Nyasa stopped me this morning on the way to my office. I paused in the unlit hallway, purse in hand, and leaned against the wall while he said, "I heard you're leaving."
Nyasa is a short, round, forcefully built man with dark skin and eyes that have a lion-like intensity. He's lived at the Center for a number of months; I'm not exactly sure how many, since I don't work directly with the guests in my current position, and before this I worked with toddlers, and he doesn't have children here. I told him what had happened, and he rubbed his chin and looked affronted and thoughtful.
"There's something going on," he said.
I nodded.
"Do you have something else?"
"No. I'm scrambling," I said. This is a familiar predicament for most of the guests, and I feel badly and irresponsible and far too lucky and guiltily blessed that I can say, "I don't have a plan yet, but it will be okay" to people for whom a similar situation would mean a turn back on the streets.
"I'll pray for you," Nyasa said. "Because this isn't right. And because, even though I haven't talked to you that often, you've never acted like you're above us."
I felt the same intensity come into my eyes.
"Thank you," I said.
Nyasa is a Muslim. Oftentimes he doesn't seem to like people very much, and you can see the temper glittering just under his clothes. His temper flares up at injustice. His promise to pray for me moved me more than that promise usually does, because it didn't roll off his tongue as an overworn cliche from a person who didn't know what else to say. He doesn't usually say anything to me. And I know he prays five times a day.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Novice
The June heat smells of sun and skin.
A black ant darting over the concrete step
runs across my toes. When I wiggle them
it pours itself down the slope of my pinky
and continues on its erratic path.
I watch the ant and want its connection with detail.
I envy its intimate knowledge of surface--
its confrontation with the pockmarks in concrete, in skin
its bodily understanding of the change in landscape
from sidewalk to grass blade to weed leaf
to the breathing movement of blood-heated flesh
its commonplace awareness of the difference
in a centimeter between sunlight and shade
the indifference of obstacle in tree or rock:
The world in its infinite variety merely something
to be encountered and climbed over, a path
in the certain, daily labor for a colony's survival
while I lay my feet over vast areas of the microscopic
unaware of the minute mountains and valleys
pressing against the cells of my soles, feeling air,
overwhelmed by sky.
A black ant darting over the concrete step
runs across my toes. When I wiggle them
it pours itself down the slope of my pinky
and continues on its erratic path.
I watch the ant and want its connection with detail.
I envy its intimate knowledge of surface--
its confrontation with the pockmarks in concrete, in skin
its bodily understanding of the change in landscape
from sidewalk to grass blade to weed leaf
to the breathing movement of blood-heated flesh
its commonplace awareness of the difference
in a centimeter between sunlight and shade
the indifference of obstacle in tree or rock:
The world in its infinite variety merely something
to be encountered and climbed over, a path
in the certain, daily labor for a colony's survival
while I lay my feet over vast areas of the microscopic
unaware of the minute mountains and valleys
pressing against the cells of my soles, feeling air,
overwhelmed by sky.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Will Halloway and Jim Nightshade: me and my sister
And Will? Why, he's the last peach, high on a summer tree. Some boys walk by and you cry, seeing them. They feel good, they look good, they are good. Oh, they're not above peeing off a bridge, or stealing an occasional dimestore pencil sharpener; it's not that. It's just, you know, seeing them pass, that's how they'll be all their life; they get hit, hurt, cut, bruised, and always wonder why, why does it happen? how can it happen to them?
But Jim, now, he knows it happens, he watches for it happening, he sees it start, he sees it finish, he licks the wound he expected, and never asks why: he knows. He always knew. Someone knew before him, a long time ago, someone who had wolves for pets and lions for night conversants. Hell, Jim doesn't know with his mind. But his body knows. And while Will's putting a bandage on his latest scratch, Jim's ducking, weaving, bouncing away from the knockout blow which must inevitably come.
So there they go, Jim running slower to stay with Will, Will running faster to stay with Jim, Jim breaking two windows in a haunted house because Will's along, Will breaking one window instead of none, because Jim's watching. God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other.
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes
But Jim, now, he knows it happens, he watches for it happening, he sees it start, he sees it finish, he licks the wound he expected, and never asks why: he knows. He always knew. Someone knew before him, a long time ago, someone who had wolves for pets and lions for night conversants. Hell, Jim doesn't know with his mind. But his body knows. And while Will's putting a bandage on his latest scratch, Jim's ducking, weaving, bouncing away from the knockout blow which must inevitably come.
So there they go, Jim running slower to stay with Will, Will running faster to stay with Jim, Jim breaking two windows in a haunted house because Will's along, Will breaking one window instead of none, because Jim's watching. God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other.
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
progressions
Monday I cried all day. Yesterday I was optimistic and peaceful. Today I'm nervous and tired and a little sad and terrified of the future. It's not like anything's screaming, "I'm your perfect job!!!" right away.
Most of all I don't want to leave South Bend. I came here under similar circumstances to the one I find myself in now; except that then I knew no one but my roommate and didn't particularly give a damn about the area, and now I have ties that I don't want to see broken. In Meg and Phillip I have the closest thing to family I could ever want so far from home, and I have a good many friends. I have a lovely apartment (which I finally cleaned last night, and walking over washed floors free of dirt and cat hair is an unbelievable sensation) in a perfect neighborhood.
So I don't want to leave. Which narrows down my possibilities somewhat. And, with my exhaustion and post-traumatic stress from my current job, and my old fears of uselessness in anything not relating to academics, my confidence has plateaued into a dull, whatever sort of feeling.
I need to refill my medication.
But still, my whole world is open to me. I have this sudden, unexpected gift of freedom, and I need to know what to do with it. Once upon a time, there was a little girl who knew her whole future, who always had a plan. She was going to get married at twenty-one and be a high school English teacher. Then she shot certainty in the face and dropped the education focus of her major and decided not to go to grad school right away. She did things she never thought she could do. She left home and trusted God to guide her hands to carve a new life for herself in a land she had never seen. At some point she grew into me.
But she's still there, the planner, the detail fixater, and she's delivering large litters of kittens in her anxiety. There's no plan, she says. There's got to be a plan. Find a plan.
And I have no idea how.
But this is what it's all about, isn't it? Christ says not to worry about tomorrow (and adds one of the wisest things I've ever heard: Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own). James writes that we must never say, Tomorrow I will do this and go there, because we can't know what tomorrow will bring. Instead we must say, If God wills it, tomorrow I will do this and go there. We have to bring it back to the source.
Just a month ago I was planning my Christmas vacation, and how I would spend the extra paycheck that Center employees get in December. I'll never get that paycheck. I don't even know if I can go home for Christmas this year, since any job I begin won't give me a week's vacation right away, or possibly even a few days' vacation.
And in a very gritty way, I don't even know if I'll have income in three weeks. Things have been pointing in this direction for awhile, and I wouldn't see it, because it terrified me beyond my ability to think about it. And today I have to think about it.
But good things have come out of it, even now when all is in flux and I can't fall asleep at night for panicking and I can't rest when I fall asleep for dreaming. I know who my friends are. I know the loyal ones, the ones who have come around me, some from unexpected corners, and surrounded me with practical support. And that is something I've always had extreme difficulty believing -- my faith has failed in regard to firm belief in the love of other people. Now, however, I know.
And I'm wiser in regard to the world of business and profession. And I know very clearly what I have to do. I have to go to grad school. That will take at least a year to accomplish. In the meantime, I suppose, any job will do. I just need to pay the bills.
I don't know why I've been running so hard for so long from the fulfillment of what I know is my academic destiny. The responsibility has frightened me. Sometimes, like Prufrock,
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
But I can't run anymore, I think. It's time to go to Ninevah. I've buried my talent behind the garage and run away to sea and hidden myself in the cargo bay; but I've been spit out on the stretch of sand where I started, and now I have to dig up the talent and take it to Ninevah. There are fires in my bones of what I need to say to the world, and lurking behind a desk hasn't helped me say it. Yet.
So it's time. I am frightened and tired and I have not quite heard the voice of God saying, "Go to a land I will show you," like last time. But I have heard him say, "Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you." I'm not quite sure of the implications, but there it is.
Walking beyond my vision. (It's hard.) But it's getting me back in touch with the real.
Most of all I don't want to leave South Bend. I came here under similar circumstances to the one I find myself in now; except that then I knew no one but my roommate and didn't particularly give a damn about the area, and now I have ties that I don't want to see broken. In Meg and Phillip I have the closest thing to family I could ever want so far from home, and I have a good many friends. I have a lovely apartment (which I finally cleaned last night, and walking over washed floors free of dirt and cat hair is an unbelievable sensation) in a perfect neighborhood.
So I don't want to leave. Which narrows down my possibilities somewhat. And, with my exhaustion and post-traumatic stress from my current job, and my old fears of uselessness in anything not relating to academics, my confidence has plateaued into a dull, whatever sort of feeling.
I need to refill my medication.
But still, my whole world is open to me. I have this sudden, unexpected gift of freedom, and I need to know what to do with it. Once upon a time, there was a little girl who knew her whole future, who always had a plan. She was going to get married at twenty-one and be a high school English teacher. Then she shot certainty in the face and dropped the education focus of her major and decided not to go to grad school right away. She did things she never thought she could do. She left home and trusted God to guide her hands to carve a new life for herself in a land she had never seen. At some point she grew into me.
But she's still there, the planner, the detail fixater, and she's delivering large litters of kittens in her anxiety. There's no plan, she says. There's got to be a plan. Find a plan.
And I have no idea how.
But this is what it's all about, isn't it? Christ says not to worry about tomorrow (and adds one of the wisest things I've ever heard: Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own). James writes that we must never say, Tomorrow I will do this and go there, because we can't know what tomorrow will bring. Instead we must say, If God wills it, tomorrow I will do this and go there. We have to bring it back to the source.
Just a month ago I was planning my Christmas vacation, and how I would spend the extra paycheck that Center employees get in December. I'll never get that paycheck. I don't even know if I can go home for Christmas this year, since any job I begin won't give me a week's vacation right away, or possibly even a few days' vacation.
And in a very gritty way, I don't even know if I'll have income in three weeks. Things have been pointing in this direction for awhile, and I wouldn't see it, because it terrified me beyond my ability to think about it. And today I have to think about it.
But good things have come out of it, even now when all is in flux and I can't fall asleep at night for panicking and I can't rest when I fall asleep for dreaming. I know who my friends are. I know the loyal ones, the ones who have come around me, some from unexpected corners, and surrounded me with practical support. And that is something I've always had extreme difficulty believing -- my faith has failed in regard to firm belief in the love of other people. Now, however, I know.
And I'm wiser in regard to the world of business and profession. And I know very clearly what I have to do. I have to go to grad school. That will take at least a year to accomplish. In the meantime, I suppose, any job will do. I just need to pay the bills.
I don't know why I've been running so hard for so long from the fulfillment of what I know is my academic destiny. The responsibility has frightened me. Sometimes, like Prufrock,
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
But I can't run anymore, I think. It's time to go to Ninevah. I've buried my talent behind the garage and run away to sea and hidden myself in the cargo bay; but I've been spit out on the stretch of sand where I started, and now I have to dig up the talent and take it to Ninevah. There are fires in my bones of what I need to say to the world, and lurking behind a desk hasn't helped me say it. Yet.
So it's time. I am frightened and tired and I have not quite heard the voice of God saying, "Go to a land I will show you," like last time. But I have heard him say, "Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you." I'm not quite sure of the implications, but there it is.
Walking beyond my vision. (It's hard.) But it's getting me back in touch with the real.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
This is how I feel today
Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time. I worship each god, I praise each day splintered down, splintered down and wrapped in time like a husk, a husk of many colors spreading, at dawn fast over the mountains split.
I wake in a god. I wake in arms holding my quilt, holding me as best they can inside my quilt.
Someone is kissing me--already. I wake, I cry "Oh," I rise from the pillow. Why should I open my eyes?
I open my eyes. The god lifts from the water. His head fills the bay. He is Puget Sound, the Pacific; his breast rises from pastures; his fingers are firs; islands slide wet down his shoulders. Island slip blue from his shoulders and glide over the water, the empty, lighted water like a stage.
Today's god rises, his long eyes flecked in clouds. He flings his arms, spreading colors; he arches, cupping sky in his belly; he vaults, vaulting and spread, holding all and spread on me like skin.
Annie Dillard, Holy the Firm
I wake in a god. I wake in arms holding my quilt, holding me as best they can inside my quilt.
Someone is kissing me--already. I wake, I cry "Oh," I rise from the pillow. Why should I open my eyes?
I open my eyes. The god lifts from the water. His head fills the bay. He is Puget Sound, the Pacific; his breast rises from pastures; his fingers are firs; islands slide wet down his shoulders. Island slip blue from his shoulders and glide over the water, the empty, lighted water like a stage.
Today's god rises, his long eyes flecked in clouds. He flings his arms, spreading colors; he arches, cupping sky in his belly; he vaults, vaulting and spread, holding all and spread on me like skin.
Annie Dillard, Holy the Firm
caught!
So I talked with Chef Eddie (the Latin Chef) from the Palais Royale today, and yes, folks, he found my blog! (And here I thought it was difficult to find.)
I've been laughing about it for the past ten minutes. Who can ever predict life's bizarrity? I spend so much time blogging for my own sake and for the people who live far away, that I forget (except regarding employers) that people nearby can read it too.
I confess I feel that it puts me at something of a disadvantage -- here's my whole life and inner thoughts laid out for an acquaintance to read, huzzah, a book on Sarah! But I don't mind so much -- anyone who knows me for any length of time will find out exactly what I'm like sooner rather than later.
And I'm swinging by the Palais on Friday, where I'll get to chat with him for a bit and see pics of his wife and year-old son.
It's like life is this grand dance of hilarity. I love it.
(Hi, Eddie.)
I've been laughing about it for the past ten minutes. Who can ever predict life's bizarrity? I spend so much time blogging for my own sake and for the people who live far away, that I forget (except regarding employers) that people nearby can read it too.
I confess I feel that it puts me at something of a disadvantage -- here's my whole life and inner thoughts laid out for an acquaintance to read, huzzah, a book on Sarah! But I don't mind so much -- anyone who knows me for any length of time will find out exactly what I'm like sooner rather than later.
And I'm swinging by the Palais on Friday, where I'll get to chat with him for a bit and see pics of his wife and year-old son.
It's like life is this grand dance of hilarity. I love it.
(Hi, Eddie.)
Thursday, June 22, 2006
the deal
Hey, guys! Thanks for all of your responses.
I will be sending out a mass e-mail, blog-post style, in a couple of days, when I have a good list put together. In the meantime, I pray your patience.
There's a lot of figuring out to do.
I will be sending out a mass e-mail, blog-post style, in a couple of days, when I have a good list put together. In the meantime, I pray your patience.
There's a lot of figuring out to do.
lend me your ears
I am resigning my position at the Center.
Send me your e-mail addresses and I'll tell you all about it.
Send me your e-mail addresses and I'll tell you all about it.
Monday, June 12, 2006
the doctor dilemma, part 2
So, I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Give-Out-My-Address on Friday. I cunningly waited until the end of the appointment when the nurse assistant had already filled out my continued prescription to bring up the matter of his ethical breach of my privacy.
"So...doctor," I said. "Last week when I came home, a couple of missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints were waiting for me. They said you had given them my name and address."
"Yeah," he said. "You had mentioned that you wanted to find a church, and I thought it was something you might be interested in."
"Well," I said, "you mentioned nothing about it at the appointment. And you really shouldn't have given out my address without my permission."
I got a blank look. "Were they awful?" he said.
"No, they were fine, and I appreciate the thought. But my address is unpublished, doctor. I'm not in the phone book and you can't call Information to find me. It was a breach of my privacy to give out my address without my permission. You really should have called me before you handed it out."
"Oh...oh," he stammered. "Well, I've never done anything like that before. I just thought it might help you out."
"Again, I appreciate the thought," I said. "But you really should have called me. I certainly hope this won't happen again."
"Never," he said fervently.
"Great! See you in a month," I said.
He mumbled something and hurried out of the office, either frightened or pissed.
Now, honestly. How can you not know that passing out private information is wrong? And I feel badly for the guy, if he really didn't know, but I still think I'm going to have to find a new doctor and turn him in. What he did was unethical TO HIS PROFESSION, and I'm sure if he did it once he'll do it again.
The thing is, I've always been a loud-mouthed advocate of standing up for yourself and addressing situations that are wrong; otherwise they'll keep happening and you've robbed yourself of what little power you have as an ordinary citizen (and often as a woman). So in this case, although I'm not exactly irate about the situation and not all that worried about the missionaries, I feel that I need to execute a unity of action here and follow my own mandates.
But it's probably going to have to wait until after the Golf Tournament on Monday. This week is going to be crazy.
And I wonder how it is that I'm so terrifying to people. I wasn't angry when I spoke with him, I didn't raise my voice, and I didn't use abusive language. I was simply firm, clear, and reasonable. And it seemed to scare the crap out of him.
This happens a lot. And it can't be just because I'm tall. Maybe because I'm articulate.
I dunno.
"So...doctor," I said. "Last week when I came home, a couple of missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints were waiting for me. They said you had given them my name and address."
"Yeah," he said. "You had mentioned that you wanted to find a church, and I thought it was something you might be interested in."
"Well," I said, "you mentioned nothing about it at the appointment. And you really shouldn't have given out my address without my permission."
I got a blank look. "Were they awful?" he said.
"No, they were fine, and I appreciate the thought. But my address is unpublished, doctor. I'm not in the phone book and you can't call Information to find me. It was a breach of my privacy to give out my address without my permission. You really should have called me before you handed it out."
"Oh...oh," he stammered. "Well, I've never done anything like that before. I just thought it might help you out."
"Again, I appreciate the thought," I said. "But you really should have called me. I certainly hope this won't happen again."
"Never," he said fervently.
"Great! See you in a month," I said.
He mumbled something and hurried out of the office, either frightened or pissed.
Now, honestly. How can you not know that passing out private information is wrong? And I feel badly for the guy, if he really didn't know, but I still think I'm going to have to find a new doctor and turn him in. What he did was unethical TO HIS PROFESSION, and I'm sure if he did it once he'll do it again.
The thing is, I've always been a loud-mouthed advocate of standing up for yourself and addressing situations that are wrong; otherwise they'll keep happening and you've robbed yourself of what little power you have as an ordinary citizen (and often as a woman). So in this case, although I'm not exactly irate about the situation and not all that worried about the missionaries, I feel that I need to execute a unity of action here and follow my own mandates.
But it's probably going to have to wait until after the Golf Tournament on Monday. This week is going to be crazy.
And I wonder how it is that I'm so terrifying to people. I wasn't angry when I spoke with him, I didn't raise my voice, and I didn't use abusive language. I was simply firm, clear, and reasonable. And it seemed to scare the crap out of him.
This happens a lot. And it can't be just because I'm tall. Maybe because I'm articulate.
I dunno.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
on flirting
Last night as I smiled big and pretty and waved a collection jar around, and struck up some conversations with men, I had an epiphany.
See, I've always been bad at flirting. Particularly with strangers. Until now I've chalked it up to my shyness, introvertedness, residual teenage awkwardness, lack of physical graces, or that social ineptitude I'm always trying to hide because I don't want everyone else to see how much I don't fit in.
But lately, when men seem to be flocking to my door in undesirable droves (Andrew, laughing, said the other day, "Every guy in the world has been asking her out lately. It's like Sarah's new thing is being the hottest commodity in town!") and I can't deny my attractiveness, I've been able to pull off the flirting a little bit. And last night while I had them laughing with my semi-witty rejoinders, I was thinking about a hundred other things -- the story I'm starting to write, my cat, how a friend of mine going through a tough time is doing, how I was tired and just wanted to watch a movie on my couch. And I brought myself forcibly back to the present to laugh at something inane the forty-something man said, and realized, flirting bores me.
There are so many things I'd actually like to talk about. Don't get me wrong, I love a witty, fun, fast-paced, ping-pong conversation where the hilarity swells to epidemic proportions (this is a trademark with MP and me at parties) but those are not the same as striking just the right body pose and just the right winning smile and saying just the right almost-naughty, ego-petting things to some guy I've never seen before, especially when any idiot can see that the two of us have nothing in common.
Now later in the evening, I met this other guy and we had a great, intense conversation about the failure of the public education system to address the needs of gifted kids. He invited me to do something afterward (but I was seriously beat, folks, so I just went home), but I got his card and gave him mine, and plan to follow up. I don't think he's the smartest guy I've ever met (though that could have been because of the flowing Bud Light), but he was passionate about the subject and I was grateful for a real conversation as opposed to the usual mundanity.
And flirting is different when you're bantering with an attractive man with whom you can see right away that you have similarities (although this seems to be a rare event). Then it's fun. But vying with other girls for the attentions of some mediocre guy who just loves the game is a waste of my time. And in most of the rest of the cases flirting is an act of politeness toward the older dudes who shuffle up to you and clearly just want a piece of twenty-four-year-old ass. They're not that intelligent, not that interesting, and certainly not classy. But you put up with it if it's not inappropriate or harassing, because you always have to spare their egos (why are we so socialized to spare their egos? I have no problem telling an overt asshole where to go and what to do when he gets there, but these guys who are just so clumsy and hopeful I can't bring myself to be mean to). And then I find myself standing around wishing I were talking about something else.
But oh well; that's the world. I hear people at work who are no longer single talking nostalgically about their single days, when they could flirt and it was so much fun. And I just nod and talk about how great the single life is. But I've never found flirting to be that much fun. It's not how I like to get to know a person. I am looking forward with untempered enthusiasm to the day when I can with society's blessing put away the games and relax in one deep, intimate, knowing love for the rest of my life, without facades.
But I've been realizing over and over again lately that I'm something of a misfit. So I try to disguise it as much as possible until I trust people enough to say, I'm an introvert. However much I love people, they exhaust me from time to time. I'm actually shy. And I don't really like flirting.
At least I know now why I'm not that good at flirting -- it doesn't interest me. And I've never been all that skilled at things that don't interest me.
But in the interest of blending, I'm learning how to do it enough to get by. I wouldn't really bother, I don't think, except that having a winning mien is part of my job, which necessarily involves building up strange men's egos and gracefully responding to their flirtations.
C'est la vie, non?
See, I've always been bad at flirting. Particularly with strangers. Until now I've chalked it up to my shyness, introvertedness, residual teenage awkwardness, lack of physical graces, or that social ineptitude I'm always trying to hide because I don't want everyone else to see how much I don't fit in.
But lately, when men seem to be flocking to my door in undesirable droves (Andrew, laughing, said the other day, "Every guy in the world has been asking her out lately. It's like Sarah's new thing is being the hottest commodity in town!") and I can't deny my attractiveness, I've been able to pull off the flirting a little bit. And last night while I had them laughing with my semi-witty rejoinders, I was thinking about a hundred other things -- the story I'm starting to write, my cat, how a friend of mine going through a tough time is doing, how I was tired and just wanted to watch a movie on my couch. And I brought myself forcibly back to the present to laugh at something inane the forty-something man said, and realized, flirting bores me.
There are so many things I'd actually like to talk about. Don't get me wrong, I love a witty, fun, fast-paced, ping-pong conversation where the hilarity swells to epidemic proportions (this is a trademark with MP and me at parties) but those are not the same as striking just the right body pose and just the right winning smile and saying just the right almost-naughty, ego-petting things to some guy I've never seen before, especially when any idiot can see that the two of us have nothing in common.
Now later in the evening, I met this other guy and we had a great, intense conversation about the failure of the public education system to address the needs of gifted kids. He invited me to do something afterward (but I was seriously beat, folks, so I just went home), but I got his card and gave him mine, and plan to follow up. I don't think he's the smartest guy I've ever met (though that could have been because of the flowing Bud Light), but he was passionate about the subject and I was grateful for a real conversation as opposed to the usual mundanity.
And flirting is different when you're bantering with an attractive man with whom you can see right away that you have similarities (although this seems to be a rare event). Then it's fun. But vying with other girls for the attentions of some mediocre guy who just loves the game is a waste of my time. And in most of the rest of the cases flirting is an act of politeness toward the older dudes who shuffle up to you and clearly just want a piece of twenty-four-year-old ass. They're not that intelligent, not that interesting, and certainly not classy. But you put up with it if it's not inappropriate or harassing, because you always have to spare their egos (why are we so socialized to spare their egos? I have no problem telling an overt asshole where to go and what to do when he gets there, but these guys who are just so clumsy and hopeful I can't bring myself to be mean to). And then I find myself standing around wishing I were talking about something else.
But oh well; that's the world. I hear people at work who are no longer single talking nostalgically about their single days, when they could flirt and it was so much fun. And I just nod and talk about how great the single life is. But I've never found flirting to be that much fun. It's not how I like to get to know a person. I am looking forward with untempered enthusiasm to the day when I can with society's blessing put away the games and relax in one deep, intimate, knowing love for the rest of my life, without facades.
But I've been realizing over and over again lately that I'm something of a misfit. So I try to disguise it as much as possible until I trust people enough to say, I'm an introvert. However much I love people, they exhaust me from time to time. I'm actually shy. And I don't really like flirting.
At least I know now why I'm not that good at flirting -- it doesn't interest me. And I've never been all that skilled at things that don't interest me.
But in the interest of blending, I'm learning how to do it enough to get by. I wouldn't really bother, I don't think, except that having a winning mien is part of my job, which necessarily involves building up strange men's egos and gracefully responding to their flirtations.
C'est la vie, non?
Friday, June 09, 2006
hilarious things about living and working in south bend
I love South Bend on Daylight Savings Time. It's still twilight at 10:15. This is what it means to be summer.
Tonight Lynyrd Skynyrd performed in South Bend, and our new partner radio station and hero, WAOR (America's first classic rock station) hosted a Party on the Plaza in front of the Morris Performing Arts Center, and donated the proceeds of the beer tent (and whatever donations we collected in souped-up oatmeal canisters) to the Center for the Homeless.
I collected some new business cards, and now have:
1.) A lunch date (to be determined next week) with the head chef at the Palais Royale, an extremely good-looking Latino named Eddie.
2.) An offer from a trucker from La Porte, Indiana named Phil to ride on his Harley. He said he'd call me at work. I declined to give him my cell phone number outright.
Life is so fricking weird. But always funny.
Tonight Lynyrd Skynyrd performed in South Bend, and our new partner radio station and hero, WAOR (America's first classic rock station) hosted a Party on the Plaza in front of the Morris Performing Arts Center, and donated the proceeds of the beer tent (and whatever donations we collected in souped-up oatmeal canisters) to the Center for the Homeless.
I collected some new business cards, and now have:
1.) A lunch date (to be determined next week) with the head chef at the Palais Royale, an extremely good-looking Latino named Eddie.
2.) An offer from a trucker from La Porte, Indiana named Phil to ride on his Harley. He said he'd call me at work. I declined to give him my cell phone number outright.
Life is so fricking weird. But always funny.
why i will never apologize for communicating through writing
If you've read the previous post, then you may remember something The Grad Student said to me in his voicemail asking me to discuss my decision not to see him anymore over coffee: "I'm a little hurt that you didn't call me or tell me this in person, and just sent me an email. I hope we can get together for coffee and talk about this in a mature way."
Was I pissed? Yes, I was pissed, especially about that little dig at my maturity. I went to talk to him anyway, because I'm a fan of face-to-face confrontation in theory, and disciplined to face-to-face confrontation in practice (I hate hurting people's feelings as a general rule, so I don't really enjoy confrontation, but I will do it when necessary).
And in the course of the conversation, he brought up again the fact that I chose to tell him of my decision in an email. This is what I said:
"I'm not going to apologize for that. I live in the written word. I'm a writer. It's what I do and who I am. I express myself most clearly and thoughtfully through writing, and when I get the chance, I do it.
"Also, I don't talk on the phone much with bare acquaintances. I talk on the phone at extended lengths with my parents, my sister, my best friend from home, and when I'm playing catch-up with my college friends. That's it. For everyone else, I use the phone as a means of gathering information -- 'Hey, I have a question.' 'What are you doing tonight?' 'Meet you there in five.' etc. And I've had enough unpleasant and sticky phone conversations with people that if I have to have a serious talk with someone, I don't do it over the phone. I hate the phone for that type of thing.
"And I'm not going to call you or send you an email saying, 'We need to talk. Can we meet later to discuss it?' Come on. Then you're edgy and wondering all day what you're possibly going to talk about, and dreading it.
"So by sending you an email, you had advance notice of what was coming. It's the most thoughtful, 'mature' means I have of communicating, and I will never apologize for that."
Now, I understand, as Laura pointed out, that I owed him no explanation for myself, my habits, or my decisions. But as I like the clearest communication that I can achieve with the human beings in my life, I didn't mind explaining. And I wasn't going to sit there and get criticized for who I am and how I do things. And I sure as hell wasn't going to apologize.
Just a little shout-out to the writers out there who also live by the word. And to those of us who think in-depth "friend break-up" phone conversations are stupid. And to those of us who refuse to be browbeaten by manipulative, high-horsey people who don't know their own minds.
(The farther I get away from the conversation, the angrier it makes me. I don't like when I KNOW a person has an agenda in regards to my personhood and friendship. And he condescended to me a lot, under a veneer of concern -- and he probably only thought he was being concerned. Things like, "I hope you learn how to rely on other people. My mother carried a lot through her life, and in the past few years crashed, because she couldn't carry it anymore. You really need to be able to be interdependent." And, "You seem like you have the outcome of this conversation all decided." And, "I hugged you lovingly, and you maintained the hug." "Yeah, that would be a mutual maintenance," I said. [Don't blame ME for your behavior, buster.]
Gah. There was something terribly cloying about his touch, and his attempts to explain himself, and his veiled threat at never being able to date me if he couldn't know me first as a friend. I don't like when people try to weave a web of subtle coercion around me.
And golly, I haven't been mad about anything in forever. Just blah, or nil, or sad, or in despair. Anger is a little refreshing for a change.)
Was I pissed? Yes, I was pissed, especially about that little dig at my maturity. I went to talk to him anyway, because I'm a fan of face-to-face confrontation in theory, and disciplined to face-to-face confrontation in practice (I hate hurting people's feelings as a general rule, so I don't really enjoy confrontation, but I will do it when necessary).
And in the course of the conversation, he brought up again the fact that I chose to tell him of my decision in an email. This is what I said:
"I'm not going to apologize for that. I live in the written word. I'm a writer. It's what I do and who I am. I express myself most clearly and thoughtfully through writing, and when I get the chance, I do it.
"Also, I don't talk on the phone much with bare acquaintances. I talk on the phone at extended lengths with my parents, my sister, my best friend from home, and when I'm playing catch-up with my college friends. That's it. For everyone else, I use the phone as a means of gathering information -- 'Hey, I have a question.' 'What are you doing tonight?' 'Meet you there in five.' etc. And I've had enough unpleasant and sticky phone conversations with people that if I have to have a serious talk with someone, I don't do it over the phone. I hate the phone for that type of thing.
"And I'm not going to call you or send you an email saying, 'We need to talk. Can we meet later to discuss it?' Come on. Then you're edgy and wondering all day what you're possibly going to talk about, and dreading it.
"So by sending you an email, you had advance notice of what was coming. It's the most thoughtful, 'mature' means I have of communicating, and I will never apologize for that."
Now, I understand, as Laura pointed out, that I owed him no explanation for myself, my habits, or my decisions. But as I like the clearest communication that I can achieve with the human beings in my life, I didn't mind explaining. And I wasn't going to sit there and get criticized for who I am and how I do things. And I sure as hell wasn't going to apologize.
Just a little shout-out to the writers out there who also live by the word. And to those of us who think in-depth "friend break-up" phone conversations are stupid. And to those of us who refuse to be browbeaten by manipulative, high-horsey people who don't know their own minds.
(The farther I get away from the conversation, the angrier it makes me. I don't like when I KNOW a person has an agenda in regards to my personhood and friendship. And he condescended to me a lot, under a veneer of concern -- and he probably only thought he was being concerned. Things like, "I hope you learn how to rely on other people. My mother carried a lot through her life, and in the past few years crashed, because she couldn't carry it anymore. You really need to be able to be interdependent." And, "You seem like you have the outcome of this conversation all decided." And, "I hugged you lovingly, and you maintained the hug." "Yeah, that would be a mutual maintenance," I said. [Don't blame ME for your behavior, buster.]
Gah. There was something terribly cloying about his touch, and his attempts to explain himself, and his veiled threat at never being able to date me if he couldn't know me first as a friend. I don't like when people try to weave a web of subtle coercion around me.
And golly, I haven't been mad about anything in forever. Just blah, or nil, or sad, or in despair. Anger is a little refreshing for a change.)
Thursday, June 08, 2006
in-de-pen-dent
So. The last two weeks have been a flurry of interactions with men. Older ones. And I've come out of it still single, and glad.
The most recent episode was with a guy I know through the grad school at Notre Dame. I met him at a party in January, and enjoyed his (slightly inebriated) stories. He didn't particularly notice me until a few weeks ago, at a concluding-the-semester party at another student's apartment. Then he asked me out for coffee.
So we went for coffee and had a great time. A few days later we met to walk around on Notre Dame's campus, got caught without shelter in a downpour, hid under the overhang of a monastic building until it let up, went to the grocery store, and hung out at my apartment making smoothies.
But there's always a fly in the ointment. He told me that night, "There's a few things you should know." (That statement is always a red flag.) "I'm a lot older than you, I'm still in love with a woman with whom it will probably never work out, and I've recently started seeing someone. But I find your company delightful."
Okay, I thought; I can always use another friend. And everything seemed more or less okay, except that he was flirtatiously touchy all night, blotting my rain-smeared mascara with his fingertips and such. And then when he went to say goodbye, he gave me a hug...and it was WAY too much of a hug. And I'm very sure (although he denies this) that he kissed my neck.
And after that I was extremely uncomfortable. It felt completely wrong. And he continued to invite me to do lots of one-on-one, datelike stuff with him -- watching movies, going for walks, heading to the Farmer's Market, etc.
I don't like messy relationships with blurry lines of friendship and more-than-friendship. So I e-mailed him and told him that I didn't think we should be spending so much time together, particularly if he's seeing someone. And that I prefer relationships characterized by clarity, and this one wasn't clear.
I got a voicemail from him the next day informing me that he was hurt that I didn't call him or tell him face to face, and asking me to meet him over coffee to talk about it. So I did, last Sunday after church. I explained to him my problems with the too-much-hugging and the neck kiss (although, like I said, he denied it. The only other thing it could have been was boogers from a running nose, and I really don't think it was that). He told me that he cares about me, finds me attractive, knows that I've been suffering and has wanted to help, and that the relationship he's just gotten into with someone else is more like a blurring of the lines of friendship and not an actual relationship.
But I stuck to my guns. "I've never had anyone take care of me," I said. "I've always been the one to take care of everyone else, and take care of myself. When I break down, I do it alone. I fix it alone. I don't know what to do with someone's help."
"I don't date people that I haven't known for awhile," he said. "And I really want to get to know you. I regret that it's working out like this."
"Me too," I said. "And I enjoy your company. But this is what's best for me. And I'll be okay. I always am."
So I said a cordial goodbye and walked away.
It was rough -- for about an hour I wondered if I'd done the right thing. But I know I did. I don't know on what kind of terms he wanted me, but sorry, I don't actually believe that men and women can be intimate friends and stay friends only. I told him this. And for myself I know that I do not want to be some guy's possible back-up plan in case whatever he's doing now doesn't work out. Been there. Hated it. And dude, my friendship is not there for the taking. You have to earn trust, and his body contact with me made all his words of only wanting to be friends into lies. And I don't trust that.
And I don't need some guy to come into my life and fix me. I've had a hard time the past three or four months, but I'm not broken. Just struggling. I don't need fixing. All I want is kindness and support and company. In short, a friend. I can take care of the rest. I've done that all my life. Someone who has an express purpose of helping me or making me better inspires resentment in me, because I become less a friend and autonomous being than some sort of project, some sort of dependent. And I have never been that, or sought to make other people that for me.
So I made a good choice. And right after that coffee meeting I went to spend the day with Meg and Phillip, who have become my family.
It makes me feel so much better about being single. I have chosen this. I have decided what is best for me, and I have acted on it. That's more like me than anything else, and I've been missing that about me lately.
So I'm no longer desperate. And the medication is helping tremendously.
The most recent episode was with a guy I know through the grad school at Notre Dame. I met him at a party in January, and enjoyed his (slightly inebriated) stories. He didn't particularly notice me until a few weeks ago, at a concluding-the-semester party at another student's apartment. Then he asked me out for coffee.
So we went for coffee and had a great time. A few days later we met to walk around on Notre Dame's campus, got caught without shelter in a downpour, hid under the overhang of a monastic building until it let up, went to the grocery store, and hung out at my apartment making smoothies.
But there's always a fly in the ointment. He told me that night, "There's a few things you should know." (That statement is always a red flag.) "I'm a lot older than you, I'm still in love with a woman with whom it will probably never work out, and I've recently started seeing someone. But I find your company delightful."
Okay, I thought; I can always use another friend. And everything seemed more or less okay, except that he was flirtatiously touchy all night, blotting my rain-smeared mascara with his fingertips and such. And then when he went to say goodbye, he gave me a hug...and it was WAY too much of a hug. And I'm very sure (although he denies this) that he kissed my neck.
And after that I was extremely uncomfortable. It felt completely wrong. And he continued to invite me to do lots of one-on-one, datelike stuff with him -- watching movies, going for walks, heading to the Farmer's Market, etc.
I don't like messy relationships with blurry lines of friendship and more-than-friendship. So I e-mailed him and told him that I didn't think we should be spending so much time together, particularly if he's seeing someone. And that I prefer relationships characterized by clarity, and this one wasn't clear.
I got a voicemail from him the next day informing me that he was hurt that I didn't call him or tell him face to face, and asking me to meet him over coffee to talk about it. So I did, last Sunday after church. I explained to him my problems with the too-much-hugging and the neck kiss (although, like I said, he denied it. The only other thing it could have been was boogers from a running nose, and I really don't think it was that). He told me that he cares about me, finds me attractive, knows that I've been suffering and has wanted to help, and that the relationship he's just gotten into with someone else is more like a blurring of the lines of friendship and not an actual relationship.
But I stuck to my guns. "I've never had anyone take care of me," I said. "I've always been the one to take care of everyone else, and take care of myself. When I break down, I do it alone. I fix it alone. I don't know what to do with someone's help."
"I don't date people that I haven't known for awhile," he said. "And I really want to get to know you. I regret that it's working out like this."
"Me too," I said. "And I enjoy your company. But this is what's best for me. And I'll be okay. I always am."
So I said a cordial goodbye and walked away.
It was rough -- for about an hour I wondered if I'd done the right thing. But I know I did. I don't know on what kind of terms he wanted me, but sorry, I don't actually believe that men and women can be intimate friends and stay friends only. I told him this. And for myself I know that I do not want to be some guy's possible back-up plan in case whatever he's doing now doesn't work out. Been there. Hated it. And dude, my friendship is not there for the taking. You have to earn trust, and his body contact with me made all his words of only wanting to be friends into lies. And I don't trust that.
And I don't need some guy to come into my life and fix me. I've had a hard time the past three or four months, but I'm not broken. Just struggling. I don't need fixing. All I want is kindness and support and company. In short, a friend. I can take care of the rest. I've done that all my life. Someone who has an express purpose of helping me or making me better inspires resentment in me, because I become less a friend and autonomous being than some sort of project, some sort of dependent. And I have never been that, or sought to make other people that for me.
So I made a good choice. And right after that coffee meeting I went to spend the day with Meg and Phillip, who have become my family.
It makes me feel so much better about being single. I have chosen this. I have decided what is best for me, and I have acted on it. That's more like me than anything else, and I've been missing that about me lately.
So I'm no longer desperate. And the medication is helping tremendously.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Cue the Mormons
When I got home from work yesterday, two men in suits were standing in front of my porch.
Suits? I thought. Is something federal going down in the hood?
So I approached them and said, "Can I help you?"
And they said, "Yes...we're looking for Sarah."
"That's me," I said. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, we're missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints," they said. "Your doctor told us you were interested in speaking with us."
"He didn't tell me," I said.
So yeah. Apparently the nice old Jewish doctor that I went to see for my antidepressant prescription last Friday is a nice old Mormon doctor...who took it upon himself to give my UNPUBLISHED ADDRESS to these guys to come solicit me for their religion.
Now, it's not like I don't appreciate the thought. But he didn't say anything at all to me about the church, or tell me, "You should talk to these people," or ask me if he could give out my private information to anyone.
And yes, as I was describing my depression to my doctor, I in fact did say that I live far from family and have had trouble finding a church. But I certainly wasn't wanting him to do anything about it beyond signing my precription.
The situation itself was funny. I was very polite and disengaged, and sent them on their way. ("So you're doing the mission thing," I said at one point. "...how's that going for you?") But the circumstances of the situation are frankly a little creepy.
I think that his action was highly unethical for a number of reasons. I mean, you can't even call Information to find me. I'm not only unlisted, I'm unpublished. For the sole reason that I want my privacy, rooted in a desire for the safety of anonymity. And now these missions-oriented men know where I live.
Yargh. Life is weird.
Suits? I thought. Is something federal going down in the hood?
So I approached them and said, "Can I help you?"
And they said, "Yes...we're looking for Sarah."
"That's me," I said. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, we're missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints," they said. "Your doctor told us you were interested in speaking with us."
"He didn't tell me," I said.
So yeah. Apparently the nice old Jewish doctor that I went to see for my antidepressant prescription last Friday is a nice old Mormon doctor...who took it upon himself to give my UNPUBLISHED ADDRESS to these guys to come solicit me for their religion.
Now, it's not like I don't appreciate the thought. But he didn't say anything at all to me about the church, or tell me, "You should talk to these people," or ask me if he could give out my private information to anyone.
And yes, as I was describing my depression to my doctor, I in fact did say that I live far from family and have had trouble finding a church. But I certainly wasn't wanting him to do anything about it beyond signing my precription.
The situation itself was funny. I was very polite and disengaged, and sent them on their way. ("So you're doing the mission thing," I said at one point. "...how's that going for you?") But the circumstances of the situation are frankly a little creepy.
I think that his action was highly unethical for a number of reasons. I mean, you can't even call Information to find me. I'm not only unlisted, I'm unpublished. For the sole reason that I want my privacy, rooted in a desire for the safety of anonymity. And now these missions-oriented men know where I live.
Yargh. Life is weird.
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