Palindrone

Although he may be labeled as out-of-touch in other areas, John McCain was no fool when he picked Sarah Palin as his VP. McCain's campaign was in some serious need of energy when compared with Obama's just prior to the Democratic and Republican conventions, and the selection of Palin was a total boon for the GOP. I think almost everyone can agree with that statement, whether you're now buying Palin glasses or sporting a "Women for Obama" sticker on the back of your gas-efficient Prius. Palin energized McCain's conservative base, generated headlines, further substantiated McCain's reputation as an unpredictable maverick, and made the Republican party look progressive. Those are pretty significant accomplishments that have to do with more things than her gender. Not just any Republican female politician could have been Palin to McCain, if that makes sense.

As with most other things in politics, opinions about Palin are extremely polarized. To many Democrats, Palin's appointment as VP candidate was almost laughable--McCain was essentially pulling a publicity stunt by selecting an attractive, articulate, but inexperienced female to manipulate vulnerable and disgruntled Hillary voters. To many Republicans, putting Palin on the ticket was invigorating proof that McCain is sufficiently conservative and innovative enough to lead and reform the many woes of the 30% approval George Bush party--in other words, they could not be more thrilled.

But, in accordance with my usual manner of thinking, I don't really agree with either side wholeheartedly. I don't dislike Sarah Palin. Categorizing her as nothing but a down-home mother of five who got lucky politically in Alaska is to deny her the attribution of intelligence, raw talent, and political skill that she deserves. However, I think McCain selected her because she had the potential to be a campaign and public relations gold mine--not because she was the best candidate for the position. She gave McCain the bump in the polls he needed; deal with the practical ramifications later.

Disregarding her experience, Palin is, to me, the perfect female politician. She's tough, smart, and confident, all the while maintaining valuable female characteristics. In other words, unlike Hillary Clinton, she is not a "bone shrinker." Somehow, she's managed to acquire the male qualities necessary to succeed in the political world without compromising her femininity. She is the sought-after supermom--cradling her children one moment and leading the office (or state or nation) the next. The pitbull-with-lipstick joke may have been more apt than she realized.

Yet her experience is the sticking point. Being a mayor and governor in Alaska provides limited experience, even when compared with governors of other states with larger budgets, larger and more diverse populations, and with the complex concerns associated with the continental United States. There are some crucial issues upon which Sarah Palin hasn't even a sliver of knowledge. That isn't meant to be an attack on her person; it's simply the truth about what she knows and what she has done. She doesn't know the Bush doctrine, yet emphatically delivers heavily scripted words about Iran's nuclear program? That is problematic. If McCain was interested in gaining a political edge that would be beneficial to him before and after the campaign, should he be elected, he should have selected another female Republican, one with more broad and lengthy political experience. Considering the overwhelming number of problems the next president will inherent from George W., I simply wouldn't feel comfortable with potential that Palin could take the helm.

And honestly, as a woman, her selection feels like an attempt at manipulation of the "weak" female mind (Hillary supporters were not just hungry for a female president) and affirmative action. It would be one thing if Palin hoofed it on her own. Her riding into the White House on 72 year old McCain's coat tails doesn't really look like the glass ceiling shattering to me.

The question is, I suppose, if McCain felt it was politically gainful to select a female VP, why Sarah Palin above other, more experienced female politicians? I said at the beginning of the post that not just any female Republican could have been Palin to McCain. That statement makes complete sense to me on an intuitive level, but it seems to be difficult to substantiate. McCain met her once prior to vetting. Alaska is not exactly a place many of us think about or hear of often. A pro-life woman with a large family and lifetime NRA membership from a rural, backwater town sounds more disaster on a Dan Quayle scale than diamond in the rough. Still, whether or not you like her or think she's truly capable, most everyone admits they underestimated her.

part 2

As promised, I'm providing small reviews of five more books that you may enjoy. However, despite my lengthy justification for it, I'm scrapping my efforts to describe the mood or style of each book after giving the genre. The descriptions weren't really all that useful, now that I look back on them.

6. The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman (Current events, Globalization): There are an awful lot of uninformed generalizations readily proferred in many lay discussions about globalization, outsourcing, computers, and the internet in relation to the economy. Friedman's voluminous work provides a comprehensive, but accessible, explanation of the development and operation of the leveled playing field of 21st century business. Although Friedman's commentary on the current and future merits of this hyper-connected world may not be unassailable, he certainly gives structure to all of the disconnected talk about closing American factories, Indian Dell Help-Line Operators, and the powers of workflow software. Case studies are the main way Friedman presents sometimes complex, abstract concepts of business; some of my favorites were: the development of Apache open-source software, Indian telemarketers, and a start-up data entry business in Cambodia. According to an MBA friend of mine, Friedman's work is required reading for most upper-level business classes. So if nothing else, you'll feel kinda sorta smart reading it.



7. Shake Hands with the Devil by General Romeo Dallaire (Non-fiction): I decided to pick up this book after watching a film by the same name which followed General Dallaire on his return to Rwanda, 10 years after the genocide. While the film is primarily an examination of Dallaire and Rwanda after the genocide, the book is a detailed, day-by-day account of the operations of the U.N. prior to and throughout the genocide. A Canadian commander, Dallaire was in charge of the UNAMIR peacekeeping force, which, unfortunately, failed in its mission due to the inefficiency of the U.N. and apathy of the international community. The book is difficult to read, not because of graphic accounts of genocide--Dallaire mercifully spares us from numerous descriptions of atrocities--but because of the infuriating truth that the mass slaughter could have been prevented. The complacency, and even complicity, of Western nations was criminal.

8. Blink by Malcolm Gladwell (Social Science): By systematically studying intuition, Gladwell manages to incorporate modern and postmodern ideals into his examination of the human ability to know certain things quite confidently with very little information. In some situations, Gladwell proposes, more and more information only confuses the initial and correct suggestion of our instinct. Intuition enables us to make necessarily rapid decisions in everything from war to marriage to art--a few arenas in which he finds case studies. But in other situations, subconscious bias influences intuition in a manner that is destructive and even dangerous. Through understanding the dynamics of our instinct, Gladwell believes that societies and individuals can appropriately impede or release the power of intuition for personal and social betterment.

9. Piece of Cake by Cupcake Brown (Autobiography): There are plenty of autobiographies out there whose authors experienced pasts filled with dysfunction, addiction, and crime. I'm not sure that Cupcake Brown has produced the best of the bunch, but her story is surely one of the most dramatic and fascinating to read. (And, as far as I know, Oprah hasn't called her onto the carpet for any false details either.) Severely abused as a child in a foster care home and on the streets, Cupcake began drinking, using drugs, and prostituting herself before her
12th birthday. Of course, it only got worse from there. Her intelligence and tenacity eventually enabled her to become sober and successful, but most true stories about people with backgrounds like hers--I wish there were no such thing as a background like hers--don't have such pleasant endings.


10. Gang Leader for a Day by Sudhir Venkatesh (Sociology, Social Science): The only reason I decided to pick up a book with such a sensational title was because, well, Stephen Levitt mentioned Venkatesh in his excellent book, Freakonomics (also something you should consider picking up). As a graduate student of sociology at University of Chicago, Venkatesh naively wandered into a dangerous housing project on the South side to survey poor young black men. He had an extended run-in with gang members upon his arrival, but he repeatedly returned to the community and ended up befriending one of the gang's leaders. I found that the most interesting story in the book was not the naive grad. student in the ghetto, but rather the organizational structure of the gang and of life in the Robert Taylor community. Though certainly unpredictable, Venkatesh reveals that survival in the projects is not random, but determined by an alternative infrastructure and code of behavior, rather than the normative systems of mainstream culture.

bookies anonymous

There are two factors that have influenced the number of books that I have read over the last six months. First of all, while I've always enjoyed reading, college didn't really leave me much time to pick up books of my choosing. Even on the rare week that it did, I was tired of reading for class and going back to the library, just for fun, wasn't all that appealing to me. But I slowly accumulated lists of books that I wanted to read once I had the time and the space in my head. Along comes graduation, and I find not only hours here and there to read, but also an intense desire to continue improving my lil' ol' brain.

Secondly, the novelty of my commute on the CTA has worn off. For the first few months, I never brought books with me. I was happy listening to my iPod, looking out the window, watching people, and thinking about life in the abstract. During this period of time, I felt that using public transportation provides enormous potential for fulfilling reflection and even solitude. Even though I still feel this is true, I find I don't have a need for 2 1/2 hours of reflection and solitude every day (the total time I spend in my round-trip commute). Really. I don't. When I started to get bored with my iPod and people watching, I brought along books. Suddenly, I have a 2 1/2 hour block of time that I can use to read. This is a beautiful thing.

So, because of my post-college motivation and the time afforded by my commuting hours, I've gotten to read some great books. If you're looking for a good read, consider one of my ten suggested books that I've read since moving to Chicago. I'm including the first five in this post, the final five in the next. They're in no particular order; don't assume any hierarchy in their placement on the list. After the title, I include both the book's genre and its mood--or, the ideal attitude and desires of the reader as he or she completes the book. Optimistic readers looking for light, humorous fare shouldn't select The Lovely Bones, for example. Incongruities between the book's purposes and style and the reader's mood at the particular time can translate into dissatisfaction of the latter with the former for no other reason than timing. I would hate for anyone to put down a great book and never pick it up again because it didn't compliment the individual's particular reading needs at the time.

1. Why are all the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Tatum (Social Science; Detailed, intensive, thought-provoking--not a book that may be consumed quickly): If you're interested in the formation of racial identity, racial tensions, and the complexity of personal and institutional relationships between blacks and whites in post-civil rights movement America, Dr. Tatum's book is an essential and foundational read. She combines her scientific knowledge as a psychologist with her experiences leading racial identity and reconciliation classes; the narratives of some of her students are compelling and the best illustration of the information she presents theoretically.

2. Dubliners by James Joyce (Short Story fiction; brief, unresolved, modern, dramatic, relational, romantic, and literary goodness): The presiding theme of this collection is paralysis, and while Joyce certainly pulls you into the psychological states of these impotent characters, the beauty of the language and the characters' bittersweet reckoning with what is and what could have been won't leave you depressed. His final story, "The Dead," is absolutely magnificent.

3. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold (Fiction; tragic, suspenseful, intense, and all-absorbing read): Although this novel may certainly be a fast read--I completed it in a day--it's not a light one. Sebold vividly describes the rape and murder of a young girl, the grieving processes of her family members as they attempt to reorder their lives after her death, and the girl's own thoughts as she watches from heaven while her family struggles. A rape victim herself, Sebold is brutally realistic about the possibility of achieving justice or normalcy after such a senseless act.

4. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson (Non-fiction; mysterious, historical, easy reading with its journalistic prose): Between its details on the 1894 Chicago World's Fair and the horrific psychopath that haunted it, Larson's book is a 20/20 murder special and History Channel documentary combined. What Daniel Burnham and the city of Chicago achieved at the turn of the century with their creation of the White City is fascinating enough; the Devil lurking in his hotel nearby their triumph makes the book difficult to put down. Dr. H.H. Holmes, the unremorseful serial killer and con artist, was little known prior to the publication of this book, but his perversion easily matches that of any modern murderers. It is a necessary read for Chicagoans and any who appreciate accounts of good ol' American innovation, determination, and calculated homicide.

5. God's Politics by Jim Wallis (Current issues and Religion; intense political and religious fare in straightforward language): As I mentioned previously, Wallis' book doesn't entirely fulfill the bipartisan promises on its cover. Wallis does a better job of articulating the perspectives and priorities of Christian progressives than he does question the Democratic party that he is so obviously a part of. However, if you're a dissatisfied conservative, or a member of the Religious Right who would like to understand the Religious Left, I would highly recommend this book. Afraid of adopting any liberal ideologies? Mix with equal parts of Rush Limbaugh.

why so partisan?

On my facebook account, I'm listed as a moderate, and appropriately so. Well, actually no. Perhaps a moderator might be a more apt term to describe the way in which I interact with politics. Though my opinions are not nearly so shifty and poll-dependent as many of our political leaders, I often find that I emphasize conservative issues and counterpoints while with Democrats, and liberal viewpoints while with Republicans. Each group, in its sincerest and most admirable form, should be represented fairly to "the other side." It would be nice to have "the other sides"; here's to wishful thinking. I placate my liberal friends by saying that many Republicans recognize and care about the same problems that they do--conservatives just believe in different solutions. To my conservative family and friends, I expose the policies of death and destruction that our "pro-life" President has so readily implemented during his term--Iraq and torture, for example. Almost everyone I talk to about these kinds of things, by the way, is a person of faith. All sincerely claim to allow their faith to influence their politics, as it should; of course, all are partisan, if not rabidly so.
Because this is a source of frustration to me, I eagerly purchased and devoured (no, not literally, you fool!) Jim Wallis' book God's Politics whose premise has become widely known through the '04 newspaper ads that boldly proclaimed: "God is not a Republican...or a Democrat." It turns out that its premise should have been, at least in my estimation, something like: "Christians can be Democrats too." Wallis slaughters the policies of the Right without mercy, and I found myself agreeing with him a majority of the time. And like any naive believer-of-book-premises, I sat waiting, confidently at first, for him to fulfill the promises of the cover and mercilessly shred the policies of the Left. This time never came. His criticisms of the Democratic party were not really policy related. Apparently the only thing they need to do is juice up their speeches with a little Jesus. If Democrats would only recognize the place of faith within the public arena, within social movements, then, yeah, sure, God would be a Democrat.
I closed Wallis' book a little more liberal and a lot more disillusioned with Christians and politics. Just when I thought I had discovered someone, a movement even, of Christians who weren't interested in partisanship, I just found a minority group who flies under the blue flag.
Now, I understand that when it comes right down to it, we must all choose "a side." When I cast my vote in November, I cannot vote for "neither." And I cannot custom-design a candidate. In the end, we all have to make a definitive, and yes, partisan, decision, based upon which candidate most completely meets our standards in regard to policy, experience, and character.
It is not this that I find most problematic; I'm a realist and try to be pragmatic. Some Christians will vote as Democrats, some as Republicans, unless we get a sweet new viable third party (unlikely)--this is the reality of the world we live in. But I wish that our discussions about politics were markedly non-partisan. There are things that Christians should care about that Democrats don't, and things that Christians should care about that Republicans don't. These issues go beyond merely peppering your policy speeches with religious language. It seems that once good, church-going folk select their party line, they focus on the issues that their party gets right in relation to traditional interpretations of Scripture, and are mostly indifferent to the ones that their party has royally messed up over the years. Why can't Christian Republicans admit the incongruence between the war in Iraq and biblical teaching on war and violence? Why are some so zealous to endorse what we have done there? Why are Christian Republicans uncomfortable about addressing poverty within a political context? Why are Christian Democrats closed to the possibility that a large, socialist government is unsafe and ineffective? That the welfare system may not equal "taking care of the poor"? Why don't any Christians at my liberal church recognize abortion as a significant social, if not political, issue? If our core committment is to the teachings of Christ, Christians should be prepared to discuss and address issues as Jesus people first, Republicans or Democrats second.
Healthier, more honest exchanges about political issues among Christians could result not in landslide victories for one party or another, but actual change in the priorities and policies of our politicians. If Red Christians retreat to one corner clutching their two issues, yelling, "These are the most important!" and Blue Christians go to the other with their two issues shouting the same, we'll get to...well, pretty much where we are right now. Jesus really isn't a Republican or a Democrat, and if we can get past some of the partisanshit, er, you know, and dialogue about all of the issues, regardless of the party line, we might start reaching real solutions.

nothing of note

The past few days I've gotten onto my blog determined to post something new, only to realize that I have nothing in particular to talk about, other than the fact that my Mom and older sister read my blog now. This is a good thing because they are providing me with stable, loyal readership. But this is also potentially a sensitive thing because I would rather not admit all of my imperfections or describe any offensive behavior in writing for them to produce later to my own detriment. Who knows. (And, I'm sure, you don't care.)
Although I'm tired and don't have any new material, I might as well generate another fascinating list for you all to consume. With my rather indolent addiction to composing lists instead of essays, I should probably rename my blog or at least feature a sub-title that pays homage to these ridiculous collections of random fact.

7 quirkiest happenings of late

1. While at the DMV, my application for an IL driver's license was marked with an astigmatism restriction and a desire to be an organ donor, both of which I do not possess. I was fortunate enough to correct the vision mistake, but not the one regarding the use of my organs. After 1 1/2 hours of standing in DMV lines, I decided not to get back in line and to let the chips fall where they may in regard to my organs. Shoot.

2. While in a predominantly African-American neighborhood just West of Wicker Park, a young man threw a piece of fruit at my car as I made a left-hand turn. He was successful in his endeavor to hit it.

3. I am reconsidering my political affiliations.

4. Today, after a snack of toast at the family home of the children whom I babysit, I left nearly half a loaf of Wonderbread on the counter. While I was out of the house, the family dog obtained the bread, shredded the bag, and consumed its contents. I later learned that this was the second loaf of bread he had stolen in that week alone. May the god of dogs have mercy upon his digestive tract.

5. I drank a beer with my grandparents. That's right. My grandparents.

6. Due to the entertainment needs of Bryce and Angelica, I have now adopted a new persona/identity that is known to them as "monkeyman." The monkeyman has yet to be seen by anyone older than 8.

7. I am developing a killer impression of Daniel Plainview in the final scene of There Will Be Blood, sans drool and vodka. "I drink your milkshake...I drink it up!" It is probably the only attention-getting thing I know to do at social gatherings. I need to foster a greater sense of inhibition and dignity.

surreal night life

Especially since leaving a conservative Christian university and entering what some term to be the real world, I have covertly, sometimes unconsciously, fostered a sense of pride regarding irresponsible behaviors that I did not engage in during college. To name them here would not only be futile and tedious, it would probably only perpetuate any such arrogant sentiments. Whatever. There are lots of people who didn't participate in such things and there is no reason for them, or me, to run around telling tales of self-discipline and restraint.
The reality is, however, that I live in a city, I'm young, and I no longer exist inside the strict, but necessary, constructs of a Christian university. And I guess I'm somewhat curious. I'm wise enough, and self-aware enough not to "go crazy," as so many of my high school friends predicted that I would when I went off to college. Some people really believe that motivated women who style their hair conservatively have a secret desire to toss away reason with reckless abandon when offered the right opportunity. No, up to this date, I have not loosed my hair and started acting like a freshman sorority girl because some enlightened male gave me cause. For me, exercising new-found freedom consists of no longer apologizing for an occasional penchant for top 40 commercialized rap and drinking a pint of beer at a low-lit bar once a week. But over the past few months, I have managed to make my way into two environments that pushed the bounds of my newly expanded standards of decorum and sophistication.
The first took place about a month ago. Soon afterwards, I wanted to chronicle it on this blog, but never got around to it. Just as well, I guess. Here's the deal: through a former connection at work, I managed to get a large group of friends on the guest list at Soundbar, one of the pretentiously sleek clubs in downtown Chicago. The night was in celebration of a good friend's 21st birthday; apparently she wanted it to be done right. Some of friends decided to plan an evening that was neither a sleazy, down-21-shots-of-vomitous-alcohol evening at somebody's house, nor a staid exchange of gifts and polite blowing-out-of-candles occasion. Primarily, I felt ambivalent about going out to a club, although I guess I was a bit nervous about what to expect.
After dinner all 20 of us walked over to the club to show our IDs and get started. I explored the two floors of the club and laid down $10 for an apple martini. Within 20 minutes I felt like a cliche. I had a black evening dress on, and I was dancing with a drink in my hand, most of it drizzling down my arm. What else does one do in such an establishment? One man had the courtesy to ask me to dance (I politely declined), while others simply felt entitled to come up behind me, or make a grab at my waist. I wondered if women tolerated this kind of thing regularly, or why men felt that because a woman entered a club she was interested in being grabbed by a stranger without permission. Are there different rules? I was grateful for the guys in our group, who managed to discreetly maneuver most such men away. Although I was somewhat put out by this behavior, I was even less prepared for what I saw at the lounge next door.
Around 1 a.m., we left Soundbar and went to the lounge next door. We had VIP access to a partially concealed lounge, which turned out to be convenient as most of our group was shielded from the two provocative dancers, who, among other things, wore large feather boots. While I was beginning to feel like I was having a bizarre out-of-body experience, most other patrons, outside of my group, looked pleased with themselves, slovenly kissing whomever they happened to be with and preening themselves in between dancing. One woman in particular was almost impossible to ignore in the melee of buzzed 20 and 30 somethings. She wore spike heels, an expensive scrap of a dress, and was, in a most focused manner, kissing some dark-skinned handsome man at the bar. This was not terribly surprising--I've seen worse on the train--but I could scarcely conceal astonishment when she turned around and began doing the same with a white-haired 60-something man to her left. Her drunkenness was apparent, but her soul was sober enough to allow her to slump over the martini glass at the bar and sob. Once this spectacle began, the Spanish-looking man walked away, but the older man began patting her shoulder in a way I can only describe as fatherly. He was probably married, his wife at home knowing the truth.
As I watched, the whole scene seemed almost staged--a few minutes from Sex and the City, or some other banal TV program. I felt like I shouldn't be watching, yet I could hardly help it. Do people really live this way? Spend their weekends this way? We left that club soon afterwards; there was talking of going somewhere else, but I think we had all seen enough. By 1 or 2 a.m., things really begin deteriorating at clubs, and at some bars. If you're not drunk, or not hooking up, you wonder why you're there, and begin to feel guilty about witnessing and judging behavior that is drenched in alcohol.
Fortunately, the second time I went out dancing was not nearly so traumatic. I went out to a neighborhood tavern in Wicker Park that features an evening that they title Sheer Magic. Within its dimly lit and limited space, a couple of DJs spin soul/funk music from the sixties and seventies for the fifty people that have somehow packed themselves onto a tiny dance floor. It's way fun, although sometimes I felt strange dancing to the same music that my mom probably did when she was 16. Oh well. My children will probably dance to Justin Timberlake remixes someday and I won't have anything to say about it. Anyway, all of the dancing, and the people, and the fans turned on full blast, and the one beer that I had finished two hours prior left me feeling a bit disoriented and dreamy (that feeling you have after a long afternoon nap) as I drove home around 1 a.m. It was raining on the empty streets, and I was listening to something chill--we'll say something equivalent to Snow Patrol. And at a stop light, some little cross-eyed boy, no more than 14 or 15, appeared next to my car (if you have ever been on Western Avenue at 1 o'clock in the morning in that neighborhood perhaps you have seen him too). He came within 6 inches of my window, looked at my face, and began to shake his cup for change. Usually I turn away, but I couldn't help but stare. The weirdness of it all near paralyzed me; I knew that I was being rude. When I didn't roll down my window to give him money, he extended open palms to the side of his body and began to thrust them up and down aggressively--"Come on, come on"--as if I owed him money. I did nothing but stare at him until the light changed. There was nothing normal or familiar about that night or driving at that hour, alone; as I continued to drive I struggled to integrate myself--little white, type-A, female, conservative, inexperienced me--with such new and odd experiences. Until six months ago I knew nothing, experientially, of the city, night life, the normative practices of other twenty-somethings, sometimes thirty-somethings, or of little boys begging for money at all hours. And though I enjoy the freedom outside of the constraints of my prior environment, I find that I have no desire to partake of normative, twenty-something night life practices. Since most of them seem like they have been getting drunk and getting cozy with strangers for a decent amount of time, I feel like an outsider, and strange for going out only to dance. All of the evils associated with clubs and bars that I was warned repeatedly about in high school youth group--the deadly slippery slope--turn out to be less seductive in nature, and more pitifully boring than generally marketed.

ungracious and off

I'm not always as charitable as I would like to be. In high school I remember other kids in youth group who thrived off of helping or befriending people who could only take, and never give. Although I was part of a leadership group at a local camp, I never volunteered to help with the week designated for disabled students. I just felt I wasn't holy, wasn't patient enough. Of course I never articulated this; I assumed others innately sensed my inferiority in working with these particular students and therefore never tried to enlist me. I know it's what Jesus would do...give and give to people that cannot repay you, just seem to take and take. If some of my high school friends didn't actually possess the genuine, humble servanthood of Christ, they at least faked it pretty well, something I didn't feel I could do. Fortunately, I've grown up a bit since then; I'm not as frightened, or preoccupied, by the possibility of failing at ideal Christ-like servanthood. I'm just one broken person serving another. And yet, I still find myself surprised and, simultaneously, ashamed at my occasional impatience, my lack of compassion with those whom I serve.
There's a woman at my church who has been needing help with her apartment. It's terribly disorganized and she will be moving soon. I went over to her apartment to help, and within a half an hour, I found myself consumed by the task in front of me and, internally, spiritually, pushing her away. I was frustrated by how slowly everything was going--how she had to look over each bill before throwing it away, how every object was the opportunity for a meandering detailed story, how every photo a lengthy explanation. I was frustrated by the pencil shavings and paper scraps spilled on the floor after I painstakingly swept it with a five dollar broom. Besides the fact that it was late, I was ready to leave. She wasn't aware that anything was wrong, but I was. I was mad at how the evening went, mad at myself for being mad at her. Sorry Christian that I am, I didn't go home, repent, and promise never to feel this way again. I felt justified in my attitude, and, to tell the truth, it was quite easy to slip into the next time I interacted with her, this time in my own home. Why did she ask for more, and more? Why the presumption that I would help? Why the demand for making a list for her when I wanted to enjoy Sunday lunch? This is all terrible, no? She's not a self-sufficient, stable person--you are, Elizabeth...so why the filthy attitude?
I realize that engaging in another person's life is often a messy process; it may be punctuated by moments of frustration or anger. I'm not the sweet blonde girl who talks to homeless women on lunch break...this is to my shame, but, it's the truth, nonetheless. Still, I think I'm realizing just how selfish I can be, even in situations in which I am to be giving. I want to feel a sense of accomplishment, that I have helped, that I am appreciated, that I am not being taken advantage of. I hate feeling used, and pointless, and drained. What I do and do not want to feel when ministering to another person is irrelevant, at least according to Christ's teachings. If I am to give a man a shirt, why not my cloak as well? And if he strikes me on the cheek, am I not to turn the other? The way of Christ is a surrender of self, not a particularly humanitarian fulfillment of it. Christ emptied himself; the least I can do is damn my petty goals and expectations and desire for good feelings when I help someone to clean up their apartment.

favorites so far

Of course I haven't taken advantage of everything that Chicago has to offer in the summer time. I haven't the time, nor the money. However, I will say that if I was independently wealthy and needed no job, I could easily fill my time with concerts, movies, outdoor restaurants, festivals, tours, and the like. Now that it is the end of June, I thought it might be useful for me, and mildly entertaining, to jot down the things I have enjoyed most about this summer:

1. Taking a nap in Millenium Park: the sun was on my face, the grass was cool, and I was completely unconscious.

2. Drinking a beer outside: it's relaxing.

3. Playing the piano with the windows open.

4. Slogging through the mud at The Blues Festival to see B.B. King perform.

5. Eating a picnic at Ravinia: jazz, dessert wine, and good company.

6. Building sand castles with Bryce and Angelica at the beach.

7. Dashing into the lake with friends at 10 o'clock at night while wearing American flag swim trunks as a few friends shot fireworks over our heads.

8. Wearing sun dresses whenever I want.

9. Dancing to soul music at a Wicker Park bar.

10. Smelling summer when I wake up in the morning.

There are still quite a few things on my summer list, most of which I hope to fulfill, although it seems to be rushing past me at a far greater clip than I anticipated.

delinquent

All the promises of more posts have come to naught. I have written so little lately that I have positively refused to log onto my own blog. The morose reality of the shoddiness of my most recent entry, along with its month-old stale status as the post that is displayed first, made the blog rather unpleasant to me. Exhaustion may be labeled as the culprit for the miserable, even non-existent, flow of creativity from my generally active brain. Because the busyness of my life isn't showing convincing signs of letting up any time soon, I've even thought about closing this down for a while. Not that this would particularly bother anyone, other than myself: I have a sneaking hunch that one or two people log onto this site a couple of times a day and make it look like it gets more hits than it really does. I've decided against the lame-ass option of quitting, however, and opted for more manageable, briefer posts. Several times I've begun lengthy entries, only to complete a page and a half and be down for the count--or, rather, initially up, as I must first climb up into my loft bed before collapsing. Short and sloppy will likely be the order of the blog for the next few months. Better than nothing, right?
As you may have surmised, I like finding pleasure, even spiritual significance, in the small things in life--the more common, the more everyday, the better. I like to look for understated moments and events that somehow reflect larger truths, realities, or characteristics of human nature. This is everything from watching a young guy hail a cab downtown for an old woman with a cane, to discussing racism with a black ex-con on the Red Line. When I was witnessing or partaking of these situations, I removed myself, if only briefly, for a few seconds to view it from the broader scope of humanity, even spirituality. Sometimes this causes a sentimentality that is most unbecoming, even cliche, especially for a blog, but I gotta bring it to ya'll real, know what I'm sayin'? Now, I don't usually experience these kinds of moments in structured institutions--give me the train or the street any day. But today, while spending my usual time with Bryce and Angelica, I experienced one of these moments in a museum, of all places.
Within the genetics exhibit of The Museum of Science and Industry (last surviving building of the 1893 Chicago World's Fair) there are two incubators. One for fluffy yellow chicks, the other for unhatched eggs and soggy, exhausted hatchlings. Apparently it takes about 5 hours for a chick to peck its way out of its shell, after which time they generally lay around for a couple more, resting and marvelling at the new things around them. Bryce, Jelly, and I somehow managed to visit the incubators at the 4 hour, 40 minute mark for one of the eggs. At first, we could see chips of the shell slowly flaking away every few minutes. The bird would peck for 2 or 3 seconds, then rest, peck, and rest. As a steady ring of shell was gradually pecked away, the chick moved more and more. At 4 hours and 50 minutes, it was time to go. It's an hour back from the museum, we had to go...Bryce and Jelly needed dinner; I needed the same, and a nap. But their little faces were plastered against the glass. Bryce had his hands over his ears so that he wouldn't be distracted by the large crowd of people gathering behind us. We had front row seats to the show, not everyone did. They weren't speaking, just watching. When Bryce forgot to keep his hands over his ears, he would turn around, and each time I would say, "Bryce, don't take your eyes off of him. You could miss it." But it was time to go. How was I to know that we were at 4 hours and 50 minutes? It could be another hour, for all I knew. But I sensed that this was some kind of a spiritual moment, as strange as that sounds. I eat chickens. The damn things hatch all the time. Lots of them. And yet we were all watching with bated breath. And when the top of the shell began to show signs of opening to reveal the chick, not just a beak or some feathers poking through egg lining, there were little gasps of wonder from the people around us. We three stayed mostly silent. When the chick broke out fully, we watched for a few minutes more while it lay on its back, panting and sweaty. But one of the hatched chicks in the corner had gotten hurt somehow and was bleeding. Angelica asked about it and I tried to explain, although I wasn't really sure how it had happened myself. She said she didn't want to look at it, so I put my hand over the glass through which she could see the bleeding, half-dead chick; she turned away to watch the newest one of the bunch.
They were quiet for a minute or two after we walked away, which is saying something for children whose energy is infinite and penchant for chattering just as bad. Angelica informed that she had never seen anything like it before. I said the same, although I meant it in a different way. I suppose it does seem a bit strange to feature the birth of a farm animal in the midst of a place with more technology, metal, and plastic than you could possibly see in a day; perhaps stranger still is the fact that none of us could keep our eyes off of this perfectly natural, organic process, or even politely mask our wonder.

More stories

I observed/experienced some rather strange things today on the 7:58 Purple Line to the Loop. Most mornings I am only too happy to get on the train. I'm already listening to either Justin Timberlake or the London Philharmonic Orchestra (no joke), so I typically feel good about settling down to people-watch, eat my yogurt, and listen to music. Today I was tired though. I barely got through the train doors before they closed, stumbled over to my seat, flopped down quite noisily, and began to quiet myself down again. The morning is often punctuated by intense periods of stress, followed by stretches of boredom. I was just drifting off to sleep when a man on the train came up behind me and hit me in the head with his paper. OK. I guess that's hyperbole. He brushed me with his paper, but he very obviously awoke me. I wanted to be all like "Don't be brushin' me wit yo newspaper at 8 o'clock in the mornin'. Ain't you got no sense?" (He was white, so I felt that this might have taken him aback.) Fortunately, I was able to let it go and fall back asleep.

At Fullerton, however, I was roused once again, this time by the sound of yelling. The train was packed already, and the large crowd waiting on the platform at that stop didn't help matters. I guess a man and woman from said crowd were both attempting to claim the same tiny, one-person space left in the front of my car. The man made it, and the woman didn't. I don't exactly know what happened to make it so. The woman wasn't giving up, however. Passengers could hear the train doors trying to close, over and over, as the woman yelled at the man, accusing him of pushing her out of the way. Instead of being gracious, the man took an attitude and tone of superiority, refused to allow her into the train, and yelled, "Hey look, call the police. Don't make accusations." Other passengers exonerated him once the doors closed and the train moved on. All the white people unite together to defend the man's right to speak to the loud black woman in such a way. But the people seated around me were quiet; from my perspective, the tensions were racially charged, both the woman against the man, and vice versa. I doubt either of them intended them to be so, or even realized it, but I'm surmising that the woman was feeling a sense of oppression, and the man, a realization of power, superiority over, as if they were tapping into parts and lines that have been written for them previously in our country's long and complex history of racial tensions. But I'm going much too far in my narrative. I was only intending to describe the encounter. Onto something a bit lighter:

Because I wasn't really able to sleep after the commotion, I pulled out of copy of StreetWise from my bag and began perusing it. As I looked up, I saw a young guy looking at me from across the train. And then, he winked at me. I became rather embarrassed and immediately became fixated on my paper. How rude, I thought. How awkward, I thought. What is the point of doing that? I wondered. A few minutes later, I looked again, only to discover that said winking man actually had some kind of facial tic that looked like a genuine wink. I almost burst out laughing, wished that he was close enough so that I could share the joke. "Tsk, tsk" to my own vanity, I say.

untitled

I have determined that this post will be the locale for very brief revelations/observations/events from my everday life. Enjoy/Loathe:

-After a particularly shitty day, a little bit of gospel music goes a long way.

-I now feel comfortable labeling myself as a writer, a pianist, and a singer. This is a relatively new development. Prior to two or three months ago I would say, "I sing sometimes," or "I like writing things down," or "I used to take piano lessons and I still enjoy sitting down to the instrument." Label it as negligible semantics, but I feel that this transition is significant.

-Although I rarely crossed words with boys, other than male professors, in college, and almost NEVER in the library, two men have now given me their numbers in two different libraries. I might as well keep a running tally.

-Last week I started keeping lists of places I want to visit in the city--these are mostly restaurants, clubs, and boutiques, but I'm open to suggestions for museums, etc. Top on my list right now: Kingston Mines and Fifty/50. There aren't enough weekends in the year.

-I sang two songs from Les Miserables at a piano bar this past weekend. I'm quite shy about singing, but I actually had a good time doing it.

-Between contacting CSO donors and observing on the train, I'm beginning to mentally chart the progression from college boy to committed professional man. It starts with the clothes, the large watch, continues with the adoption of an assuming air, self-assured voice, and concludes with a month long pass on the Metra and frightening hoarding of time, typically expressed by gesture, facial expression, or verbal protest, "I'm a very busy man. I'm always very busy." If a man is so unfortunate as to reach this last level, all around him, indeed, even his family, feel guilty for stealing even five minutes of his golden, precious time. As much as I don't mind men with style, I wish I could tell some of them to return the Italian leather shoes, wrist bling, and Jack Spade bags...give it to charity and learn to waste your time.

poetry training

While walking around at Looptopia, I told my friend Brian that I no longer write poetry, as evidenced by the absence of the proliferation of any lines of verse from my brain for at least a year. It's funny how things come back to you when you don't seek them out. I hope that truth applies to other areas of life.

Written on the train across from a man with a guitar and a black parole anklet

Underneath our sundry and subconscious
efforts at suppression--
the clean, pressed clothes over lithe body--
the soft, relaxed mouth and brow--
the familiar laugh offered freely in conversation--
underneath these resigned--but focused, even friendly--efforts,
there is the omnipresent kernel of loneliness,
the seed that showers, overwhelms the body
and the soul with its spores
at moments when we...when I, least expect.

As I look out the window, cross the street, say goodbye
to the neighbor children, I suddenly see
my cool confidence for what it is--a non-chalant--
breezy--excusing--but ever desperate attempt to paper over
what lurks beneath--a suspicion, an ache, a metaphysical
knowledge that this has all been done before,
that something is missing--a striking clue,
a lovingly constructed piece, a simple and sweet experience
that would allow a rich, soothing wholeness, like red
wine drenching the throat, and heart, and brain.

Even though I sit on the train alone,
I see young women like myself
whose arms are caressed, and ears kissed
with devoted professions by the kind man
beside them. And even then (always even, but, yet),
behind the eyes, there is a lack, an undefinable, still apparent
gap between the moment and what I imagine completeness to be.

How shall I strip away such oblivion, both for myself
and others...if I were to uncover this sad solitude,
expose it always for what it is, would it go
away, or only proliferate with silent, square-jawed vengeance?
And yet--and yet--if I smooth earth over its jagged seed, forget
its presence altogether, I am afraid that,
on an unforeseen and ordinary day, some brown tendril of vine
will thread its way up my ankle until I am overtaken,
rendered powerless to it, forced to surrender myself
to its constant, obvious, and painful presence.

Or shall I place it in a jar by the door, with proper homage
paid to Lennon's Ms. Rigby, and give it air
and light on occasion, turn it over in my hand,
examine its miniscule crests and crevices
until I feel that I know it thoroughly--
until I feel that I can put away
the furrowing, stinging pit--nauseous--when I choose.

library adventures

Life is becoming increasingly hectic, which requires me to up my intentionality in regard to blogging. I cannot simply allow it to happen when it will. I schedule it, place it upon my list, and log onto public library computers fo an hour with the express purpose of hammering something out. In case you need an extra hint, the latter item on that list of three happens to be the activity of which I am currently partaking. Here is the issue, however: I generally prefer themed, semi-focused writing, so I cannot simply slap all my thoughts down. So I'm selecting the topics that will produce the most volume of writing first, then moving onto the others second. Coming soon: experiences at Looptopia, thoughts on Chicago, an exposition on my personal development, and maybe even some thoughts on love, a topic upon which I am sorely underqualified to discuss. But discuss it, I shall. For today though, I will only venture to extend my commiserations on my ever-deepening relationships with libraries. My iPod is playing Enya, I am focused, I am coffeed, and I am ready to go.

My facebook status currently reads: "Elizabeth Tatum now owns three library cards...absolute perfection." I thought of typing "absolut perfection" instead to draw parallels between the drowsy loveliness of drinking some form of alcohol and the pleasure of libraries. But that is an unnecessary segue. And no, to answer your burning question, my status does not lie. I have a card for a library in Pennsylvania, one for a great branch in a northern suburb of Chicago, and, as of today, a white and green beauty which allows me access into any library in the Chicago Public system. The only response to this new development is a slow closing of the eyes and a contented sigh. How am I, Elizabeth Tatum, so fortunate as to be bestowed with the freedom to explore, rifle through, watch, and check out literally millions of media items of all kind? This, I cannot answer.
A friend of mine, whose penchant to party is about a 9 of 10 on a penchant to party scale, wrote to me, informing me that owning three library cards screams, "Mz. Frizzle is my role model." I wrote back reminding him of the fact that, only two weeks earlier, I was dancing in a club to hip-hop music after consuming one, and only one, alcoholic beverage. I didn't even need the drink. I can break it down any ol' time I want. I responded to his wall post with the following comment: "I am no Mz. Frizzle. And if I am, I am the freaky Mz. Frizzle." I only relate this interaction to you to quell the fears that are no doubt welling up in you over my frighteningly close resemblance to all librarian stereotypes. Whatever.
I discovered the library in which I am now enjoying part-time residence because of a stop on the train. Yes, that's right. There is a stop on the CTA called "Library." Sometime I will get a picture next to it. This is not a front, people. I really like libraries. It is an absolutely impeccable boyfriend, or even friend, substitute. It is impossible to feel alone while at a library. Not only are there other patrons about you at all times, but there are spades of words, and pages, and volumes that communicate human wisdom, and stupidity, through the ages. Ah. But I continue to digress instead of actually communicating what I intended to:
About a week ago I alighted from the train at said Library stop, and made my way into the Harold Washington Library at State and VanBuren. It may not be architecturally astounding on the inside, but my mind and mouth were hushed by its nine levels, unending hallways of marble, and floors dedicated to literature and the performing arts. I didn't ask for any map. That is something the old Elizabeth would have done. Now I wander at random, not caring for time, or structure, or getting lost. After I discovered floor 7, home to literature and literary studies, I was about to descend to the ground floor, when I noticed that the 8th floor featured visual and performing arts. I found that not only do they have every piece of sheet music imaginable, they also house piano practice rooms and a chamber music room. The former are open at all times, and the latter has to be reserved with four people 24 hours in advance. I went into room B with an upright Baldwin and spent a good hour and a half singing along to my iPod, favorite Broadway ballads, and rediscovering some of my favorite works: a Waltz by Chopin, an Invention by Bach, a modern piece with an impressive sounding (but easy) cadenza, and a Sonata by Beethoven. As I walked out of the room, I was so happy I could hardly stand it. Does this ever happen to anyone else? The feeling that you should go run a marathon, without doing any training whatsoever? Perhaps I need to take some medication to calm down.
Actually though, I was sobered up by a few things on the way out of the library. While walking through one of the long marble hallways, I came across a clear bottle lying on the floor. I picked it up and saw the name of a famous vodka maker. If I was a lush, I would have opened it up to extract the last 0.5 ounces of liquid from it. As my general drink to time ratio is about a pint of beer to two hours, I didn't feel comfortable taking a swig, all hygenic objections aside. Also, as I emerged from the bathroom on the 8th floor, I saw a sign which made me laugh, and just as suddenly, feel rather strange as to the original cause of it. It said something like this: "Occupancy is limited to one person per stall. Violators will be fined." I get excited about libraries, but not that kind of excitement, people. Apparently having sex in library bathrooms is on the rise. Those of us who see it as abhorrent may be part of a shrinking minority.
But my stories are not even finished. Further proof of the library's status as a relational hotspot revealed itself as I sat by myself at a four person table, continuing my slow and painful reading of Shake Hands with the Devil, an account of the Rwandan genocide. Correct me if I'm wrong, but typically people enjoy being alone at libraries. Sitting by yourself at a table implies the desire to be undisturbed. However, some poor guy was blind to such obvious social cues and tried to pick me up. That's right. No guy has ever offered me his number, or asked for mine, until one day at the library. How depressing. He came over to me, slid me a piece of paper and said, "Here. I'd like to give you my number." I hardly looked up from my book and mumbled, "Um. OK." He curved his body down to look at my face and said, "What's your name?" I told him, again avoiding eye contact. He said, "Well, it doesn't really seem like you're interested." My response: "No, not really. Thanks anyway." To give the kid credit though, he had guts, and he even spoke with a library appropriate voice. Too bad. Too sad. I felt bad about my response to him about thirty seconds later and wanted to run after him to make reparations. But he would have taken any further interaction as positive feedback, which I did not want. I should have at least lauded Suitor x for being gutsy though. Oh well.
Now, this doesn't mean that I'm opposed to meeting boys in a library. I would probably just want to orchestrate it differently.
These library adventures may continue, I think. Currently, while writing this blog, I am fending off a crazy who has been following me around. So far this week, I have gotten attention from two drunk, mid-thirtyish construction workers on the train, and a crazy man at the library. Save me from myself. Maybe it has to do with the damn library. Maybe it has to do with a new phenomenon that involves scary men pursuing weird women who like hanging out at libraries. Well, if it does, I guess I'll just have to start carrying mace or beef up my arms or learn really intimidating sounding expletives...because I'm not giving it up.

michigan avenue

A few weeks ago, I managed to procure a small, faux leather writing notebook. I plan to occasionally transfer writings from it to this little blog, although, granted, what I pen in a writing notebook may be a tad more personal than what I have been posting. However, have no fear: I do not plan to become one of those blathering bloggers who uses the internet as a tool to express angst, insecurity, or other sentiments that they would never express to other people. I consider my blog readers, few though they may be, to be on approximately a "middle friend" basis. This means that those who read what I write here will be privy to thoughts that I would not share with an acquaintance; however, do not assume that I reach the same depth in my ramblings here that I would while out to dinner with a close friend. It just won't happen. If it does, I need to be checked, maybe even clotheslined.
I wrote the following while chilling at the Caribou Coffee on Michigan Avenue.


I have been walking too far today. Getting lost in the crowds on Michigan Avenue on a spring day, rediscovering warmth with the thousands who now eagerly rush to meet the day--it is good for the soul, but as with any activity pursued too long, it can overwhelm and exhaust. This is mostly why I am sitting here with book, notebook, and pen, not speaking to the person who is sitting across from me. The raw, inarticulate emotion of the afternoon accumulates in me until I must take moments to refine it, carve out phrases, and smooth the rough surfaces of experience and memory. That's why I have to write something down.
I have been reading Garcia Marquez' brilliant novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude. The first time I read it, I was something like 13 or 14. Thematically, stylistically, and symbolically, I probably understood less than fifty percent of it then. That is why I brought it to the check-out counter at the library early this week. I want to experience it again and gather what I can.
As I read, I was overtaken with the simple, sweet contentment that only a good book can provide. I leaned forward in my seat, parallel to the large window next to me, as if to more physically know the words of Marquez that caress the pages with the enchanting and fantastical objectivity of magic realism. And while leaning over my book, I happened to glance out of the window. In an unanticipated moment of revelation, I looked outside and I saw spring flower before me with all of the immediacy of a Narnian melt. It was as if I hadn't noticed before. I saw the tulips extend their petals above the ugliness of the concrete and the delicate white cherry blossoms curtain the trees in the park across the street. It all makes me draw in my breath with both rapidity and gentleness.
I wish that someone would look at me in the way I look at the fresh beauty of spring. Although I am generally content as I am, there are times when I wish it was different. Sometimes feeling both beautiful and alone is positively bittersweet. If no one hears the tree fall, it makes no sound. And if no one sees me as I walk along the sidewalk with both my scarf and hair softly brushed by the wind, then I am not beautiful, and effort is a waste.

embarrassing entertainment

One of my aunt's good friends is a board member of a small theater here in Chicago, which, for some reason, I'm going to leave unnamed, although the quality of its productions is unassailable. This kind lady decided to procure, unsolicited, two tickets to 9, their most recent musical endeavor and gave them to my aunt. My aunt asked me to come along, and I gladly agreed. However, when the day rolled around a few weeks ago, Becky was feeling tired and rather disinterested in a theatrical performance. She told me this a little before church, only a few hours before we were to be on our way towards the stage. It was my job to find someone, and quickly. My first thought was my friend Laura, but then I recalled she had some family thing going on--birthday, mom, something or other. I wasn't quite sure who else I could ask from my church. Quite honestly, I'm a bit nervous about inviting people from my new church to partake of modern media or culture. I don't know what they enjoy, what they consider frivolous, or scandalous. While mentally debating with myself, I thought, what the heck, I'll just mention it to Laura and see what she says. Little did I know how glad I would be when she said she would come along; her mom's birthday was going to be celebrated in the late evening.
We traversed to a particular yuppie neighborhood in downtown Chicago and enjoyed exploring its streets before the play because we were there pretty early. Unfortunately, we walked too far and had to book it back to the theater to get there on time--I took off my shoes and ran/walked real fast on the sidewalk. Laura and I slipped into our seats just as the director stepped on stage to begin introducing the play. I should have known something was up when I looked around and only saw one child--a girl of about 12 who was sitting with her mother.
The play is about a writer/director/actor/philanderer who finds himself in the midst of personal and professional crisis. Not only can he not commit to his wife because of the 8 other women lurking around the corner, he can't seem to pull together a movie for a writing/directing/acting contract that he signed without any ideas for said film. Yes, there are 9 women dressed in black whose presence is constant in nearly all scenes. After the first song, these women pulled away the white sheet covering a large object on stage to reveal a rather graphic painting of a completely naked woman. This painting remained on stage for the remainder of the play. But it gets worse.
A few songs into it, one of the 9, reclining in only her underclothing, is rolled on stage in an antique bathtub. She is on the phone with our hero, saying lots of--ahem--suggestive things. At one point in her monologue, a few of the other women came up and poured water all over her. It was ridiculous. Laura and I were rather embarrassed, evidenced by the fact that we kept laughing, hiding our eyes, and exchanging shocked looks. I can't imagine my reaction if I was with someone from my church, or, may God help us all, a boy. I probably would have covered my face the whole time, or his, and apologize profusely the entire time.
Fortunately, the play didn't sexually escalate from there. The tub scene was as bad as it got. The thing even had some therapeutic and moral conclusion. Good for it. Good for our morally degenerate hero.
The food afterwards helped to repair some of the mental scarring. Apparently Laura and I were two of the very few citizen patrons that day. It was the press opening, with over 100 newspapers, online journals, etc. represented there. We greedily partook of the black bean dip and little sandwiches.
Even better was meeting the musical director of the play, and seeing the actor who portrayed the object of the 9 women's affection. The latter was surprisingly shy and unslimy in real life. Ah well. It takes all kinds.
With the naked painted woman at our backs, and food goodies in our hands, Laura and I left this theater, graciously thanked my aunt's friend, and wondered at our luck, both in the opportunity to see the play, and also in attending with the right person.

Traveling thoughts

Today, while riding on the CTA, I wrote the following two first drafts of potential essays. It seems to be a somewhat metaphysically tinged day:

Getting ready for the day

Not unlike a machine of familiar kitchen necessity, I seem to only have two settings: clean or off. If I wake up in the morning and decide to present myself fresh and gleaming to the world, I do all that is possible to clear away the sleep, sweat, and imperfection from the day and night before. I scrub, moisturize, powder, and apply meticulous eyeliner. After these ablutions, I select clothing that suggests both non-chalance and polish. There is no turning back at this point. I must carefully pluck off lint, a stray eyelash on the cheek, and other unacceptable foreign objects.

As I stand at the drizzily train station, I firmly draw the top of each leather shoe against the back of alternate pant legs, sloughing off unwelcome rain water and flecks of gravel from the streets.

I fight the law of entropy, hoping that, in a few hours, I will win and look as clean as I do now. I may very well succeed, I determine, silently assessing the potential progress of the situation from my interview, to the CTA commute, to dinner at Wicker Park with my friend Laura.

I secretly hate that I care that, once prepared, I cannot allow myself to become rumpled. I am not like the sky blue plates in my kitchen, which come out of the dishwasher, are checked for remnants from previous use, and placed in dark cupboards. I venture to meet the world, one which leaves its indelible mark on you, no matter your pristine efforts.

On board with Keats

Nearly every literary personage who is worth his or her salt has recognized the reality of suffering in human existence, regardless of time, place, or economic circumstance. However, not all pay homage to the heightened pleasure of joy that is experienced after a particularly menacing bout of blackness. While I am no author, I join with the doomed Romantic poet, Keats, when his eternal pen scrawled the following lines:

"But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine..."

-"Ode to Melancholy" by John Keats

Once one has experienced the swirling, all-consuming, confusing black hole that is depression, the light at the end of the tunnel shines all the brighter. Perhaps that is why some who struggle with the stigmatized illness become manic for a few weeks in between the descending curtain of mental darkness. Damn. Who wouldn't stay awake for weeks, painting, singing, working in the garage to salvage and hoard bits of life before they are plunged back into self-hatred, listlessness, and acceptance of a dusky lens upon the outer world of normalcy?

I have been so fortunate as to not know the threat of unending cycles of sadness. One round was enough for me. The emotional intensity of those few weeks mimicked electroshock therapy to my brain. It has now been trained to vomit back all absurd feelings of worthlessness. I no longer allow them to penetrate past the first door in the long and twisting hall of my psyche. Quite honestly, I have known enough of depression to not care if the thought of having nothing to offer is true. I would rather delude my neurons with past successes and memories rife with overly inflated self-esteem.

The sheer joy prompted by such mental gymnastics transforms my vision until, may Ezra Pound rest in peace, I don't merely see "petals on a wet, black bough" in a rainy train station. It is as if I flick back an opaque second eyelid, similar to an amphibious reptile, like a frog or crocodile, and see the world for both its beauty and ugliness. I see other passengers on the journey we all must take, waiting to get somewhere, see someone, and savor the sweet aloneness of a slow trip along the rails. The rain that falls steadily today is intended to drip through the dirty floorboards of the platform and quench the thirst of the soil beneath the bare trees on the street, the solid wooden beings whose limbs burgeon spring leaves, flowers, and the promise of home to small birds returning after their escape from the harsh, frigid Chicago winters.

chicago summers

Please don't be disappointed in the cliched structure of this post. The reality is, I want to write something, but I'm too dang lazy to actually construct something with paragraphs and some recognizable form. So, look out Dave Letterman, here comes another top ten:

Top ten things I'm looking forward to in Chicago
during the summer (in no particular order)

1. Ice cream at open air restaurants.

2. Music festivals.

3. Beach parties at the home of a certain person.

4. Free orchestra concerts at Millenium Park.

5. Movies in Grant Park. All About Eve is the first for this season.

6. Dancing lessons in the park.

7. Outdoor reading...good almost anywhere.

8. Architecture tour of the city.

9. All things associated with the lake. Running, frisbee, reading, boating...

10. Not hating my life when I go outside. Not having to wear a scarf, gloves, heavy jacket, and boots. Not having to wear shoes, period.

When the outdoor thermometers begin to read above 60 degrees Farenheit consistently, people get happy, including me.

running with scissors

I suppose I haven't yet mentioned that I often watch two beautiful, funny, caring, behaviorally challenged seven year old children. Their family situation is rather unique, extremely so in fact, but I won't trespass on their privacy by providing all of the complex details. Suffice to say that they are adopted, biologically unrelated African-American children who are now happily settled with a married couple--finally. With the instability and trauma of their early lives has come consequences. They are hesitant to attach to people, which makes sense; they test you, see if you will yell, speak condescendingly, or leave. Sometimes they thrive on conflict. One will pick up a mere scrap of conversation, twist it to melodramatic proportions, and try to get things to escalate. (When I, or some other unfortunate adult, tries to correct the situation, usually the other child will jump in to defend the offending one. "You're being mean!" "Why are you talking to him that way?" "He just wants to be left alone...jeez.")

Perhaps the best example I have of conflict-mongering comes from a few weeks ago, when I noticed that the little boy had gotten a haircut. When I asked him about it, he seemed to get frustrated. He went over to the CD player, and turned the volume up to 25. "Why are you frustrated with me right now?" With only the slightest hint of a whine, he responded, "Because no one is supposed to notice my hair. It's just for me and my family to notice." Rather puzzled, I decided to drop the whole thing. "OK. Well, will you please turn the music down?" He responded negatively, and covered the volume dial, just daring me to try to pull his hand away. I didn't, but repeated the request. "I don't like you. I'm frustrated with you...I'm going to cut your neck off." My face showed only mild surprise and amusement. "Oh really?" "Yes. The next time we go ice skating, I'm going to wait until you fall. Then, I'll take my skate and cut your neck off." I've been threatened before, but never with a beheading. It took some strength not to laugh. I had to put on my serious, adult face. "Even so, I still need you to turn the music down. Also, I can tell that you don't want to be around me right now. Your sister and I are going to the other room. When you're ready to be around me, you can come too."

Five minutes later, he hopped onto the couch, cuddled next to me, and asked me to read him a story. No prob bob.

Fortunately, their erratic behavior does have occasional natural consequences. Quite honestly, I never wish for these consequences to come; I rarely think about it. But when they do come, I suppose I'm somewhat grateful for them. As the children have learned to trust me, we seem to have fewer and fewer bad days. Wednesday was an exception, however. After diligently completing their math lessons during the first forty-five minutes, they became hyperactive, deranged monkeys for the next hour and a half. They weren't interested in reading Hatchet, the Gary Paulsen classic, as indicated by the fact that it took us an hour to finish two short chapters because one of the children was more interested in throwing trail mix around the room, chasing the dog, telling bathroom jokes, laughing hysterically, and asking questions about everything. I finally sent him to his room, telling him quite blatantly that I was frustrated with him, could no longer take interruptions, and needed him to go calm down elsewhere. While he eventually complied with this request, within five minutes of his return, he, and his sister, wound themselves up again. I finished the chapters and announced a trip to the park. Surely some running around would do them good.

I was kind of sort of wrong. A wrestling match broke out between them after an all too brief period of normal play time. Twice I asked them to stop, telling them the second time that if I had to say it again, we would leave. When they knocked over an innocent two year old while rolling around in the mulch, that was it. "OK ya'll. It's time to leave." I started walking. They know it's business time when I start walking. The boy started crying. "I'm really sorry. Why can't we stay longer?" I explained to him, but he continued to whimper. Then they tried the physical blockade technique. Both stood in front of me, put their palms against my stomach, and tried to push me back. The girl said, "I'll keep you here all night if I need to." When I informed her just how inappropriate this was, and how easily I could get away, they extended their palms to me in a gesture of goodwill and said, "Well, can't we just talk about this like reasonable people?" "Sure," I said, "I like reasonable people."

Of course, our conversation resulted in my firm insistence on immediate departure from the park. Realizing they had lost, the little boy tried one last act of defiance. He stole the children's book that I had been carrying under my arm, and began running around with it. His sister thought this called for a game of keep-away, and began yelling at him to give it to her. She was so busy running, yelling, and looking at him, that she didn't notice the large tree looming in her path. Before anyone knew what was happening, she ran, full-tilt, into it. She immediately began screaming and collapsed into my arms...and then onto the ground. All of the suburban housewives with their tidily clad children turned to look at me, a white woman with two unpredictable black children. I didn't look back, but picked up the screaming child, handed the little boy her discarded blue jacket, and began the trek towards their house. Everyone was suddenly very sober. My initial medical assessment was just a minor scratch above the eye. However, when I set her down at the house, I saw that a large lump had begun to grow right at her browline. I was shaking a bit, and almost started crying when she did. As I ushered her into the bathroom to apply the dreaded hydrogen peroxide, I told her not to look in the mirror. Unlike most children her age, she agreed with me. She knew it would only make things worse.

At any rate, all of the mischevious rebelliousness stopped the second that she smacked into the tree. One of her parents said to me later, "I secretly wanted to say to her--that's why you're supposed to listen to the babysitter!" But that would be like saying, "I told you so," and the kids are smart enough to know that isn't fair.

own it, please

My newest reading venture is a book entitled Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History. I picked it up because this is Women's History month and I happen to like the slogan. It is written by the woman that first penned those words, without the least intention of turning them into a slogan. She actually wrote the sentence in an academic paper focused upon the funeral eulogies given for Puritan women. Some ambitious undergrad discovered it and asked to use it on t-shirts. It just proliferated from there.
Anyway, Dr. Thatcher Ulrich examines the validity of her own statement, attempting to define the term "well-behaved" within certain cultural and societal contexts, and then looking at historical case-studies to determine whether or not well-behaved women made history. Surprisingly, some did.
I'm not intending to make this post into a summary of the book though. I mention it both to suggest it as a reading list item, and also to set up what I'm about to say about her Royalness, Hillary Clinton.
Doubtless, most are aware of another blood-letting incident in the life of Mrs. Clinton's campaign. As she has not had any illicit affairs, and has generally stayed away from prostitution rings, the media has decided to use other indiscretions against her. (Just as an aside, I should probably mention that I use the word "indiscretion" as an understatement.) Mrs. Clinton claimed that she came under sniper fire when landing in Kosovo; she and Chelsea were in grave danger. Actually, according to minutes of newsreel and the eyewitness testimony of tons of people, Mrs. Clinton schmoozed, posed for photos, and did not muss her coiffed blonde hair. Even if there were snipers, there were so many American military personnel around, they could have taken them out with relative ease. I thought the Clintons were supposed to be good liars. My nine year old brother would know not to lie about something that had been caught on tape.
However, I believe this incident not only indicates how trustworthy Mrs. Clinton is, but also confirms her conditional ownership of her gender. Supposedly she lied about the sniper fire to compete with John McCain's military record, and to insist that her foreign policy involvement did not merely consist of tea-parties. "Damn it, I was too Bill's controlling vice-president!" Why is she so hesitant to admit that she was a First Lady, emphasis on the Lady? By attempting to legitimize her experience by throwing in some sniper fire, she is, in fact, lending credence to masculine definitions of experience and bravado. I'm tempted to e-mail her, asking if she has read any Gloria Steinam recently.
Earlier in her campaign, she did the same thing, refusing to appear in Vogue because it would make her look too feminine. Well, Mrs. Clinton, you are a woman. Looking like one is no greater crime than one running for President.
As I mentioned earlier though, Mrs. Clinton pulls out her gender and puts it away, at her convenience, not unlike a make-up compact. When she is behind in the polls, failing in the primaries, she will allow some tears to well up, allow some grind in her throat to convince female voters that she feels their pain. I dare Condi Rice to try that next time she's negotiating with foreign leaders. Everyone knows how emotionally unstable women are; one reason why they are so unsuited to lead.

Although I don't plan to vote for either, I at least have respect left for Barack Obama. He's not using his minority, or underprivileged status like a weapon--something he can wield at will for personal gain.

revelation

Today I watched Walker: Texas Ranger for the first time. I now understand all Chuck Norris jokes.

happy accident

I'm learning that no one really cares when I write a serious blog. No one ever comments about them. It's as if my three readers simply say, oh, right, Elizabeth is in her alternate universe again, better leave her alone. Fine. I've determined to alternate serious blogs with fluffy ones, more or less. In other words, after I write about war, injustice, and the death of puppies, I will compose an exposition on the finer points of giving a manicure (although I shall have to do some research on the latter--I have no idea how to do one). So here goes with today's non-substantive post:
I was rear-ended today. For some reason, God decided to dump 6-8 inches of snow on Chicago. Why, I know not. He seems to plan these days of snow quite carefully. Right after a warm day when Elizabeth Tatum was able to go the Lincoln Park Zoo and enjoy the sunshine, He sends torrents of large snow flakes, just to torment the general populace. This snow creates hazardous road conditions, of which I was a victim today. Now, my '97 Subaru happens to have all-wheel drive--quite a convenience when living in the Midwest. Good ol' Stella (my car) pulled up the stop light, went smoothly to the left lane, and stopped to wait for the light to turn. However, the two fools in the Ford behind me were not able to stop. My rapping to a Sean Paul song was most rudely interrupted when the said gray car slammed into the back of mine. I wasn't sure what to do. I put my car in park, put on my flashers, and got out of my car. Um. Sir. You hit my car. (That was what I was planning to say.) I didn't get the chance to say anything right then, because he gestured for me to pull over. Slightly annoyed, I got back in my car, made a right, and stopped. And who should get out of the car but a beautiful twentysomething man, and his friend. Quite egotistically, my first thought was not, "Wow, what luck for me!" but rather, "Wow, what luck for them! They rear-ended a nice single girl." It felt like some kind of set-up when we exchanged phone numbers. I half-expected him to call me tonight saying something like, "Hey, um, remember how I hit your car today? Well, would you like to go get a drink?" But alas, it was not to be. The negligent Ford driver has not contacted me since. He did apologize for "slowing me down," however, and I do feel that those words were well-chosen. All in all, getting in a minor car accident really isn't a bad way to meet men. No one is hurt, there are a few laughs, the man can express some kind of care, and phone numbers are exchanged. Really, someone ought to tell e-harmony about this.
At any rate, it felt almost wrong to jump back in the car and keep going as if nothing had happened, but, what choice did I have? It makes for a good story, I suppose. Better than how to get rid of pesky cuticles, or how to perfect the best pumicing methods, or how to obtain the most effective anti-aging hand cream. For fluff, recounting a happy accident with a nice-looking stranger is really the best thing that I've got.

violence in american films

Right now I'm much too tired to write anything of recognizable coherence, but I feel compelled to slap something down. For some reason, blog-writing doesn't come easily to me in the morning or afternoon. It's only in the evening, when I'm alone and become truly sober about life that I seem to get up the motivation.
Tonight I started watching Apocalypse Now, a film I've wanted to see since I read The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad my senior year. But after Kurtz beheaded the man designated to call in the air strike (if the assassin/captain did not return by a certain time), I had had enough and decided to finish it tomorrow, where daylight might offer me some emotional oxygen.
This viewing makes the second violent, pessimistic American film for me in the past 72 hours. On Saturday I watched No Country for Old Men, the significance of which deserves a whole post in and of itself. I think tomorrow I had better watch Enchanted or something along those lines. However, to be fair, even though they sometimes disturb me, I seem to have a penchant for violent films. Now, I don't like slasher/horror movies. M. Night is about as much as I can take. But there is something about a war movie, violent drama, or well-constructed action flick that perpetuates thought and emotion in me, even if I do still hide my face during the most gruesome scenes. And with an eye on both Oscar-winners and box office sales, I realize that I am not the only one who is strangely, and often subconciously, drawn towards fatal, bloody fare.
I've been lazily pondering the significance of this since I spoke with a good friend from Europe a few years ago. It seems that, in Europe, sex takes the cake for the most prevelent, pseudo-objectionable material in movies and TV. My friend was confused as to why Americans always need guns and knives pointed at people in their moving visual media. Of course, it's not as if Americans are at all averse to sexuality on the telly, it's just that, if weighed equally, violence wins out every time. It's far more common to have a film rated R primarily because of graphic and disturbing violence rather than sexuality.
There are likely many explanations both for my personal, and our cultural, preference for violent movies. I'm only going to venture giving two.
As I watched Anton Chighur interact with Carla Jean before he murdered her in No Country for Old Men, I was reminded of the emotional intensity and intimacy that often accompanies portrayals of violence. When one individual looks at another, with the intent to harm them, for good reasons or evil, everything else just falls away. Anton Chighur tells the store owner, earlier in the film, that he should call the coin toss, with the understanding that he stands to win everything. If he loses, we as the audience will witness a man lose everything he was, is, and could be, both to himself and to those who know him. If he loses, we watch Anton Chighur play God.
The raw humanity of such a moment should not be lost, as Anton himself understands when he tells the store owner to keep the coin, to not let it get "mixed in with the others."
Sexuality is not the pinnacle of human experience, contrary to whatever the heck Freud said; people can live without sex. Relational connectedness and our fierce desire for life, whether or not we articulate it so, is what drives us. Watching the severing of the former while simultaneously seeing the struggle for the latter is often mesmerizing, even if it shouldn't be. Typically one human being wins out over another in this contest, and we as the audience are able to feel the razor sharp edge of what we know as the human experience when we watch violence. An intelligent, violent film is often that visceral. I can't remember a time when I have wept after a sex scene (although I generally try to avoid them), but this is not at all the case after a film that features violence portrayed with purpose and integrity--like Band of Brothers, for instance (I'm counting it as a film, yes).
The other reason for our preference for violence is not nearly so philosophical: the reality is that America was, and is, an extremely violent nation. When you take into consideration all of the wars, crimes, social injustices, under-the-table-we-will-help-your-evil-government deals, plus all the fiction and non-fiction books inspired by them, it's a suprise we don't have more fights/blood/guns movies.

I may add to this later as I watch more movies and garner more insight. This will have to do for now though, as I am tired and have separated myself from Apocalypse Now enough to go to sleep.

addition

I forgot about one other thing: finding a Joseph Brodsky poem at the public library after a long and arduous search. When I pulled out the anthology, I sat down in the middle of the aisle between the shelves and read it three times. Sigh.

top ten

Life has been extraordinarily good to me recently, and I feel that it might be beneficial to complete a top ten list as I complete my sixth week in Chicago. In no particular order, these are ten small, but beautiful, things that I experienced this week:

1. Multiple cinnamon crunch bagels from Paneras with lots of cream cheese on hand.
2. An 80 GB silver iPod that arrived in the mail on Wednesday.
3. Kisses from Bryce and Angelica.
4. A walk along Lake Michigan with Ruby, my aunt's dog.
5. Wandering into a sushi restaurant in downtown Chicago; I ordered spicy tuna and sweet potato tempura. It was off the hook.
6. Listening to Timbaland with the windows rolled down on a warm day.
7. Bryce asking me, "Do you want to marry a guy that thinks you're great and you're good friends and you like to spend time together?" Yup, that's the plan, son.
8. Cuddling with my (former) roommates in Indiana.
9. Actually wanting to present my senior paper.
10. Realizing God is gracious and generous in sparing good friends from sure injury.

Let's just say, I like waking up in the morning these days.

Reading material

As an English major, I'm more or less expected to be rather selective in my choice of literature. If one has a craving for a novel on romance/female identity development, it is always better to read Madame Bovary than chick lit. when your credentials include informal certification as a grammarian, literary critic, and possible bohemian. But let us be honest. A pro-gamer may enjoy Mario Cart every so often, and a chemist may like to concoct crude, imprecise explosions in his backyard, using aersol cans and a bonfire. Similarly, I am entitled to enjoy material that is neither well-written nor particularly inventive. For example, I tried reading Dostoyevsky in bed every night. I can't fall asleep unless I read, so I always have a bed book. But ol' Fyodor couldn't hold my attention. In my subconscious state, I would read four sentences and be unable to summarize their content. So I exchanged Dostoyevsky for Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, stories of the jolly, fat neighbor lady who helps all the suburban housewives fix their children's behavioral ills. The stereotypes and predictability are unreal, but I enjoy engaging only a quarter of my brain as I fall asleep to tales of traditional, conservative, restrictive values. "Reader's Digest" and "Guideposts" are also my magazines of choice while I am indisposed in the ladies room. I know the structure of these types of articles keenly. They begin with an exciting first paragraph, like, "Slam! Josh rammed into a mailbox as he swerved to miss a two year old girl standing in the middle of a quiet street in his Wisconsin neighborhood" (completely fictional). This is followed by an introduction to the people involved, the background of the situation, a build in intensity, a resolution, and then a parting analysis of the situation OR update on what has happened to those involved since the incident. It's quite delicious. Just like watching Law and Order or What Not To Wear. You know what will happen when, and it's positively comforting.
I like reading such trash occasionally. I'll admit that I have read too many "People" magazines in the doctor's office, and may have even been tempted to get a subscription, would it not put my intellectual and ethical integrity on the line. Why am I telling you this? Perhaps for self-exculpation, although I have no intention of changing, or perhaps to also give you permission to enjoy a children's book every so often, or a juicy read about Brangelina.

p.s.

If anyone is particularly interested in Romeo Daillaire's (sp?) story, it can also be obtained in the book that he wrote of the same title as the film. I plan to hit up the Evanston Public Library for it within the next few weeks.
Also, I apologize for the typo, which I have since corrected, in the below entry. Instead of typing "God," I typed "a God." I happen to believe in just one God, so I apologize for the misplaced article.

shake hands with the devil

My university has done a fabulous job of celebrating Martin Luther King Jr. Day the past five years or so. Previous to 2001 or 2002, I can't remember which, my school didn't even give students and professors the day off. I guess they're making up for it now, as they put on special programs, seminars, concerts, and invite such notable speakers as John Perkins and Efram Smith. This year, the day's events ended with a screening of the documentary, Shake Hands With The Devil, a film which follows General Romeo Dallaire upon his return to Rwanda 10 years after the genocide. Though I was slightly confused as to why such a film would be shown on MLK Day, I tend to be interested in all things African, and was therefore only too eager to attend.

Let it be known that I have seen a host of disturbing films. I haven't made concerted efforts to shield myself from the brutalities of life, unlike some of my family members, who protest that they cannot watch violence because "it's too disturbing." I've sat through Passion of the Christ, Schindler's List, Band of Brothers, Blood Diamond, The Constant Gardener, Hotel Rwanda, The Last King of Scotland (James McAvoy made this film so much more pleasant, however), and a host of other Hollywood portrayals of non-fiction violence, tyranny, and general mayhem. I write this not to sound callous, although I surely am so when compared to an individual who never exposes herself to such things, but to communicate that I am not naive and at least partially acquainted with the cruelties of the modern world. But none of those films prepared me for this one. There were a few points in the film, most notably when a senator from a country that abandoned and metaphorically handcuffed Dallaire criticized the General, when I wanted to stand up and tell the other viewers in the auditorium, "This is shit." However, I generally don't swear, and wanted to avoid ostracism that surreptitiously lurks in some corners of my Christian university.
At any rate, though this may seem like an exaggeration, it's quite possible that viewing Shake Hands with the Devil caused some psychological damage. I slowly realized this when I thought constantly about what I had seen for the next few days, and talked about it at length with anyone that would listen to me. The other night at a dinner I started to cry when someone compared the situation in Kenya with what took place in Rwanda. When I got home and began devouring news articles and videos about the situation in Kenya, I cried some more, almost in a panicked kind of way. Other than a few isolated weeks of my life, I've never been big on the crying scene, particularly in regard to events physically and emotionally distant from me, so I feel that these moments were somewhat significant.

One of the reasons that I may have been able to emotionally respond to similar situations likely has both to do with my viewing of the film, and also my limited exposure to Africa. Being in Ethiopia for a month hardly gives anyone authority to speak upon the scope of Africa, its beauties, along with its issues, so I won't attempt to. The one thing that I do feel I can claim are a few relationships with Ethiopian children and teenagers, which has lent me perspective on African identity
and allowed me to experience befriending the "Other," that extraordinarily pretentious label of the postcolonial literature movement. During my time there, I reached some seemingly obvious conclusions about the friends that I met in Ethiopia: they may be poor, they may have little to offer to the modern world, but they are just as full of humanity and spirituality as any white man, woman, or child. Their lives do not count any less to God. Although it is counter-intuitive to a materialist way of thinking, a poor, uneducated African child is of no less worth than an affluent, educated, white American child. The death of either should not be perceived differently, nor should such deaths garner essentially different action. And yet they do. Sonafkish, Dumbelle, Yosef, Yared, Zenash, Sefeyu--my friends--each face and name carries with it personality, foibles, beauty, and mystery which binds each of us to each other. I have thought about their homes being raided, their parents taken away, other acts of violence which I do not have the stomach to write about. Those who lived in Rwanda, those who live in Kenya, they are not so different than my Ethiopian friends. Each has a life within a complex web of relationships and events. Not one is a decontextualized poor African with no identity except that he is only one of far too many tragic black faces.