On numbers

I have heard quite a bit of snarky chatter on the subject of the 1,027 Palestinian prisoners being traded for Gilad Shalit.

If you are reading this, I know that this story has already been hemmed or patched or molded to fit into your preexisting political worldview. Be it about the bullying brutality of Hamas, the relative value of human life based on nationality or what have you, you have already decided what this story means. I don't intend to change your mind.

Here is what it means to me:

Israelis are people. Palestinians are numbers. I have noticed this (and written indignant research papers about it) since I was old enough to know why it mattered. Israelis have names and grieving families to be interviewed. Palestinians are body counts, anonymous numbers without background story.

This is not the whole truth; occasionally Palestinians are names, particularly when they are terrorists. Occasionally Palestinians are photos, particularly when they are carrying weapons or when they are old women grieving and surrounded by rubble.

You will hear (or, rather, I have heard) people saying that Israel has released one thousand terrorists, bombers who target night clubs and public busses, just to save one boy. Because they understand the value of life.

What you will not hear are many of the names of these thousand, or that many of them were arrested as boys for throwing stones at tanks, that many of them were arrested for their political activities, that many of them have been in jail, cut off just like Shalit, with grieving families at home given no assurance if they live at all. You will not hear that, unlike Shalit, they were not wearing military uniforms when they were taken, they were often not even holding guns. Many were held without charges. Many were tried without a right to defend themselves.

In the weeks to come, you will hear one name and one number. These 1027 are not just numbers. They have names as well. Not just the infamous ones, all of them. We will never know their stories the way we have been told Shalit's.

I can only think of all 1028 of them as victims of this occupation. 

Christian Fernandez

"Because of his age, Fernandez will not face the death penalty."

His age, in case you are not going to read the entire article, is 12.

A 12 year old, facing life in prison without parole, charged as an adult. A 12-year old born to a 12-year old mother (no, I'm not joking) who watched his abusive stepfather commit suicide rather than be taken into custody for abusing him.

This is the "man" they are charging with the death of his 2 year old brother, who might have been saved had his mother not waited 4 hours to seek medical attention after returning home to find him unconscious. 

Beating your 2 year old little brother is not ok, it's certainly a criminal act but it is not first degree murder. Christian Fernandez is not an adult and should not be tried as one. 

This is just wrong. Also it's escaping the notice of the national media entirely so I'm blogging about it. Tell your friends. Post on facebook. Please sign the petition (useful or not it's worth a try:)

http://www.change.org/petitions/reverse-decision-to-try-12-yo-cristian-fernandez-as-an-adult?utm_medium=email&utm_source=action_alert&utm_source=action_alert&utm_medium=email&alert_id=EUajlIhDIm_PuvYQzxVdS

Are we happy?

I don't think it is a particularly unusual thing to notice, when travelling abroad and particularly to countries that are poorer than the United States, how much happier much of the rest of the world seems. I think many travelers (and particularly travel writers) arrive at this conclusion as though it is their own precious jewel of revelation, carefully mined from the dark earth of their own experience. And maybe it is, but I've heard it too often to think that I'm the first person who noticed it. But notice it I did. And bowl me over, it did. Even as I went into my travels prepared by so many writers to be enlightened by the simplicity of life in poor countries and the happiness such living brings, I was SHOCKED (in a distinctly all-caps way) by how happy people seem.

Happy in places without running water or electricity. Happy without fancy restaurants or TV or shopping malls or dentists. Happy even though they lose children and loved ones to completely treatable diseases. Happy doesn't even cover it.

I'm not being didactic here. I'm not preaching that we should give up all modern conveniences (or dentists) or that living in mud huts will make every one happier. But the biggest single shock I faced upon my return to America was not cars or English or grocery stores (though all three were confusing and kind of stressful) but the fact that every one seemed to be in such a bad mood. Grumpy. Stressed out. Impatient. These are things I often was (and still often am) but things I no longer see as a necessary part of my life.

So as I sit in Starbucks waiting for my mom to finish up at the dentist so we can go to the mall and go shopping, I have to wonder at the people around me. Are any of them happy? They don't smile. Most look bored, a few look angry, two are gossiping loudly and expressing their disapproval of another woman's life choices and despite the expensive clothes, the impeccable dental work and the abundance of highlighted hair, I have to say that I don't see a whole lot of beauty- I see instead the exhaustion of trying to appear beautiful, the high-strung desperation and even fear of youth slipping through fingers that were never meant to contain it.

I don't think Americans are happy. I don't think we know what makes us happy. I don't know that I do, either, but I am grateful for at least having learned that stressing about time, appearance, money or status doesn't make me happy, has and will never make me happy. I'm not going to do it any more. Or, I should say I'm going to try not to do it any more. Some habits can't be helped and I have spent too long conditioned to care about these things. Lately whenever I find myself getting consumed by stress I close my eyes and think about my trip and I just say "ok." This will happen. Or this will not happen. I have time for this. Or I don't. I care about this. Or I don't. Laisa Muskela.

I know that much of the world aspires to be more like this- Rich. Developed. Powerful. Globally significant. I'm not one to credibly say what is best for any one, but I hope that we figure out what makes us happy and I hope that other societies aren't so quick to emulate what we have that they lose sight of their own value, or the drawbacks of our own system.

I don't know what the answer is- is it possible to have a society where people don't die easily of preventable diseases without a Starbucks on every corner? I hope so. 

Don't worry-

I didn't get brave.

I didn't tell you that I get that tingling feeling every time you look at me or that sometimes the air goes out of the room when you walk in it.

I didn't tell you that you make me calmer and braver and more hopeful.

(I did cry, a little.)

I don't know what happens next. I suppose I am harboring two fugitive feelings: hope that it will change at all and fear that it will only change for the worst.

But as the good Count tells us:

Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, -'Wait and hope.'

I didn't get brave enough to divorce my hope from my fears but I didn't let it go yet, either. 

On the train back to Fes from Asilah

Content in air-conditioned train cars

I am still shedding skin to Atlantic salt and Moroccan sand

not yet feeling the linger of the African sun on my red red limbs. 

Night has fallen and we are miles away yet but morning was spent in the surf

letting the waves tangle and untangle and re-tangle my hair

smiling at the familiar feel of riptide around my legs

the undertow I nearly called by your name

the dangerous and demanding pull to deeper waters. 

Rushing in and tempting me gracelessly, irresistibly on. 

I can feel the echos of those waves on my skin even now.

As clearly as I see the mile-long stare you hide with a smile.

I know better than to provoke the wrath of such an angry sea.

You'd drag me out and down and be done with me 

broken, sea- and sand-polished smooth

I would wash ashore alone

harder and more beautiful for your destructive ways,

perhaps, 

skin-smoothed and eye-bright

but I would spend my life lying in wait

for a hand to skip me back out to sea

and never again walk into your waves,

a provocation on two unsteady feet. 

There will come a time, you'll see

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears


Sorry for all the ambiguity here of late. I'm having feelings I don't like about a person I should know better than to feel them for. Cut off from my usual therapy (ie telling every single person I work or live with and collecting their advice on the matter) I felt the need to journal about it.

Don't worry. I'm actually right about this being a terrible idea (and also not having the potential to go anywhere.) I'm just not used to being Mr. Darcy about these things. It's frustrating how much of my mind is not only happy but EAGER to be taken up with romantic thoughts. (Also, I'm not rich & powerful like Darcy, which, if I recall correctly, were rather key elements to his eventual success.) Right now I should be writing in Arabic about Khubz and I am daydreaming instead.

I blame the muzak version of "my heart will go on" blaring inside the cafe.

I really want to believe that one day falling in love will be easy and painless and not stressful and largely humiliating. I don't know if that's how it works, but I do know today is not that day. 

THIS IS A REALLY BAD IDEA

I very much dislike the ease with which I ignore my inner sensible person. My inner sensible person will say things like "you've been here before, it didn't end so well. Maybe you don't want to go back?" And I will say "hush, you. I know what I'm doing."

I don't know what I am doing. I make decisions and then promptly ignore them. I make grand declarations about things I Absolutely Will Not Do and then do them.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I know a bad idea when I see one and I somehow can't help myself.


I'm going to tell myself these petty little emotions I've been having lately don't mean anything. I'm going to tell myself that trouble is not two eyes grinning, long-lashed, in my direction.

I'm not going to give in.

In the square

Exhausted, sun-stroked, we sat
after hours of tying not to admit I'd gotten us lost
I gulped tepid water, pretending
that my thirst might be quenched.
Shade. The obliging trees of an unfamiliar village square,
Foreign bodies unused to Moroccan sun,
we rest.

Cigarettes appear, in an attempt to blend in.
I do not smoke.
As our talk turns to the nature of happiness,
I begin to reconsider.
I thirst for the taste of paper smoldering to ash between your fingers.
I believe you, when you say happiness is a poor child
you befriended in an alley by gifting a toy car.
You may not own him
or command his every secret
but you, at least,
would know him
if he passed you in the street.
His hand raised in greeting
And your response rolled out like smoke
exhaled over a native tongue.

I swallow more water.
The others are still discussing happiness
academic, abstract, now, but no less real than your barefoot boy.
It is as present, as possible for them as the sweat on their necks
the weight of sundry electronic devices in REI backpacks
the provocation of color in the spray paint on sand-colored walls.
They do not worry that we are lost.
They are paper, warm tobacco on your wet lips
I am hot ashes falling from your fingers in the
stubborn, stagnant afternoon air.

Oh yeah, my senior essay is almost done, too.

I think this version is much better than the last one I posted but you can be the judge, if you're interested:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Nj2uhYNpAYCf1EfxvR8tsXA0zsLF-9IeH7KFl9sQe2w/edit?hl=en_US&authkey=CLu1-PgI

Feedback is welcome. Even though I turned this in as my final for a grade, I'm still hoping to keep improving upon it.

Updates from Spain and smelling like an airplane

I already posted an update on my Morocco blog but I thought I'd post here because I'm killing some time waiting for a shower to free up. The Hostel I'm staying at is adorable and kind of strange but full of marble staircases and weird locks with codes that are all one number. It feels super secure but I'm still paranoid since my wallet was stolen and I'm not taking any chances. The challenge will be taking a shower without leaving anything too valuable out in the bedroom.

I met a couple of American girls in the coffee shop next door. (Ok, full disclosure: it was Starbucks. I know, I KNOW, I didn't fly across the globe to drink the same Americano I was too good for in Seattle. But they have free wifi and a bunch of open couches and I had to kill an hour before check-in. Wandering around Spain sounds great, just not with two giant backpacks.) They were nice girls, on their way to Portugal and then back to France. It's funny the way Americans meet when we're abroad. I probably wouldn't trust these girls as far as I could throw them back in the states, but here we are allies, guarding each others' backpacks while we take turns in the bathroom, sharing tips about what to see, what to read, and how to get to the airport.

I think I'm going to go shower now and wander in the sun in a dress while I'm still in a place where it is culturally acceptable. I really can't wait to stop smelling like airplanes. I miss and love you all!

The book!

A first look at the lovely cover art by Kitri Wood:

Detail:

Right now the printer that will make the inside of the book is down, so I'll be posting ordering details, pricing and all that jazz as soon as it is back online....

What friends are

Sometimes you take one in the teeth.

Yesterday was a bad day for me before anything went wrong at work. I'll be up front about that. There are certain kinds of wounds that don't heal right, that leave just big empty spaces inside until even compassion hurts too much. My life has this disfiguring scar from years ago that changed so much about who I am and where I ended up and how I got here. Most days I don't think about it. Some days I can't help but stare. It is small and spiteful and beneath me to still think this, but I resent the hell out of every normal moment he gets to have. I suppose I could avoid knowing it, but news of him is like a tumor surrounded by too many healthy cells to cut out completely. I have cut out enough of my life and I would rather spend a resentful few days than cut out any more. Since I'm on a bit of a Col. Brandon kick lately I will think May He Endeavor To Deserve It until I forget, again.

So, anyway, when a chance at catching a big shoplifter yesterday was missed because of my mistake, I took it pretty hard. Every one messes up, and in a high-stakes game the heightened thrill is a direct result of the possibility that something like this can happen. That you can mess up in the smallest way imaginable and the consequences are huge. So I fucked up just about as badly as I ever have in an employment situation. But the moment you really mess up is the moment you learn the kind of stuff your friendships are made of. Mine amaze me. Literal and figurative shoulders to cry on. Kind words of support when I needed them. The misguided but still appreciated instinct to grab car keys and come rescue me. Stories of mistakes on the same level. My writers group boys not minding that I was both drunk and miserable. and then, this morning, my boss being so amazingly decent about it all. Everything is OK. I still simmer with regret and self-reproach but I will make up for it.

You pick yourself up, you take a deep breath and you get through. Then you stop crowing about small victories till you find one that rivals this mistake.

That is how.


So what now? New lady gaga, a shower, the end of a new Jason Vanhee novel and an early bedtime. Life is going to kick my ass sometimes, I'm going to make mistakes sometimes, and I'm glad I have people in my life to be there for me.

Thanks, all.

Wandering Girl Haiku

Nights like this, listening
only to love songs, waiting
to feel this again.

Morocco Blog!

Hey all,

I've started a travel blog for my upcoming trip. It will be very advice-oriented and apolitical, as it is for school, and my department has enough problems with me. I will still blog here (though probably less often once I am in Morocco and cut off from regular internet access) and I will even post links to updates over at that blog from time to time if I have any really exciting adventures.

While I'm updating about random things, I thought I should mention Dear Mr President- the book. Yes, it is finally ready for the printers, thanks to the combined efforts of Kitri, the wonder-woman of graphic design, and Anna, the Jedi copyeditor. Soon it will be handed over to Homer, the Espresso Book Machine at UBS and then it will be available to purchase. More details (price, ordering, etc.) to come on this, I know I've been dragging my feet but it will be a much, much better book thanks to the efforts of my talented friends. Thanks for your patience, and, I promise, you won't be disappointed :)

The End was Near. Or something.

So, the rapture clearly didn't happen. I know that the rapture and The End of the World As We Know It aren't exactly interchangeable, but still, just in case those nutjobs were actually right and the rapture was happening today, I went to Yogurt Land and had pizza last night. Also I thought about the word "rapture" and how it sounds so unpleasant- like a celebrity couple name for "rape" and "capture". Or a scary super-smart dinosaur that hunts in packs and only eats nonbelievers. (Look out! it's a veloci-rapture!)


If I am honest, I have to say this day never seemed like more than an opportunity for bad jokes (as opposed to an actual confrontation with my mortality.) After it became clear that I'd given myself permission to consume excess calories for really no good reason (I'm actually rather OK with it, to be honest) I got to thinking about the End (impending or otherwise). The world will end for each of us, in our own time. And, when we are faced with what Elizabeth Cady Stanton called "that solemn solitude of self", that final hour when it is only us and death and no one to stand between us, I suspect we won't know or care if the world is ending just for us or for every one else as well. We probably won't have much warning- particularly not in the form of helpful bilboards and pamphlets from sidewalk preachers- but I hope that before each of us finds that day we have time to go to whatever our personal Yogurt Land might be.


So tonight I raise a glass to the end of days, whenever that may be, and the hope that we face it with humor, grace, and frozen yogurt. And to you, my friends. Good night.

Shy girl haiku again

Don't faint. Don't blush. Breathe.

Outgrow your hero worship 

See him as a man. 

Third Intifada Haiku

Don't tell me it was
Self-defense. Unarmed, they marched
as you opened fire.

Common and "controversy "

The level of acceptable (and increasingly blatant) racism in this country, particularly in this country's media, is really making me queasy today.

Common was invited to a poetry reading at the White House. You can read or watch coverage of the ensuing and COMPLETELY RACIST "controversy" from FOX, Palin and other cartoons. I encourage you to watch the whole Daily Show coverage (I think I linked only to the first half.) My favorite part is when Karl Rove says (sarcastically) "Yeah, let's invite a misogynist to the White House." As though the legislative agenda he (and President Bush) and his party have been advancing for decades isn't both more misogynist and more likely to negatively affect people's lives than Common's lyrics.

The level of mental acrobatics required for this kind of cognitive dissonance is olympic-medal-worthy.

Side note: I met Common once, in DC. He came to my Borders for an event I helped organize. People had camped out for hours before the store opened, the line was amazing for a weekday afternoon. I remember more about the running of the event itself (this was probably the largest event that I had any kind of significant role in, outside of the HP7 release) than I do about Common, but what I recollect about him was a genuine kindness toward the staff and toward his fans. He's one of those people you can't help but feel a little intimidated by- he could run intellectual circles around me at my most intelligent- but he's approachable and  friendly and not at all demanding like some of the other authors/artists I organized events for.

Truth be told I'm a fan of Common's music, (though I probably wouldn't line up overnight to get his autograph) and I enjoyed meeting him. But while I was proud of the event, I basically didn't give it much thought after that. So, yes,  I am defending him and the First Lady's decision to invite such an important creative mind to the White House but I don't think it's because of my personally positive experience.

I think the Daily Show's comparison to Johnny Cash is an apt one. Violent, anti-establishment or "controversial" lyrics from a white man never elicited an objection (tweeted or otherwise) from Rove, FOX or Palin. This is racism, pure and simple. This is why, while I do not believe all Republicans are racist, I do have a difficult time understanding how any one not wishing to be painted with the same brush can stand so close to party leaders/figureheads/mouthpieces when they spout this kind of bullshit.

(Particularly when so many Republicans believe every American Muslim or Arab ought to denounce terror with every other word or be called a terrorist supporter/sympathizer.)

And, yes, the White House's choice of guests is really not that significant of an issue. However, I think that any one willing to be so brashly racist about trivial stuff is probably not keeping their racist views out of news they report (or comment on) or the policies they promote. No one should need to have heard this to know that Rove, Palin and FOX are completely racist, but I don't see how any one could possibly continue denying it after this.

The sexiest thing is trust

So, clearly I've been listening to a lot of Tori Amos lately. (The title of this blog post comes from the song "Jamaica Inn") but I have to say the soundtrack to my most recent crush is for sure Tegan  & Sara (no, he's not a woman, it's just that their music tends to be more about the slightly-creepy-can't-actually-talk-to-you-how-is-this-SO-awkward kind of love.) Anyway. I keep telling myself I Do Not Have A Crush On Him Anymore. At All. Seriously.

Oh but I do. This morning we were talking in the hallway before class and he looked at me for what was probably a couple of seconds but felt like a moderate-length geological age and I could hear my little rational self pounding her fists on the inside of my love-struck face screaming "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU HAVE A TEST IN 15 MINUTES!" to, of course, no avail. None whatsoever.

And so now, instead of writing about important things like world events or even funny cat videos on the internet (or the raccoon I saw in a tree on capitol hill last night!)  or, I don't know, maybe MY FUCKING THESIS, I'm writing about how I for sure do not have a crush on this guy I'm absolutely head over heels for because I know I could never trust myself with emotion this irrational. Hence, the lyrics. Trust is the sexiest thing and I just don't feel capable of it lately.

So I'm asking myself WWBS? (What Would Ballard Say?) Matt Ballard was, for those of you not fortunate enough to work with him at Borders in DC, my wise, wonderful friend and probably the individual deserving the most credit for me returning to college at all (not to mention my impending graduation.) Ballard had all kinds of wisdom for moments like these, moments so awkward as to approach unbearable, moments when my priorities were thrown so completely out of wack by my emotions, moments where I feel, as ever, like the awkward girl in 7th grade still longing for Billy Ruiz to turn his lovely eyes in my direction just once before the bell rings and homeroom is over.

Ballard would say, Kelsey, (imagine this in a British accent, it helps) you've got to grow up. Or something like that. It might involve a self-deprecating and amusing anecdote from his own days as a young awkward kid, it might involve sage advice about how he managed to end up with his wonderful wife, or it might involve a vaguely exasperated sigh and the unsubtle suggestion that this is a lesson I ought to have learned a long time ago.

Ok, boss, I'm trying.

I met Ballard at a time when I'd lost any kind of trust in other people, particularly in men, in myself, and even in my perceptions of reality. He let me follow him around like a lost puppy, learning his merchandising preferences and the way he took his tea (just a splash of whole milk or cream) and gave me a few months to not worry about who or what to trust and just to put one foot in front of the other, one book on table beside the next. Height and color and shape and symmetry. The world that become far too complicated for me to handle was reduced to the simple order of making the bookstore look as nice as possible for as long as possible.

And then, maybe because I'd had enough time in the safe world inside the walls of Borders, maybe because he was moving and didn't want to leave me behind, or maybe because he recognized the red flags of another impending meltdown, Ballard sent me home to Seattle. Go back to school, he said. Figure out what makes you happy and do that. Just do that. Don't worry so much about everything else.

Life didn't magically become easy, I didn't magically become sane or calm or whole, it's still taken me far  too long to get even this close to graduation, but I survived. Most days I grew up a little.

Most days I still do.

Today, I guess, is just not one of those days. I guess we'll see about tomorrow.

Shy girl haiku #6 & 7

She tells me, "Jameel"
is not used to describe men.
But I am certain,

if the grammar lords
of the Arabic language
met you, this would change.

Lazy girl haiku #5

Sleep would not give me
up. Obediently, I
went back to my bed.

Shocked girl haiku #4

Electronically,
We spread the news in whispers
and shouts. He is dead.

Bible-thumping

Do I take any pleasure in the death of the wicked? declares the Sovereign LORD. Rather, am I not pleased when they turn from their ways and live? Ez 18:23

I want to thank all of my friends who posted this on facebook today. I'm not religious, I don't particularly feel anything that strongly about the bible, but it was nice to see so many pausing for a moment in the heat of the Joy Bloodlust very emotional response to Bin Laden's death.. I think my own reaction was of the most reprehensible sort, the "OMG this means President Obama has a better chance of getting reelected" reaction that reveals the cold political calculations behind much of my moral posturing. How would I have reacted if this had happened under President Bush? Death is death and it is joyless no matter who orders it.

The truth is I'm not nearly as sorry that Bin Laden is dead as I am about the trail ocean of bodies behind him. People he killed, people we killed trying to get to him and people who were just unlucky enough to be the wrong color to have been born in the wrong place. If killing Bin Laden gives President Obama the political cover necessary to stop some of that killing (as I believe he wants to, despite years of actions to the contrary) then I will be glad for it.

And I don't need the Bible to tell me that killing is wrong, but it cheers me up to see so many compassionate people condemning this in the language of the same God President Bush believes told him to go to war in the first place. The master's tools, or something.

So thank you, friends, I am glad to know you.

WHCA dinner amazing-ness

Seth:



President Obama:

The Ace of spades, the King of Hearts and three young princes

I remember when Saddam Hussein's sons were killed.

I remember when he was captured. The headline in the Everett Herald the next day was "Ace in the hole", a reference to the "most wanted" deck of cards with Hussein as the Ace of Spades.

I remember breaking apart a little at the sight of that old man we'd made a monster, at the thought of his dead children.

I remarked only yesterday to a coworker that a Black ops team and a sniper's bullett might be the best solution to getting Gaddafi out of Libya.

It's funny the way I talk when I'm not thinking about what I say.

A NATO bomb killed Gaddafi's son and three of his grandchildren today.

Tyrant, monster, murderer, he may be.

Father, Grandfather, mortal.

I want freedom for Libya. I want Gaddafi out of power and some one of the Libyan people's choosing to replace him.

But I don't want to forget the part of me that is still human enough to see him as a human. It may have been a naive high school girl who could still mourn for that old man and his dead children but I'm not willing to let go of her, completely.

O, war is an ugly thing. I understand why it's easier to think of it as just another game of cards.

busy girl haiku #3

Write what is written
already; make it better
write it into truth.

Tired girl haiku #2

I, of heavy lid,
aching feet, and sore muscles
can't let myself sleep.

Rather well said

Criticizing the media for failing to live up to its obligations to the democratic process has long been the purview of Jon Stewart and the writers at The Daily Show. They do it often and they do it well. This week, Gail Collins and Dan Rather have stepped up to join in.

The next time you hear about another round of layoffs at a TV news division, the closing of a bureau, the decision not to cover a foreign story with full force, remember this week of silliness in April.

(Dan Rather)

It's nice to see some heavy (ish) weights joining JS & company in this.

14 people died in a suicide bombing in Morocco today and this is what CNN looks like:

I don't mean to say that caring about the Royal Wedding is bad. I have plenty of friends who are super excited about it and to an extent I think that's fine. I'm not serious all the time; I adore novels and romantic comedies and TV shows. I think there is anything wrong with loving sports or celebrities or any other "frivolous" diversion. I think it IS wrong when the news media mistakes entertainment for news for the sake of ratings. Donald Trump is a perfect example of this. There is no earthly reason why he should be considered news worthy. None.

Ok I'm not going to rant any more. Read the Collins/Rather pieces, as they are quite good.

Shy girl haiku #1

Braver, looks returned.
I fear you as I fear not
Death, nor darkest night.

The problem with writing about real people

.. is the not inconceivable notion that they will read what you write. The people I write critically about are not the ones I worry about. If I'm being negative it is usually about some one who is both too important to ever care that I wrote about them and also terrible enough that I'd happily repeat much worse to their faces should I ever encounter them (Bernard Lewis, Glenn Beck, my father, etc.) These are not the people I fear. I fear the Paul Constants of the world who will (perhaps rightly) read my adoration as kinda creepy. So I should really stop writing about real people (some of you may already have noticed the absence of a previous entry about some one I know. If you think you're the first person to call me a coward you're sorely mistaken.) So if you are one of the lovely individuals I'm about to write about I'M SORRY THAT I THINK YOU'RE AWESOME AND YOU SHOULD PROBABLY JUST DEAL WITH IT. You probably are awesome, anyway. I'm rarely wrong about these things.

So lately I've been on a "what should I do with my life after graduation" quest. I've been talking to people I admire (sometimes explicitly sometimes casually) and trying to figure out which of them (if any) I'd like to emulate. A rundown of my career options:

Law School: I've always had a sort of fascination with the law, and I have greatly enjoyed a number of law courses I've taken- International Humanitarian Law and American Indian Law (Yes, I enjoyed it even if I never went to class.) So I worked up the nerve to talk to a law student acquaintance and managed to stop being nervous for long enough to hear some of what he said. LSATS. First year they scare you to death. Second year they work you to death. Third year they bore you to death. (I hope I got that right...) Anyway, as much as I like the idea of Law School I think that I'm not cut out for the debt the not working a real job and the reading boring things for hours and hours. I might take the LSATS anyway just to keep my options open. I'll be chatting with a friend I find moderately less intimidating abou this as well, though her short response was already "For the love of God, no!"

Grad School: Today I had coffee with a PHD student at UW working on Egyptian history and politics. I appreciated his frankness, because he told me outright that Grad school is probably not the best option for me right now. We also talked about moving to Cairo, which seems like the best suggestion I've heard to date. Also, I have to say I'm really liking the frequency with which I'm finding myself in conversation with really really attractive men since I decided to take up my advisor on his suggestion I figure out my future plans a little. It's almost like dating but with less pressure to sound witty.

Writing: I'm fortunate to know a number of professional or semi-professional writers. Some are able to support themselves with writing alone, most work other jobs in the industry (publishing, bookselling, etc.) as well. While I love writing and am, for better or worse, still working on a genre fiction novel that is either going to be awesome or completely terrible and absolutely nothing in between, I don't know that I have the talent/drive to make this my career. I'm not being modest- I know I can write and sometimes can write very well- but the world is full of great writers and I don't know that I've yet found anything important enough to say to make me worth listening to.

One of my writer friends, the lovely and talented Jason Vanhee has begun self-publishing his novels for kindle and for nook. This was not a decision he made lightly. His extensive research into e-reading and self-publishing was a long process and I was lucky enough to benefit from much of the resulting knowledge. I don't know what the future of the book industry is, but I see the appeal of at least two sides- I'm a sentimental purist when it comes to books and the written word, but I'm also a blogger with a serious internet addiction. I think every one should read Jason's novels and if this approach facilitates more readers and more authorial control for him, I'm all for it. Still I'd love to have a paper and ink copy of his books to spill coffee on, dog ear the pages and crack the spines.

So if I finish my novel, if it turns out OK, if I try to have it published, I'm not sure I could forsake paper books even if it means giving up ownership as well as decreasing my own profit margins. But that is the sentimental musing of an unpublished girl on financial aid. I suspect a few years of the real world might change my mind.

Adventure: My wonderful thesis advisor has been infinitely patient with me when it comes to making actual progress on my thesis, though I suspect that will end tomorrow if I don't stop blogging and go actually write some of it. But he's also sensitive to my frustration with the lack of practicality in academia, my sense that I am helping NO ONE by writing papers and reading theory. I think that's why he sent me one of his grad students. Unlike most every other faculty member in my department, Shaun will talk to me frankly and treat me like an actual adult. I may have romanticized the notion of living abroad and of living adventurously away from home, but he is kind enough not to point this out. His suggestion that living abroad might be good for me may be intended to remove some of my illusions about such an adventure, but I appreciate that he seems to recognize the value of making some mistakes on your own terms. So back to Palestine? Or maybe Egypt? Peace Corps? or maybe ISM?

I guess we'll see. For now I have a midterm to study for an then store inventory in Tacoma. (Oh joy.) I'm not anticipating getting any sleep for at least 30 more hours, but I needed to write some of these things out of my head so that I can think about them later.

Any suggestions/advice/comments/criticism is welcome and (clearly) needed.

Men in coffee shops and coups d'état

I'm sitting in Solstice watching this sneering college-age boy in a baseball jersey leer at every woman who walks by. Each time one walks by he follows her with his eyes and cranes his neck to watch her leave through the door. As he reels his head back in to return to his conversation, his eyes meet mine just for a second, as though he's checking to see if I'm still glaring at him like he's a fucking idiot. (Short answer: yes.) We've been playing this game for 28 minutes and counting.

Leer, little man, leer. It is your right. Just as it is my right to judge you for it.

I just got a text message from Chev asking if I might have time to call her. I didn't answer, I just called. The PCVs in BF are being consolidated, which is a step toward evacuation. I hope that things calm down, I know she wants to stay. I'm walking that fine line between concerned friend who wants more distance between her and the riots and fires, and the supportive friend who knows she wants to finish her work.

So I'm drinking black coffee after black coffee, glaring at baseball boy, and pretending I don't have a draft of my thesis due later today. My eye doctor gave me contacts to try and today is trial 1. My eyes do not hurt, I do not feel dizzy, I don't even notice them most of the time. But I miss my glasses. I feel uncomfortably exposed without them. Also, they hide the dark circles.

Last night I realized the only God I worship is Morpheus and he has forsaken me.

Are there offerings to be made to the God of sleep? Is there a holy book with instructions for ritual sacrifice? The Old Testament was so handy that way...

I can't sleep. I spend most of my time trying to sleep and not succeeding. Melatonin worked for a while and then it stopped working. I may just make peace with myself as an insomniac and learn to live on 3 hours a night. That might work.


OK, I can't ignore my thesis any longer. Baseball boy can keep leering unjudged. Oh Burkina Faso, please stay calm. I think every one should have freedom and no one should have to die for it. But the world has never worked that way. So I will hope, instead, that some balance of the two can be found, and soon.

Return of Socially Awkward Girl

Oh my.

Oh Jeez.


Yesterday, after being afflicted by what can only be called temporary but total insanity, I struck up a conversation with the extremely good-looking law student in my Arabic class. We've had classes together before and one particularly memorable day sort of had lunch together when we randomly ended up in the same cafe. Other than this, I usually do my best to avoid eye contact or conversation. He's an incredible guy; intelligent, funny, so handsome that when he wears a suit to class I can practically see the words "____ for Senate" below his face. I don't know if he has political aspirations but he's certainly made of whatever the right stuff for that kind of destiny is. I won't say he's "out of my league" because it upsets the people who love me, but I can tell, already, that we have different paths.

So anyway, my brain must have been addled or something, but I asked him about law school (an option I'm weighing for life after graduation,) and he suggested we get lunch. Lunch was had. My usual nervous tics were kept to a minimum, save, of course, talking to much and laughing a bit too nervously. But we talked. I sometimes even managed to say the right thing. I do so enjoy that moment when the words come out so easily it is as though they have already been said. Anyway, it didn't take long for me to realize something was wrong. For starters, I've been smiling so much all day that my head is starting to ache. It's hard to explain this kind of happiness, particularly since, in the part of my brain that is still rational, I remember that I have no idea if he's even single. (I suspect not. I just find it difficult to believe the girls at my school would permit it.) It isn't that I'm happy because I imagine that he likes me or even that I think this is going anywhere. I'm happy that I don't care. I don't really know how to explain it. It was fun, I didn't make a complete fool of myself, and I haven't been robbed of my impression that he's a really, really good guy. I don't need the contrived movie ending a la She's All That (or any other nerdy girl rescue flicks) because my sense of success is not wrapped up in the idea of wrapping up a successful man.

And this isn't to get self-righteous by any means. I'm not comparing myself to other women (even the fictional ones in movies) I'm comparing my current mental state to the way I've looked at the world since the age of 15. I've always felt like I needed the approval of one man or another to feel OK about who I was and what I wanted. So today I got to eat lunch with my dream guy- emphasis on dream- and instead of being so concerned about what he thought of me, I was able to relax for five seconds and have a good time. I still will probably swoon just a little bit when he walks by me in class, (ok, maybe more than a little) but because he's a dream- not because he's a goal or a measure of my self-worth. This may all seem pretty obvious, but these ideas are things I've said out loud and never really meant. For all my preaching self-reliance, I've been the worst person I know when it comes to living and dying with the way my man of the moment thinks of me.

So, yeah, I'm grinning because I had lunch with a great guy. And yeah, socially awkward girl came back a little.

But I'm actually grinning because I'm free. Socially Awkward Girl and I have made peace.

It feels pretty good.

That's all.

Crunchberries and Cheetos

The New York Times is lamenting the mirthless, grey food of a world in which the fun police liberals make you eat what's good for you. The article is full of really hilarious quotes, so I encourage you to read it in full. One such gem:

As yet, natural colorings have not proven to be a good alternative. They are generally not as bright, cheap or stable as artificial colorings, which can remain vibrant for years. Natural colorings often fade within days.

Ok, first, WHY do you want food that remains vibrantly colored for years? Generally speaking, I don't want to eat something that has existed that long and hasn't changed color. The article frequently references the color of food as an essential aspect of the eating experience, citing studies linking food color to eaters' enjoyment, but never once suggests that this might have some other explanation. I'm not a scientist, but isn't it possible that we've evolved an appreciation for color in our food because that's how we learned that rocks are bad food and oranges are good? This, of course, suggests another problem with the Times article, which at no point mentions all of the foods that are already colorful and flavorful without artificial dye. (One interviewed baker is noted for using strawberry puree to color his desserts, but that is again demonstrating a process by which non-colorful foods are colored, not pointing out the obvious that maybe eating strawberries instead of strawberry-flavored artificially red popsicles or even naturally-dyed strawberry cake, might be a good idea.)

I'm against the FDA ban on artificial coloring, only because I don't think the government banning things usually works (See: Marijuana, Prohibition) and artificial dye isn't dangerous enough to warrant our best efforts like other things we've banned (See: Murder, Heroin.) I have no trouble slapping a huge tax on anything with artificial dye in it, if only to drive up the price and discourage consumption that way, but I can't imagine that would be a popular or politically feasible plan. I really think people should just stop rating the "fun" of neon-orange Cheetos and that-should-probably-be-fatal-green soda higher than the damage it does to our health and to the health of children (who really have no choice but to eat what they are fed and end up the innocent victims of our love of unnaturally bright food.)

Before I read this article I unpacked my produce box and was shrieking to my roommate about how pretty the apples, lemons, avocados, oranges, cabbage, carrots, chard and mushrooms all looked together. A rainbow of fun. 0 artificial dye. While the NYT article makes it sound like a world without artificial dye would be all grey insect-husk breakfast cereal and instant pudding that no one could know was really lemon and not vanilla, any one who has ever seen the produce section of a grocery store (or been to a farmer's market for that matter) knows this is just silly. Color IS an important part of our eating pleasure, and tricking our senses to respond to food by changing the color to make it more appealing isn't increasing our pleasure it's just increasing the number of chemically-altered corn and soy monstrosities that we're willing to consume as "food".

Books, beauty and the sight of blood

Yesterday I read two books. The second was the new novel by Sarah Addison Allen- The Peach Keeper. I'm usually too pretentious to admit that I like Allen's writing, which is romantic magical realism set in the American south. Her novels are light and fluffy and easily consumed in a single sitting. I usually love them. They involve magic food, family curses, ghosts, psychics, sisters and best friends. Her characters generally don't conform to typical beauty standards, and she addresses issues of class tensions, teenage bullying, eating disorders, self-injury and unwanted pregnancy. Unfortunately, the glaring omission of any characters of color, an omission which becomes more and more problematic with each subsequent book (I can accept one book, but she's written four now and there hasn't been a single non-white character in any of them) as well as the increasingly predictable story lines are starting to become too distracting for me to enjoy her writing even as simple escapism.

The first book I read yesterday was Andi Zeisler's Feminism and Pop Culture. This book is an engaging look at the relationship between popular culture and the feminist movement(s) since the 1940's. I learned a number of things and, more importantly, looked more earnestly at my own relationship with modern feminism. I have my problems with the second-wave's preference for white, middle-class, straight women's rights, but I cannot deny that I feel more protective of that generation of feminists than many women my age. They weren't perfect, but they also weren't the man-haters that so many men (and a truly depressing number of women) continue to describe them as. One thing I will give Allen credit for is her female characters, particularly the way she depicts female friendship. Granted, she kind of ruins this all by happily coupling up literally every female protagonist by the end of every story (Finding a man to love you = ultimate win!) But before they settle down with their WASP-y true loves, her characters usually find ways of transcending trauma, class differences and the pervasive culture of competition and suspicion of other women to find friendship with other women, or at least to better understand and connect with their mothers or sisters or grandmothers. So she's not ALL bad.

Anyway, Zeisler's book has also gotten me thinking about my own drive to get back into shape. How much of my vain desire to be physically attractive is because I believe pop culture when it tells me what beauty is and what I need to buy to achieve it? How much time do I spend at the gym worrying about how the other girls in the locker room are so much prettier and how they must think about me? I've been a runner most of my adult life. I love running, I love lifting weights, I do enjoy feeling strong and healthy. I'm not just a gym rat because I worry about how I'll look in my bridesmaid dress. I'm a gym rat because I want to be. But it can be hard to justify, particularly when I have classes to study for and a thesis to write.

Many of you didn't know me when I was involved with my last serious lover. I was probably at my most unstable during that relationship (or whatever you want to call it) and I blamed him for a number of things that were probably, in all fairness, mostly my fault. One great thing that came of this, however, was the weight training we used to do together. He taught me how to lift safely and effectively. He pushed me to lift like he did- to lift in a way women were always told wasn't for us. High weight, low rep, scary, gross, unladylike masculine lifting. I don't want to get into a big discussion about fitness here, so if you're religiously attached to the idea that women need to "tone" with low weight, high-rep exercises, well, you and my 6th grade gym teacher can go have a party together. I like feeling comfortable in a weight room full of guys, knowing what I'm doing and how much weight I can handle.

So that brings me to today. I didn't sleep well last night, but I was still going to lift this afternoon. I wanted to focus on my legs and lower body, and the stabilized bar I usually use for squats was taken, so I tried a different machine, one that allowed lateral as well as vertical movement but still had safety stops. I was not used to being able to fall backwards, which, unfortunately, is just what happened. I took the fall ok, but my finger was caught in the sharp safety hook that is supposed to stop the weights. For some one as easily panicked at the sight of blood as I am, I have a decently delayed freak-out. I stood up, reset the weight, cleaned up the blood, wrapped my hand in a towel and got the first aid room. My hands were starting to shake and I was starting to cry. I hate crying, but it happens. The girls in the first aid room were sweet; they cleaned me up, offered me stitches, and gave me a bandaid when I declined. One girl told me that she prefers to lift on the smaller machines upstairs by the track and seemed to imply that I'd fit in better there, away from the "intense" weights in the room with all the guys. I bit my tongue because you don't piss off the person giving you first aid.

So by the time I hit the showers I was completely shaken up and even more upset with myself for first being foolish and then for overreacting. Why do I freak out at the sight of blood? I think that the disconnect between my reaction to this and self-injury I used to struggle with is the lack of control. An act that used to be all about regaining control of feelings and situations that were overwhelming is now the result of accident and mishap. So it isn't just a laceration, it's a flashback to being 15 and never feeling good enough to avoid the changing winds of my dad or stepmother's stormy moods or being 16 and convinced that my selfish, arrogant behavior had killed Josh, or any of the other dark moments that made me believe this was the only way to cope. So I get a little panicky. By the time I'm out of the shower I'm having a hard time breathing. Am I being vain, foolish, and overly emotional? All in one day?

Luckily, after a few minutes of deep breathing and a couple of new bandaids from the locker room clerk, I recovered. I'm still a little freaked out about the future and worried that planning on losing a few pounds before my sister's wedding seems to be about all of the ambition I'm capable of this week, and my finger hurts like hell, but I'm going to be OK. I wish I were tougher, that I never cried, that I wasn't so clumsy and that I could run the way I used to. I wish I were less vain and more focused on my studies, that I had a concrete goal I could explain and work toward. I will probably still have days where I feel overwhelmed by little things and I will probably still get hysterical at the sight of blood. So it goes.

For now I'm going to take a nap and read a book and finish my homework.

Ok, I'll do it.

Dear Borders Executive Board,

You've announced your intention to pay $8.3 million in bonuses to the executives responsible for driving the company to file chapter 11 and to close 230 stores so far. Similar bonuses have been paid to Borders executives every year, even as the profitability, stock price, and general health of the company have steadily declined under their "leadership". These bonuses have been justified time and time again as "retention bonuses"- the money paid out to terrible executives to save the company from having to find new executives? I suppose the devil you know might seem like something worth holding on to.

I worked at three Borders stores from August 2006-March 2010- stores 50, 412 and 66- I've been a bookseller, a cafe seller, an LPCA, and a supervisor. I worked with a number of talented booksellers, supervisors, managers, General Managers and even a few District Managers who didn't seem all bad. These, I suppose, are the devils you never bothered to know, the talented staff who worked as the public face of your company. Many of us were devoted, loyal, hardworking employees who came in early, stayed late, and worked for far less pay than the men and women in suits who made the decisions that destroyed the company. Our hours were cut. Our benefits reduced. Some were laid off, some were left to do the work off those laid off without any additional time or pay. We worked harder every year in hopes of turning around a tidal wave of bad judgement calls from the top. We endured the humiliation of patronizing training videos, endlessly excessive paperwork, and the stressful visits of those salaried suits who walked through our stores and fussed over endcap arrangement or personal property stickers.

I left your company because you laid off two of my co-supervisors, my friends with more experience and skill than me. I left because I could feel the end coming, because I could see that the downfall of this company was going to entail targeting the longest-serving (and, often, most loyal) full-time employees for elimination. I have a job I love at a bookstore that is run independently and far more intelligently than any Borders I ever worked for, largely because there is no Corporate office in Ann Arbor to answer to. I have no desire to leave this job, but since Borders holds a special place in my heart, and since you're clearly in need of a decent CEO, I'm offering myself for the job. I'll work for 1/10th of what you pay Mike Edwards, plus travel expenses, medical, dental and vision. You will never have to pay me a bonus. I can't possibly do any worse than Edwards, and even if I'm just as bad, at least I'll be a whole lot cheaper. I don't want to do this, but I think some one has to. So give up the retention bonuses and just let the Executives storm off in a huff. Trust me, there are plenty of us out there who would take their jobs at a fraction of the cost.

Sincerely,

An ex-employee

Intuition or ESP?

Growing up I was a big X-files fan, but I always sided with Agent Scully. She was a scientist, a rational thinker, a believer in the empirical above all else. When I was a teenager I attended church, and after the suicide of a close friend I was called into my Pastor's office. He offered me comfort and council, but reminded me that suicide was the kind of sin for which there is no forgiveness. My friend, he assured me, was condemned to hell.

I remember feeling the same way I usually felt about working out a new calculus formula or understanding a new literary concept. The rush of exhilarating understanding filled me as I realized that the man speaking to me, and the adults milling about after the service in the lobby outside all really believed in Hell. On some subconscious level I'd always imagined this to be a version of Santa Clause, a myth maintained by all to encourage good behavior in children. Sure, we all went along with it and pretended, but no one ACTUALLY thought that Hell was real, right?

I've pretty much been done with organized religion since that day. But as much as I self-describe as a fiercely rational person, I treasured small superstitions and fanciful beliefs quietly inside. Salt is still thrown over my shoulder. Crows mean luck-particularly in threes. Dreams are telling me something, even if I don't know what. Trades with the univers might be made, small physical or existential offerings for protection, to avert disaster or usher in reluctant good fortune. Speaking too well or too certainly of anything invites mayhem, destruction and surprise. The full moon changes things and people and fates.

Today I saw a young man walk out of the textbook department with a messenger bag that looked full. He might have brought books in for a failed attempt at buyback, he might have purchased books and filled his bag before leaving. Nothing about him was familiar, nothing about him was out of the ordinary. But looking at him, I felt sure he'd taken something. I radioed my coworker, we reviewed security footage, sure enough, he had several hundred dollars worth of stolen books in that bag. By this time he was long gone. But, for no reason at all, I'd been right.

This isn't a particularly rare thing. My coworkers get senses about people all the time, often (and critically) before they steal or at least early enough for us to stop them. My boss seems sometimes to read intention in every gesture a person makes. I've had feelings like this before, and the sudden, unsettling certainty of something I can't prove or explain always takes me by surprise.

Are we psychic? Are we rapidly processing observations that our conscious mind can't recognize? I don't know. I'm not sure if I really believe I just knew this guy was stealing, or if I really believe that lighting candles can ease heartbreak and ward off ill fates. I know there are few things as dangerous as absolute certainty. If listening to the insistent pull of whatever part of me senses these things makes me crazy, it also makes me better at what I do. I don't think Agent Scully would disapprove.

Professors shouldn't be allowed to be this foolish

This morning I got this e-mail from a prof I'll have next quarter:

Hi all,
I’m looking forward to our class beginning next week, and I wanted to send you the list of required texts now so that you can acquire them as cheaply as possible. Ayoob (2008) is the first book that we will be reading—you will need to begin reading it by Thursday April 1st.
I have NOT ordered these books through the bookstore, because many of them are available far cheaper to you if you by them through on-line sellers. This week I did an availably check though Amazon (although of course you can buy them though any seller you like) and there are enough used copies in circulation for the class, in addition to new copies. Additionally, all of the books will be at the on the library reserve shelf on a 24hr reserve. Needless to say, there will be a lot of demand on the books over the weekend and the day before you are to have read them, so unless you plan on reading a week ahead in the schedule, I suggest you consider purchasing the books. Also, I wanted to mention that I noticed that Amazon is offering free 2-day shipping to students (I don’t know if that covers used books as well).
I hope you are all enjoying your break, and I’ll see you on Tuesday.
Best, Prof -----

So here is, basically, what this professor has done: She's given us less time to get these books (This e-mail went out today class starts Tuesday and the website used to check required textbooks has said none were required for this class the whole time) while simultaneously taking away our most convenient option (the University bookstore). That's a big enough issue. Furthermore, she's denying us the ability to support a local, independent bookstore that happens to also support students at our school (full disclosure: it's also my employer, but I bought my textbooks at University books before I worked there.) and instead suggested we buy from amazon.com- a large national company putting bookstores across the country out of business. 2-day shipping does not apply to used books in most cases and since Amazon's used market contracts through individual sellers, I'll likely be paying shipping on each of 8 books she's required.


While I think it's nice that she's trying to save us money, waiting this long to send us the list, and denying us the ability to get the books through U bookstore (I can probably order them through the U bookstore, but had she placed the order weeks ago with all the other professors, they might have been able to get enough used copies for all of my classmates, something that is easier to do for class-sized orders with sufficient notice than for a single last-minute order.) If she wants to send her students to Amazon.com that's fine for her but she should also order the books through the established mechanism at U bookstore (like every other prof at UW) for the sake of convenience and to support our local independent bookstore.

I suspect this professor had simpler motives than a desire to save us a few pennies (after shipping I doubt very much the savings will be greater than a bookstore price including the student rebate.) I'm guessing she didn't order her books in time and is blaming the bookstore for that. Which is both tedious and insulting to my intelligence.

Ok, that's my rant for the day. If you're in the mood to weigh in, tell me: Should I drop the class? Should I tell the professor what I think?

Democracy for some

I still remember the first time I encountered Bernard Lewis's writing. As a freshman I'd taken a class on Islam at Willamette, and my professor cautioned me about putting too much stock in Lewis. He didn't discourage me from reading it, only suggested that I keep in mind the man's view of a world defined by a clash of civilizations. He was right on. I have a hard time taking Lewis (or any one who cites him to support their own arguments) seriously. I've spent the rest of me education generally ignoring him, which has always made me slightly uncomfortable. I've always wondered if I do this simply because he doesn't agree with me, and if this is a hallmark of my own ideological entrenchment and even academic laziness.

Lewis seems to want to spare me the concern, however, as he's lately been stating rather plainly that Arabs aren't ready for democracy.

I love this argument. I really do. I'm in awe of the moral and academic acrobatics it must take to convince yourself that you can say one way or another about entire nations being ready for or capable of Democracy. That kind of arrogance is really something we should all stop and appreciate for a moment.

Americans (not even professors from Princeton) aren't actually the authority on who can or cannot govern themselves. We've done well for ourselves since 1776, but our Democracy is yet imperfect. Our nation came from genocide and slavery, from oppression and violence. We have made mistakes, we have faced domestic and foreign strife, we have almost come apart in civil war. Let's not pretend this makes us the ultimate authority on democracy-building. There are a number of things that are great about this country, and I wouldn't want to be a citizen anywhere else, but we're not perfect either. We certainly don't get to say that our way is the only way.

Self-determination ought to be a right for any human on this planet. Lewis and his like-minded ilk can sit down and shut up. Their brand of orientalism has controlled the narrative long enough. If the people of Egypt and Libya and Yemen and Bahrain can overthrow dictators (often ones we imposed or propped up anyway), if they can give their lives and their safety for the hope of a freer tomorrow, we can all take a moment and remind ourselves that democracy is not our privilege to bestow only upon those we deem worthy.

Over poor Spanaway

I'm not a particularly warm person. I tend to run hot or cold. This is one of those flaws I pretend to be proud of, as though there is some honor in snapping from fury to dispassion at the drop of really any kind of headgear. I think writing is frequently how I explore this tendency, and also something I rely upon to temper it. I've written my fair share of hot-headed letters (or emails) and sent them before I had the good sense to calm down, but usually the act of putting words into sentences cools me down (or thaws my sub-zero side) before I do any real damage.

So instead of going to bed angry or in tears, instead of sulking silently, I am writing. Tonight I wanted to write about Libya, in part because while I'd like nothing more than to see that little despot in the sunglasses brought to Holland and marched through the streets of Den Haag, (I think this might be a little residual conquer-lust from reading Cleopatra,) my love for international law as an academic exercise and my red-hot fury at the murder and human rights abuses have unexpectedly combined to make me kind of wary. I want to see the Libyan people free of Gaddafi, and I would think seeing him face charges wouldn't be out of line. But freedom (in the pre-Bush administration sense of the word) shouldn't be imposed upon a people externally. This tweet (yes, I know I'm not on twitter but I can't avoid it when it shows up elsewhere) caught my eye today: "To all those celebrating the UN resolution on Libya, so-called "humanitarian intervention" filled our graves to their limits. Love, Iraq."

Now, there are a number of reasons why the invasion of Iraq is not so much oranges to an intervention in Libya's apples as it is an entirely separate food group all together. Those differences aside, am I ultimately more comfortable with a military intervention now because our commander in chief is less cowboy-crazy for explosions? I'll admit, I probably am. President Bush was a scalding/freezing type and I'm frankly more comfortable with these decisions being made by a President who thinks things through. Furthermore, (and most importantly) I think the support for intervention in Libya is greater internationally and within Libya itself is much greater than it was in Iraq. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have so bankrupted this country (of actual money and of moral credibility) that we simply can't commit to that scale of intervention in Libya, so maybe that's a small comfort as well. I don't like the idea of President Obama or any one going in and telling the Libyans how to run their country, but clearly Gaddafi's people have had enough of him and I have no problem if President Obama or the UN wants to do whatever it takes to get their backs.

And just to mix things up a little more, I'm going to bring up the No Taxpayer Funding For Abortions Act (HR 3). I want to know why the "pro-life" Republicans don't bring up a "No Taxpayer Funding For Executions Act" or a "No Taxpayer Funding For Predator Drones Act". A great West Wing quote about taxpayers paying for things they don't like is coming to mind, but TV-references aside, I understand why people respond so emotionally to this. I get it, I do. It isn't an easy thing to talk about and it isn't easy for most hardliners on either side to see past their own position. But it is hard enough already. Unwanted pregnancy, (and, I'd imagine, particularly the kind that result from rape, incest or that threaten the life of the mother) are hard enough. It is the worst place most women can find themselves, and we should commit every effort to see that fewer do. The only way to prevent abortion is to prevent unwanted pregnancy and de-funding Planned Parenthood will only increase it.

But more importantly (and here I'm not going to resist the temptation to quote West Wing) if we're about freedom from tyranny, then we're about freedom from tyranny, and if we're not, we should shut up. What greater tyranny could there be than the suggestion that my body (in any condition) be subject to some one else's control? We've got to make sure abortion is safe, and that means making it legal and accessible to every woman (not just those with a spare $650). Even if you're married or too old to have kids or a Lesbian or a man, this issue directly affects you. It speaks to the very health of our society and to the sincerity of what we call American values. Our bodies are our bodies and no one and nothing (not religion or law or even economic circumstance) should allow some one else to claim sovereignty there.

See, I'm feeling calmer already. I don't mean to be so coy about why I'm having such trouble breathing lately, I just want to be careful about telling secrets that aren't my own. I have a friend who was in a tough situation and who made her choice and got her way out of it. It was unavoidable that it was going to bring up some old issues from my own past, but we're Iraq and Libya on this. I was a disaster, there were lots of complicating circumstances that made a tough choice for me into a complete nightmare. She's Libya, in this metaphor, and she's got a difficult road ahead but she's got a much better support network, a much better head on her shoulders and I think she's going to be OK. I can't pretend that we're in the same shoes just because it makes for a snappier 140-character quip.

With that, I am calmly off to bed.

PS

The title of this post comes from a song that keeps running through my head every time I check my blog stats to see who's reading. I guess sometimes warning shots across the bow just don't work like they did in the days before they were metaphor. Anyway, here are the lyrics for the song, but if you haven't heard Neko Case yet, you should do so right away:

"The Needle Has Landed"
Neko Case

Here I am in traffic's slow flow
Where the needle touched down
Carbon planes draw a cage round the air force base
Where the needle touched down
My foot on the brake it's ok to fly low
Over poor Spanaway

An eagle swooped down from a semi-trailer
Took the name of your town from a sharp-toothed freighter
The needle's the same that recorded and played
When you left me at the greyhound the year I moved away
And if I knew then what's so obvious now
You'd still be here baby
My baby, baby

So that's why I never come back here
That's why they spit out my name
Your ex's have clawed up the bible
Trying to keep me away
With the sledge of tectonic fever
The needle has landed again
Let it play

And the needle touched down
The needle is landing
And the needle touched down
The needle is landing

An eagle swooped down from a semi-trailer
Took the name of your town
From a sharp-toothed freighter
And if I knew then what's so obvious now
You'd still be here

Ugly nights and Cleopatra

Last night I finished reading Cleopatra: a life, Stacy Schiff's beautifully-written attempt to set the historical record straight (or at least straighter) about "the most wicked woman in history." I loved every word. I've long had a weak spot for even the bawdiest sorts of Cleopatra-related historical fiction, but this biography is even better. (I may be watching the super melodramatic 1999 Billy Zane and Timothy Dahlton miniseries on youtube right now. I'd certainly never admit it.)

So any one who knows me has heard me complain about how men (specifically Mark Antony) ruined EVERYTHING. After Antony's final defeat in Alexandria, he rides back (apparently) shouting that Cleopatra had betrayed him. Schiff doesn't outright dismiss this as apocryphal, and even suggest a few reasons why such a betrayal might have been in the young queen's best interest. She ultimately leads the reader away from this version of history, however, pointing to several flaws in the logic of these accounts and other circumstantial evidence to suggest that Cleopatra was, even to her detriment, loyal to her love until the end.

I have to admit that whatever feminist rage I'd been having 30 pages before seemed to vanish. I didn't want Cleopatra to have betrayed Antony in the end, no matter how foolish or weak he was. Maybe I relate best with a woman when I believe that she, too, would love a man like that even if it meant her ruin. Maybe it comforts me to think that if some one as powerful, intelligent and cunning as she can be consumed by love in such a self-destructive way than I can forgive myself for doing the same from time to time. Maybe I'm just a romantic sap who likes love stories and deeply tragic endings.

Romance aside, what Octavian hated and feared (and probably admired) most about her was her audacity to think herself the equal of a man. It's hard not to see the connections between the ancient Egyptian feminist and her steely, tough-as-hell descendants (in nationality if not by actual blood) in Tahrir square. Other things in this book seemed surprisingly relevant to the modern day. Particularly the evidence that, even a couple of thousand years later, the West still thinks of the East in sexualized, emotional terms. But I think what engaged me most about this book was not the epic view of history or orientalism or even feminism but the way Schiff takes but snatches of detail and whole stretches of silence to paint a picture of a real human being.

Tonight is an ugly night. I am trying to rise above my small, personal emotions and think about more important things. Instead, I feel like I'm drowning in memories. All day long I have drifted between rare moments of crisp, coherent clarity- trying to translate for an Arabic-speaking customer, catching a minor shoplifter, dispensing with thesis-related errands- in a sea of blind panic and anxiety, barely able to force air into my lungs. I want to put the past behind me. I want to breathe steadily. I want to rule my kingdom and wage my wars and not have to think about all the heartbeats in between the great events. Which is not to say I need to be important or great or even all that special, just that I'd like to be more a person and less a tempest of emotional turmoil. It is not Mark Antony's weakness that bothers me tonight, it is just my own. I know it will pass. And should historians ever record my life-love me, or hate me- they will not waste any words on nights like this one.

Let's clear up a few things about rape...

Thanks to SLOG writer Cienna Madrid for posting this story about the NYT article covering the attack.


The New York Times is basically my favorite media source to criticize. Not because I think they are the worst, by any means, but because I think, unlike FOX news or the NY Post or most other mainstream media sources, they have the potential to rise above the orientalist, racist, sexist, sensationalist tendencies of the American press. So when I'm calling them out, know that it is not out of rage or disdain or even disgust (though I may feel all of those things), nor is it out of a desire to see the newspaper shut down for good; I believe the New York Times is better than the type of reporting I'm about to criticize it for.

An 11-year old girl in Texas was gang-raped. The NYT story on the rape is here. Notice the inclusion of unattributed comments by residents who claim that the girl dressed inappropriately or provocatively. Then remember that she was 11 years old. Ask yourself if there is any outfit an 11-year old could wear, any outfit at all, that would justify or explain a 27-year old man (not to mention high schoolers and middle schoolers) raping her.

Even worse, the NYT is refusing to apologize after being called out for this. I have written a letter to the editor and I encourage all of you to do the same. Letters can be e-mailed to letters@nytimes.com. Here is my own:

To whom it may concern,

The 3/8 article on the gang-rape of an 11-year old girl in Texas is appalling. The inclusion of remarks about the girl's dress ("They said she dressed older than her age, wearing makeup and fashions more appropriate to a woman in her 20s.") perpetuates the belief that what a woman wears justifies or explains brutality against her. This 11-year-old girl is a child, regardless of how mature she looks, dresses, or acts, and for a newspaper to imply that her brutal gang-rape was somehow caused by her outfits (or to dignify the opinions of those who would suggest this by including their unsubstantiated comments in the article,) is the worst kind of irresponsible journalism. Your paper ought to be above this sort of archaic notion that a woman's (or, in this case, a girl's) manner of dress is linked in any way to rape. Rape is a crime of power, not a crime of sexual desire. The reporter who published this story under his name ought to be ashamed of himself.

In a statement issued in response to objections about this article, your spokeswoman declares "This story is still developing and there is much to be learned about how something so horrific could have occurred." Something horrific did not occur- earthquakes occur, hurricanes occur, floods occur- rapes are committed by rapists. The men who raped this girl perpetrated a horrific crime and there are no circumstances that could justify or explain their behavior.

Sincerely,

Kelsey Pince
Seattle, Washington

Seriously, NYT. You're better than this.