me to figure out the things I really care about and the things I could let go.
I moved here as terrified, panic-stricken Katie. Now I am comfortable, usually-not-panicking Katie. I’m Chicago Katie. And I like her better than the old version of me. Even on the bad days, when I feel myself slipping back into feelings of ineptitude and helplessness, I can go and take a walk to remind myself that living here on my own is not something a helpless person could do. No, I just could not entertain the thought of leaving. I put the thought of the doctoral program out of my head.
Then, yesterday, I was looking at train schedule in and out of Kalamazoo, MI in an attempt to find a way home for the Thanksgiving holiday. I spent my undergrad in Kalamazoo, and I found myself thinking about my time there. When I started my freshman year, I looked forward to trips back to my hometown, because I felt safer and more confident there. I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever really live anywhere else. Later on, once I was comfortable, I hated being away from Kalamazoo, because I felt safer and more confident there. Kalamazoo became the place I could never possibly leave. Even after I graduated and got a job in Chicago, I told myself the move would not be permanent. I couldn’t possibly leave Kalamazoo.
I think you see the pattern here. It’s really kind of silly for me to think that I could not learn to be happy, safe, and confident living somewhere else. In fact, my record shows that I learn to really love almost anywhere I find myself. And each place has, in its own way, changed me for the better.
So, I don’t fear that I’ll regress into someone I don’t want to be if I move away. But I would miss it here. There’s no question about that. And I do wonder if, assuming I move away, Chicago might lose its mystique. If I go away, am I running the risk of never being able to come back? Would Chicago ever be the same for me again?
The answer is likely no. I no longer have any desire to live in either Saginaw or Kalamazoo. I can’t picture myself living there the way I can picture myself living in San Diego. However, after some reflection, I realize that Chicago would probably never go back to what it was before I moved here, either. Every time I ride the train through Kalamazoo or drive through my hometown, I get a little flash of excitement as memories flood me. Even though both places feel a little empty because most of the people I knew there are gone, they are still just a little bit magical for me. I’m sure Chicago would inspire the same thrill for me if I ever left.
I’m not saying that I’ve decided to move to San Diego, or even to apply to the program. There are a number of other compelling reasons why I don’t want to do that. I have a job that I love with the potential to advance into the very things that the doctoral program would prepare me for, without having to sacrifice thousands of dollars or four years of my life. My family is near enough to be accessible, and that wouldn’t be the case if I were in San Diego. And even though I always end up being successful in school, I don’t always handle the pressure well.
All I’m really saying is that the idea of leaving Chicago doesn’t scare me any more. As speaking as someone who has spent much of her life being afraid, any day I can cross a fear off my list is a good day.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Alone
"[P]eople are rarely at their best when they are alone. They usually put their masks of politeness, good order, and good breeding aside. What's beneath? Some warty monster? Some disgusting thing that would make people run away, screaming? Sometimes, perhaps, but usually it's nothing bad at all. Usually people would just laugh if they saw us with our masks off -- laugh, make a revolted face, or do both at the same time."
-from Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King
For the last four years, I have lived alone. While I never much minded sharing space and was lucky enough never to have an intolerable roommate, the day I got my own apartment was a liberating one. I got to arrange all the furniture! I got to choose what to hang on the walls! I got to decide if and when I ever needed to wash the dishes or pick my pajamas up from the bathroom floor! I got to decide! JUST ME!
Looking back, I think I was justified in being excited about those things. These were the things that finally made me feel like I really lived somewhere. Not just rented one room and shared the space with someone else. Really lived there. That was exciting.
However, there was one other thought that has, since then, occasionally led me into trouble:
I can sit and do nothing all day, and no one will judge me!
Having suffered from both mild and extreme forms of social anxiety in the past, the idea of no one knowing what I was doing was very appealing to me. And on some level, living alone has been good for me that way. I spend much less time worrying about what other people will think about how I spend my time.
Unfortunately, there have been occasions when I take this "No one can see me! I can do whatever!" thing a little too far.
For example, on Saturday I was at home for a little while between errands. I decided to have a snack. I pulled the end of a cucumber, half a tomato, and an almost-empty bottle of ranch dressing out of the refrigerator. I decided that I didn't feel like cutting up the vegetables, nor could I be bothered to get a plate. I settled for squeezing the ranch dressing directly from the bottle onto the veggies, and biting pieces off as I would bite an apple. I sat on my couch (not at the table I was so excited to get, mind you) and made a lame attempt to catch the drippings in the plastic container the tomatoes had come in. I didn't have a napkin, either. When the dripping got bad enough, I did grab a tissue from the box next to me -- but not soon enough to stop if from getting on my shirt.
And how did I attempt to get the tomato juice and dressing off my shirt? Did I change my shirt so I could rinse it out? Did I at least get up and get a real napkin? Oh, no. I tried to lick the food off.
That was the moment, when I found myself licking my shirt, where I thought, "Wow. Really, Katie? If I were watching someone else do this, I would be really disgusted." I never, ever would have done something like that if someone was around to see me.
That is a particularly ridiculous example, but there are plenty of other times when I have similar thoughts. There was one Sunday a couple of years ago when I spent the entire day -- the entire day -- playing ridiculous, pointless online computer games. I never left my apartment. I never even showered or changed out of my pajamas. And again, I can remember thinking, "Really, Katie? This is what you are doing with your life today?" The thought alone was not enough to get me up off the couch -- but the shame of having a roommate know I was wasting a day probably would have been enough.
I am a different person when I am alone. I'm definitely not at my best. I'm lazy, sloppy, and apathetic. And at the moments when I realize just how lazy, sloppy, and apathetic I am being, one thought usually follows. I should see it coming, but I never do.
"No wonder you are single."
I hate myself every time I think that. It's an attitude I try to avoid. I don't think the world should view coupledom as some sort of status attained through hard work and discipline. (Maintaining a relationship, yes. Starting one, no.) I don't think couple status is something granted to the worthy. I don't believe that I am single because I do ridiculous, embarrassing things when I am alone.
On the other hand, there might be a lesson to be learned here. What I do or do not do while I am alone in my apartment probably has little effect on my personal life. However, the fact that I spend a substantial time alone in my apartment doesn't improve my chances of meeting anyone, either.
The goal shouldn't be to completely block out the lazy, sloppy, apathetic version of myself. She probably needs to show herself once and a while.
But the fewer opportunities I give her to show up, the better. If I don't want to be alone... I probably should not spend as much time alone.
-from Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King
For the last four years, I have lived alone. While I never much minded sharing space and was lucky enough never to have an intolerable roommate, the day I got my own apartment was a liberating one. I got to arrange all the furniture! I got to choose what to hang on the walls! I got to decide if and when I ever needed to wash the dishes or pick my pajamas up from the bathroom floor! I got to decide! JUST ME!
Looking back, I think I was justified in being excited about those things. These were the things that finally made me feel like I really lived somewhere. Not just rented one room and shared the space with someone else. Really lived there. That was exciting.
However, there was one other thought that has, since then, occasionally led me into trouble:
I can sit and do nothing all day, and no one will judge me!
Having suffered from both mild and extreme forms of social anxiety in the past, the idea of no one knowing what I was doing was very appealing to me. And on some level, living alone has been good for me that way. I spend much less time worrying about what other people will think about how I spend my time.
Unfortunately, there have been occasions when I take this "No one can see me! I can do whatever!" thing a little too far.
For example, on Saturday I was at home for a little while between errands. I decided to have a snack. I pulled the end of a cucumber, half a tomato, and an almost-empty bottle of ranch dressing out of the refrigerator. I decided that I didn't feel like cutting up the vegetables, nor could I be bothered to get a plate. I settled for squeezing the ranch dressing directly from the bottle onto the veggies, and biting pieces off as I would bite an apple. I sat on my couch (not at the table I was so excited to get, mind you) and made a lame attempt to catch the drippings in the plastic container the tomatoes had come in. I didn't have a napkin, either. When the dripping got bad enough, I did grab a tissue from the box next to me -- but not soon enough to stop if from getting on my shirt.
And how did I attempt to get the tomato juice and dressing off my shirt? Did I change my shirt so I could rinse it out? Did I at least get up and get a real napkin? Oh, no. I tried to lick the food off.
That was the moment, when I found myself licking my shirt, where I thought, "Wow. Really, Katie? If I were watching someone else do this, I would be really disgusted." I never, ever would have done something like that if someone was around to see me.
That is a particularly ridiculous example, but there are plenty of other times when I have similar thoughts. There was one Sunday a couple of years ago when I spent the entire day -- the entire day -- playing ridiculous, pointless online computer games. I never left my apartment. I never even showered or changed out of my pajamas. And again, I can remember thinking, "Really, Katie? This is what you are doing with your life today?" The thought alone was not enough to get me up off the couch -- but the shame of having a roommate know I was wasting a day probably would have been enough.
I am a different person when I am alone. I'm definitely not at my best. I'm lazy, sloppy, and apathetic. And at the moments when I realize just how lazy, sloppy, and apathetic I am being, one thought usually follows. I should see it coming, but I never do.
"No wonder you are single."
I hate myself every time I think that. It's an attitude I try to avoid. I don't think the world should view coupledom as some sort of status attained through hard work and discipline. (Maintaining a relationship, yes. Starting one, no.) I don't think couple status is something granted to the worthy. I don't believe that I am single because I do ridiculous, embarrassing things when I am alone.
On the other hand, there might be a lesson to be learned here. What I do or do not do while I am alone in my apartment probably has little effect on my personal life. However, the fact that I spend a substantial time alone in my apartment doesn't improve my chances of meeting anyone, either.
The goal shouldn't be to completely block out the lazy, sloppy, apathetic version of myself. She probably needs to show herself once and a while.
But the fewer opportunities I give her to show up, the better. If I don't want to be alone... I probably should not spend as much time alone.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Zero
"After Stanley taught Zero the last six letters of the alphabet, he taught him to write his name.
'Capital Z - e - r - o.'
Zero wrote the letters as Stanley said them. 'Zero,' he said, looking at his piece of paper. His smile was too big for his face.
Stanley watched him write it over and over again.
Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero ...
In a way, it made him sad. He couldn't help but think that a hundred times zero was still nothing."
-- from Holes by Louis Sachar
Zero is something of a mathematical oddity. In principle, it seems simple enough to understand. Zero means nothing; it's what you write when there isn't anything to count. But try working with zero, and you'll soon find that it doesn’t play by the rules. Add it to something, and it doesn't make the something bigger. Subtract it from something, and the something doesn’t get smaller. Multiply it by something, and it completely wipes the something out. And heaven forbid you try to divide something by zero. All sorts of chaotic things can happen.
Zero is neither positive nor negative. It’s neither prime nor composite. Raise anything to the zero power, and the answer is 1. But raise zero to any power, and the answer is 0. Except, of course, if you raise zero to the zero power. That’s undefined. If you append a zero onto a number, you increase the number by a factor of ten. Well, unless it’s after the decimal point; in that case, the number does not change. Oh, and 0! = 1, but only by convention.
The list goes on, but don’t worry. I can say it simply: Zero is a pain in the ass. My professional life is plagued by sticky situations involving zero, perhaps more so now that I work on elementary materials. I must confess that these are the sorts of things I thought about when I first read the quote above in my latest book. I spent fifteen minutes or so yesterday thinking about how I could turn these ideas into a blog that would be interesting to anyone who is not a math textbook editor.
I failed. After all, a lame joke like “zero is a pain in the ass” only takes you so far. I figured I would have to take a quote from my next book. But as fate would have it, the fifteen minutes I spent thinking about this were the fifteen minutes before the curtain rose on my latest musical theater experience: Billy Elliott. And as the show progressed, I became more and more certain that I had missed the point of Stanley’s comment entirely.
Billy Elliott is the story of an 11-year-old boy living in Britain during the 1984 coal strike. His father gives him money for boxing lessons, but when he is late one day, he ends up using the money for the ballet class that follows the boxing lesson. Turns out the kid is talented. And the talent unleashes a fiery passion. Billy wants to be a ballet dancer, and his talent and passion eventually gets the whole town full of coal-mining men behind him.
Billy Elliott is an emotionally charged show all on its own. With music written by Elton John, how could it not be? The melodies tugged at my heartstrings through the whole show. But my breaking point came about three-quarters of the way through the show, during a song called “Electricity.” Billy sings about the way dancing makes him feel. Something comes over him, he says, and he is just free. By the end of the song, I was crying.
So what does this have to do with zero? Well… my own personal zero made me cry.
Did I mention that Billy Elliott was the 64th musical I have seen? Musical theater has been a little hobby of mine since I was in sixth grade. I saw a high school production of The Music Man that year, and I immediately fell in love with the whole concept – a way of storytelling that recognizes the funniest, deepest, and most crucial moments, and pauses to let the characters sing about them. If only life would allow us to stop and expand all our most important moments that way. To really reflect on and appreciate them. (And maybe even to record ourselves singing about them, so we can listen to them again later!) (Okay, maybe not that last part.)
A few months later, I saw Bye Bye Birdie, and suffered a small shock when I saw one of my own classmates on stage. She sang, she danced, she smiled. She paused to sing at the big moments. And suddenly I realized that watching the shows was really only scratching the surface. I could actually be in a show.
I started to sporadically audition for musicals. I never got in while I was in middle school. While I was cast in several straight shows in high school, and performed in several musical theater workshops, I still never made it into a musical. Private voice lessons and spending hours upon hours volunteering at the community theater made no difference. I just didn’t have the voice or the confidence. I continued to audition, and my fervor to be cast did not abate. Yet the number of shows I had been in stayed stubbornly at zero.
Meanwhile, college application deadlines were swiftly approaching. To help juniors and seniors start thinking about college majors and career paths, my high school administered an interest and ability inventory. It asked questions about what you like to do and what you are good at, and spat out this nifty little graphic displaying your interests and abilities. Your ideal college major or career was supposedly in the area where your interests and abilities overlapped.
I still remember the day that my counselor laid my results down in front of me. My interests and my abilities pointed in completely opposite directions; there was no overlap at all. Interests: the arts. Abilities: math and science. My less-than-helpful counselor smiled sheepishly and said, “I guess you can do whatever you want!”
At age 17, I was not at all concerned with what the results said about my possible career paths. But when I looked at that graphic, something inside me understood that it wasn’t only interest that mattered. If I wanted to be in a musical, I needed some ability, too. And my audition record did not suggest that I had it.
I wouldn’t say that I completely gave up at that point, but as I left high school to go to college, and college to go to Chicago, opportunities to audition became fewer, and I did not seek them out. Instead, I just kept going to see shows.
And that brings me to yesterday, when I sat and watched my 64th musical and listened to a little boy sing about how dancing sets him free. And it made me cry. Because all I could think was, 64 times zero is still nothing.
As Billy sang about the electricity that goes through him when he dances, I couldn’t help but remember what made me fall in love with musical theater to begin with. It’s the expression and release of emotions. I’m a deeply, deeply emotional person, and I would give anything – anything – for the chance to stand up on stage and belt out a song that means something to me. That’s why I have always wanted to be in a musical. When I listen to the songs, I imagine the huge emotional release the characters (and the actors) must feel. And I’m jealous. I love watching musical theater, but ultimately, it only makes me want to be a musical more. Sixty-four musicals, or 100, or 1,000 – multiply that by zero, and it’s still nothing. I still haven’t experienced what I really want to experience.
A long time ago, I gave up on the idea of being in musical. I told myself that I wasn’t good enough.
But as I was falling asleep last night, I thought about my zero. I thought about how it only takes one to get from zero to one. Maybe, just maybe, if I put in some work, I could get from zero to one.
Zero times anything is still nothing. But multiply by one instead, and you can get anything. It only takes one to get from zero to one, but the difference between zero and one is huge.
All I want is one. One will be enough. And maybe, just maybe, one is attainable.
I’m starting private voice lessons next month.
'Capital Z - e - r - o.'
Zero wrote the letters as Stanley said them. 'Zero,' he said, looking at his piece of paper. His smile was too big for his face.
Stanley watched him write it over and over again.
Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero ...
In a way, it made him sad. He couldn't help but think that a hundred times zero was still nothing."
-- from Holes by Louis Sachar
Zero is something of a mathematical oddity. In principle, it seems simple enough to understand. Zero means nothing; it's what you write when there isn't anything to count. But try working with zero, and you'll soon find that it doesn’t play by the rules. Add it to something, and it doesn't make the something bigger. Subtract it from something, and the something doesn’t get smaller. Multiply it by something, and it completely wipes the something out. And heaven forbid you try to divide something by zero. All sorts of chaotic things can happen.
Zero is neither positive nor negative. It’s neither prime nor composite. Raise anything to the zero power, and the answer is 1. But raise zero to any power, and the answer is 0. Except, of course, if you raise zero to the zero power. That’s undefined. If you append a zero onto a number, you increase the number by a factor of ten. Well, unless it’s after the decimal point; in that case, the number does not change. Oh, and 0! = 1, but only by convention.
The list goes on, but don’t worry. I can say it simply: Zero is a pain in the ass. My professional life is plagued by sticky situations involving zero, perhaps more so now that I work on elementary materials. I must confess that these are the sorts of things I thought about when I first read the quote above in my latest book. I spent fifteen minutes or so yesterday thinking about how I could turn these ideas into a blog that would be interesting to anyone who is not a math textbook editor.
I failed. After all, a lame joke like “zero is a pain in the ass” only takes you so far. I figured I would have to take a quote from my next book. But as fate would have it, the fifteen minutes I spent thinking about this were the fifteen minutes before the curtain rose on my latest musical theater experience: Billy Elliott. And as the show progressed, I became more and more certain that I had missed the point of Stanley’s comment entirely.
Billy Elliott is the story of an 11-year-old boy living in Britain during the 1984 coal strike. His father gives him money for boxing lessons, but when he is late one day, he ends up using the money for the ballet class that follows the boxing lesson. Turns out the kid is talented. And the talent unleashes a fiery passion. Billy wants to be a ballet dancer, and his talent and passion eventually gets the whole town full of coal-mining men behind him.
Billy Elliott is an emotionally charged show all on its own. With music written by Elton John, how could it not be? The melodies tugged at my heartstrings through the whole show. But my breaking point came about three-quarters of the way through the show, during a song called “Electricity.” Billy sings about the way dancing makes him feel. Something comes over him, he says, and he is just free. By the end of the song, I was crying.
So what does this have to do with zero? Well… my own personal zero made me cry.
Did I mention that Billy Elliott was the 64th musical I have seen? Musical theater has been a little hobby of mine since I was in sixth grade. I saw a high school production of The Music Man that year, and I immediately fell in love with the whole concept – a way of storytelling that recognizes the funniest, deepest, and most crucial moments, and pauses to let the characters sing about them. If only life would allow us to stop and expand all our most important moments that way. To really reflect on and appreciate them. (And maybe even to record ourselves singing about them, so we can listen to them again later!) (Okay, maybe not that last part.)
A few months later, I saw Bye Bye Birdie, and suffered a small shock when I saw one of my own classmates on stage. She sang, she danced, she smiled. She paused to sing at the big moments. And suddenly I realized that watching the shows was really only scratching the surface. I could actually be in a show.
I started to sporadically audition for musicals. I never got in while I was in middle school. While I was cast in several straight shows in high school, and performed in several musical theater workshops, I still never made it into a musical. Private voice lessons and spending hours upon hours volunteering at the community theater made no difference. I just didn’t have the voice or the confidence. I continued to audition, and my fervor to be cast did not abate. Yet the number of shows I had been in stayed stubbornly at zero.
Meanwhile, college application deadlines were swiftly approaching. To help juniors and seniors start thinking about college majors and career paths, my high school administered an interest and ability inventory. It asked questions about what you like to do and what you are good at, and spat out this nifty little graphic displaying your interests and abilities. Your ideal college major or career was supposedly in the area where your interests and abilities overlapped.
I still remember the day that my counselor laid my results down in front of me. My interests and my abilities pointed in completely opposite directions; there was no overlap at all. Interests: the arts. Abilities: math and science. My less-than-helpful counselor smiled sheepishly and said, “I guess you can do whatever you want!”
At age 17, I was not at all concerned with what the results said about my possible career paths. But when I looked at that graphic, something inside me understood that it wasn’t only interest that mattered. If I wanted to be in a musical, I needed some ability, too. And my audition record did not suggest that I had it.
I wouldn’t say that I completely gave up at that point, but as I left high school to go to college, and college to go to Chicago, opportunities to audition became fewer, and I did not seek them out. Instead, I just kept going to see shows.
And that brings me to yesterday, when I sat and watched my 64th musical and listened to a little boy sing about how dancing sets him free. And it made me cry. Because all I could think was, 64 times zero is still nothing.
As Billy sang about the electricity that goes through him when he dances, I couldn’t help but remember what made me fall in love with musical theater to begin with. It’s the expression and release of emotions. I’m a deeply, deeply emotional person, and I would give anything – anything – for the chance to stand up on stage and belt out a song that means something to me. That’s why I have always wanted to be in a musical. When I listen to the songs, I imagine the huge emotional release the characters (and the actors) must feel. And I’m jealous. I love watching musical theater, but ultimately, it only makes me want to be a musical more. Sixty-four musicals, or 100, or 1,000 – multiply that by zero, and it’s still nothing. I still haven’t experienced what I really want to experience.
A long time ago, I gave up on the idea of being in musical. I told myself that I wasn’t good enough.
But as I was falling asleep last night, I thought about my zero. I thought about how it only takes one to get from zero to one. Maybe, just maybe, if I put in some work, I could get from zero to one.
Zero times anything is still nothing. But multiply by one instead, and you can get anything. It only takes one to get from zero to one, but the difference between zero and one is huge.
All I want is one. One will be enough. And maybe, just maybe, one is attainable.
I’m starting private voice lessons next month.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Sometimes all it takes is one line.
I would not call myself an avid or voracious reader. It usually takes me a while to get through a book. My reading style is slow and methodical. The downside to this fact is that I don't read all that many books. The upside is that I usually clearly remember the ones I do read.
And I don't just remember the gist. Often, there is a line or two somewhere in a book that really sticks with me. Sometimes the lines are crucial to the story, sometimes not. But because I read every word so carefully, I always notice when there's a line that echoes with meaning in my real life.
I've thought for some time about recording these lines somewhere. Today, when I came across such a line in my latest book, I thought that maybe writing about these lines would make an interesting blog theme. So, tonight is the first attempt at making the idea work. Hopefully this produces an interesting record of both the books I read and various other aspects of my life that I think about as I read.
Right now I am reading a book called Labyrinth by Kate Mosse. It's a historical fiction novel involving archeological digs, past lives, and secret caves, but the details of the book are not particularly important to understanding my reaction to this line:
"Many nights in the early days of their marriage, watching her as she slept in the quiet of their chamber, he understood he was -- he could be -- a better man because he was loved by her."
That line brought a tide of bittersweet memories back to me. It's not so different from something I said to a friend several years ago, in a letter that laid my soul out on the table.
It's an old story, I suppose. Girl meets boy. Girl likes boy. Girl eventually falls desperately in love with boy. Boy does not love girl back. Girl can't let go.
I look back at the time I spent in love with this guy who did not love me back, and I wonder what I was thinking at the time. What did I think was going to happen? Was it that I thought he was going to change his mind? That he was lying to himself? That eventually he would realize that I was it?
While I don't doubt that these are some of the things I told myself, I don't think I really believed any of it. Hoped, perhaps. Yes, I hoped that he would change his mind. I hoped he would choose to love me instead of remaining so staunch in his belief that he didn't and couldn't ever feel that way about me. I had a hard time with that, because I don't believe that love is some predetermined, star-crossed thing. I don't believe that soul mates exist. Lasting relationships exist not between people predestined to love each other, but between people who have the courage to choose to love each other.
But even though I hoped that this guy would change his mind and choose to love me, I also saw the inherent catch-22: if I really believed love was a choice, I could also choose to stop loving him. It wouldn't happen overnight, and it would hurt, but I could do it.
So why didn't I? Why didn't I cut ties and move on? Why didn't I give myself the chance to meet someone else and fall in love again? While foolish hope was a part of it, I don't think that was the whole story. I never did quite put my finger on it, though.
When I read the line above, I was reminded of a hard day at the end of my time with this guy. Finally, the day when we would go our separate ways was coming. Time was forcing me to choose to stop loving him, even if I still did not want to. I struggled to know how to walk away without regret. I did not want to leave anything unsaid. So, I wrote a letter, and I poured the contents of my soul onto the page. By then I had come to terms with the idea that nothing was ever going to happen between us, but at least I would know that it wasn't because he didn't know how I felt.
Here's a testament to the way that the six years since I wrote that letter have changed me: I don't remember much of what I said. It was my whole life at the time, and now I can't remember it. Except for the last line.
I had come to the end, and I stared at the computer screen, wondering what could possible finish a letter like this. But my fingers began to move and this is what came out:
"I am a better person for having loved you. You are my northern star."
Though I didn't understand this at the time, as I was thinking about it today, I realized that this is the reason I spent three years choosing to continue to love him. Loving him made me a better person. My relationship with him, however one-sided, made me see the world differently and made me see myself differently, in ways that I liked. And that is why, to this day, I don't regret any of the time I spent loving him.
But that's not quite what the book quote says, is it? The character does not say that he is a better person for loving. He says he is a better person for being loved.
So do I believe that I made this guy a better person by loving him? Truthfully, I have no idea. When I was in the throes of this, it was all I could do not to collapse under the power and pain of my own emotions. I didn't spare any time or energy in thinking about what it must have been like for him, knowing that a person he considered to be among his dearest friends was desperately in love with him, and believing that he could not love her back.
As I think of this, there is a piece of me that still feels no sympathy. There's a piece of me that still twitches with frustration and anger at him for choosing not to love me. For refusing to love me.
But it couldn't have been easy for him, either. And even though I believe he could have made a different choice, there are two other things I also believe. First, that he didn't believe (and still doesn't believe) that he was in control of those feelings. And second, that he could have chosen to cut me out of his life when things got complicated. And he didn't.
So was he a better person for being loved by me? I still can't say for sure. But I do know that my loving him put him in some very difficult situations, and despite that, he clung for dear life to a friendship that would have been very easy to push out of his life. And that even though things are different now, it's a friendship that still carries on. It's a friendship that has taught us both a lot.
It's been a long time since I have thought about these tumultuous memories. For years, I have understood that it is better that we never ended up together. We see the world in very different ways these days, not to mention being happily settled in different parts of the country.
But I like to believe we are both better people -- me for having loved, and him for having been loved.
"... he was -- he could be -- a better man because he was loved by her."
I don't believe that we are necessarily better people simply by virtue of being loved, but perhaps we all can be -- if we choose to be.
And I don't just remember the gist. Often, there is a line or two somewhere in a book that really sticks with me. Sometimes the lines are crucial to the story, sometimes not. But because I read every word so carefully, I always notice when there's a line that echoes with meaning in my real life.
I've thought for some time about recording these lines somewhere. Today, when I came across such a line in my latest book, I thought that maybe writing about these lines would make an interesting blog theme. So, tonight is the first attempt at making the idea work. Hopefully this produces an interesting record of both the books I read and various other aspects of my life that I think about as I read.
Right now I am reading a book called Labyrinth by Kate Mosse. It's a historical fiction novel involving archeological digs, past lives, and secret caves, but the details of the book are not particularly important to understanding my reaction to this line:
"Many nights in the early days of their marriage, watching her as she slept in the quiet of their chamber, he understood he was -- he could be -- a better man because he was loved by her."
That line brought a tide of bittersweet memories back to me. It's not so different from something I said to a friend several years ago, in a letter that laid my soul out on the table.
It's an old story, I suppose. Girl meets boy. Girl likes boy. Girl eventually falls desperately in love with boy. Boy does not love girl back. Girl can't let go.
I look back at the time I spent in love with this guy who did not love me back, and I wonder what I was thinking at the time. What did I think was going to happen? Was it that I thought he was going to change his mind? That he was lying to himself? That eventually he would realize that I was it?
While I don't doubt that these are some of the things I told myself, I don't think I really believed any of it. Hoped, perhaps. Yes, I hoped that he would change his mind. I hoped he would choose to love me instead of remaining so staunch in his belief that he didn't and couldn't ever feel that way about me. I had a hard time with that, because I don't believe that love is some predetermined, star-crossed thing. I don't believe that soul mates exist. Lasting relationships exist not between people predestined to love each other, but between people who have the courage to choose to love each other.
But even though I hoped that this guy would change his mind and choose to love me, I also saw the inherent catch-22: if I really believed love was a choice, I could also choose to stop loving him. It wouldn't happen overnight, and it would hurt, but I could do it.
So why didn't I? Why didn't I cut ties and move on? Why didn't I give myself the chance to meet someone else and fall in love again? While foolish hope was a part of it, I don't think that was the whole story. I never did quite put my finger on it, though.
When I read the line above, I was reminded of a hard day at the end of my time with this guy. Finally, the day when we would go our separate ways was coming. Time was forcing me to choose to stop loving him, even if I still did not want to. I struggled to know how to walk away without regret. I did not want to leave anything unsaid. So, I wrote a letter, and I poured the contents of my soul onto the page. By then I had come to terms with the idea that nothing was ever going to happen between us, but at least I would know that it wasn't because he didn't know how I felt.
Here's a testament to the way that the six years since I wrote that letter have changed me: I don't remember much of what I said. It was my whole life at the time, and now I can't remember it. Except for the last line.
I had come to the end, and I stared at the computer screen, wondering what could possible finish a letter like this. But my fingers began to move and this is what came out:
"I am a better person for having loved you. You are my northern star."
Though I didn't understand this at the time, as I was thinking about it today, I realized that this is the reason I spent three years choosing to continue to love him. Loving him made me a better person. My relationship with him, however one-sided, made me see the world differently and made me see myself differently, in ways that I liked. And that is why, to this day, I don't regret any of the time I spent loving him.
But that's not quite what the book quote says, is it? The character does not say that he is a better person for loving. He says he is a better person for being loved.
So do I believe that I made this guy a better person by loving him? Truthfully, I have no idea. When I was in the throes of this, it was all I could do not to collapse under the power and pain of my own emotions. I didn't spare any time or energy in thinking about what it must have been like for him, knowing that a person he considered to be among his dearest friends was desperately in love with him, and believing that he could not love her back.
As I think of this, there is a piece of me that still feels no sympathy. There's a piece of me that still twitches with frustration and anger at him for choosing not to love me. For refusing to love me.
But it couldn't have been easy for him, either. And even though I believe he could have made a different choice, there are two other things I also believe. First, that he didn't believe (and still doesn't believe) that he was in control of those feelings. And second, that he could have chosen to cut me out of his life when things got complicated. And he didn't.
So was he a better person for being loved by me? I still can't say for sure. But I do know that my loving him put him in some very difficult situations, and despite that, he clung for dear life to a friendship that would have been very easy to push out of his life. And that even though things are different now, it's a friendship that still carries on. It's a friendship that has taught us both a lot.
It's been a long time since I have thought about these tumultuous memories. For years, I have understood that it is better that we never ended up together. We see the world in very different ways these days, not to mention being happily settled in different parts of the country.
But I like to believe we are both better people -- me for having loved, and him for having been loved.
"... he was -- he could be -- a better man because he was loved by her."
I don't believe that we are necessarily better people simply by virtue of being loved, but perhaps we all can be -- if we choose to be.
Monday, January 04, 2010
5 Things I like about winter running
This marks the first year I have run outside through the winter. I thought I was going to hate it, but there are actually quite a few things I really like.
1. It's an excuse to buy lots of new gear. It is not just superfluous like most of my summer stuff -- it's necessary to stay warm.
2. Snow muffles my footsteps, which makes running quite peaceful.
3. Cold-weather running seems to have increased my metabolism. My theory is that this is because my body has to warm up all the cold air I breathe in.
4. There is increased satisfaction in running in the cold. It makes me feel hard core.
5. The best part is that I know that this year I will not have to fight through that initial spring return to running. The first runs of the season were always hard to get through. Now there will be no big climb back into fitness. Hurrah!
1. It's an excuse to buy lots of new gear. It is not just superfluous like most of my summer stuff -- it's necessary to stay warm.
2. Snow muffles my footsteps, which makes running quite peaceful.
3. Cold-weather running seems to have increased my metabolism. My theory is that this is because my body has to warm up all the cold air I breathe in.
4. There is increased satisfaction in running in the cold. It makes me feel hard core.
5. The best part is that I know that this year I will not have to fight through that initial spring return to running. The first runs of the season were always hard to get through. Now there will be no big climb back into fitness. Hurrah!
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