The ski trip is about to commence.
Stress is high.
Work today.
Appointment tonight.
I will somehow manage to find time to shower, pack, and clean before I leave for the airport.
I'll pick up Kevin.
Tomorrow, we will pile into the car and drive up.
Snowboard. Hot tub. Sleep. Repeat. x 5.
See you Tuesday!
Also, Happy Birthday Mom! I love you. I can't believe you're turning [ ] this year!!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
On Accomplishments, Mostly
It's the 149th post for the year!
Why does that matter?
That means that 2011 was officially the most-blogged about year.
This post beats the previous record of 148. Take that, 2010!
Thank for for reading!
(Arguably this post does not actually have any valuable content and therefore, doesn't really count. But whatever. I do what I want.)
I'd also like to remind that you if you have Death Pool 2012 submissions, please send them to me before the end of the year!
Remember, you only get 10 - they have to be notable people, but can be sports players, politicians, celebrities, etc.
Aunt Jan, I'm looking forward to your submissions!
Why does that matter?
That means that 2011 was officially the most-blogged about year.
This post beats the previous record of 148. Take that, 2010!
Thank for for reading!
(Arguably this post does not actually have any valuable content and therefore, doesn't really count. But whatever. I do what I want.)
I'd also like to remind that you if you have Death Pool 2012 submissions, please send them to me before the end of the year!
Remember, you only get 10 - they have to be notable people, but can be sports players, politicians, celebrities, etc.
Aunt Jan, I'm looking forward to your submissions!
On Christmas Pictures
I have always loved this chandelier.
Maddie made me a romance novel Christmas ornament. I love it! One of the best gifts I've ever received.
My favorite wrapping paper.
View from my snow-covered street.
Cate loved playing with Mike.
Mike and Jan - that's teamwork!
On Christmas
This Christmas business is quite hectic.
All of this running around leaves little room for blogging.
The holiday itself is such a horrid excuse for a day of celebration that I rarely have high hopes for it. However, it passed with great incident - one meltdown on my part that Grandma Mary managed to contain by giving me a prolonged hug.
Alas, Christmas Eve was wonderful. We lingered at the dinner table and listened to stories about the past and the people who inhabit those memories. It was lovely to listen to stories of love and war, loss and hardship, magic and romance. I am reminded, again, how truly lucky I am to be a part of such a wonderful family.
Christmas Day was.
I got to see all of the cousins, which was so wonderful. They wrapped us up in hugs. Two cousins near our ages are in from California, and it was so nice to sit and talk and catch up with them.
Hectic day.
I was glad to get home and find the cat and fall asleep.
All of this running around leaves little room for blogging.
The holiday itself is such a horrid excuse for a day of celebration that I rarely have high hopes for it. However, it passed with great incident - one meltdown on my part that Grandma Mary managed to contain by giving me a prolonged hug.
Alas, Christmas Eve was wonderful. We lingered at the dinner table and listened to stories about the past and the people who inhabit those memories. It was lovely to listen to stories of love and war, loss and hardship, magic and romance. I am reminded, again, how truly lucky I am to be a part of such a wonderful family.
Christmas Day was.
I got to see all of the cousins, which was so wonderful. They wrapped us up in hugs. Two cousins near our ages are in from California, and it was so nice to sit and talk and catch up with them.
Hectic day.
I was glad to get home and find the cat and fall asleep.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
On my Hair. A photo essay, sort of.
My hair has been a constant source of dismay for me.
Remember high school? (This is still part of the era of awkward.)
I believe it started somewhere around birth. I was quite bald. Even as a toddler, people would say, "My, what a cute boy you have!" (Sort of like the Red Riding Hood - Big Bad Wolf exchange: "My, what big teeth you have." "All the better to eat you with, my dear." Except not exactly like that.) And finally, after a few years of this gender confusion, I grew hair, cementing my place as a female member of society.
Did my parents ever worry about alopecia? Maybe not, as I'm sure they don't subscribe to my worst-case-scenario-projecting-is-the-only-way-to-look-at-life philosophy. (For the record, I don't worry about alopecia. Not yet, at least. And by the time I start to worry, there will be science-miracle cures that I can buy on TV for easy payments of $19.99. Done! Alopecia problem solved! Thanks future hair plugs/miracle creams/sweet interchangeable wigs.)
(trade this dress for a tux, and you've got an adorable future George Clooney)
After hair comes bangs.
My mom knew I was going to cut my hair soon. I'd been cutting grass, the dog's hair, paper. So one day, I came flouncing down the stairs with crooked bangs. They were completely diagonal. I'd cut them with safety scissors and then left the hair behind a chair upstairs, as though no one would ever find it. There was no fixing it, so they just had to grow out.
Any mother's worst fear is the years and years it's going to take to grow our a small child's bangs. It took years. It was a source of stress. When I was in first grade, my mom told me that I wasn't allowed to have bangs again until I was 18.
So I didn't.
When I was little, my mom would try to put my hair in a ponytail. I was never happy. There were always bump when she'd try to pull it up. I'd reach back and feel it and tell her that there was a bump and so I'd make her redo it. To this day, I still redo my hair when I'm worried that there's a bump. She'd get exasperated. "There's no bump!" (Just to be 100% clear, there were bumps. I am not wrong.)
A few months ago, she was walking past a mother doing her daughter's hair. She said that she was tempted to walk up to the daughter and whisper, "There's a bump!"
I went through my ugly duckling phase (era, actually - it was like a decade from awkward hell) with no discernible hair style. I really didn't do anything to it - I don't even think I had approached a hair dryer at this point. It just lived in a ponytail at the base of my neck. Every day. All day.
When I was little, my mom would try to put my hair in a ponytail. I was never happy. There were always bump when she'd try to pull it up. I'd reach back and feel it and tell her that there was a bump and so I'd make her redo it. To this day, I still redo my hair when I'm worried that there's a bump. She'd get exasperated. "There's no bump!" (Just to be 100% clear, there were bumps. I am not wrong.)
A few months ago, she was walking past a mother doing her daughter's hair. She said that she was tempted to walk up to the daughter and whisper, "There's a bump!"
I went through my ugly duckling phase (era, actually - it was like a decade from awkward hell) with no discernible hair style. I really didn't do anything to it - I don't even think I had approached a hair dryer at this point. It just lived in a ponytail at the base of my neck. Every day. All day.
There was one day where we tried curlers. Like a 50s housewife, I slept in rollers. When I woke up and took them out (Mom was at work, so Dad may have had a hand in the meltdown that happened immediately after I realized I looked like young Frankenstein), I freaked.
(me, at age 8)
One of my worst memories of 6th grade is the day that I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair. All day, I was greasy and gross and miserable. I now triple rinse, without fail. In South Africa, long after the water had gone cold, I'd be under the shower head, rinsing. Triple checking that no traces of conditioner remained.
It gets worse.
Remember high school? (This is still part of the era of awkward.)
The only rule was that I couldn't dye my hair black. So of course, I dyed it black the first chance I got. Mom has a sixth sense about these things (either that or I'm a terrible liar), and I hadn't even finished drying it post-coloring when she was on the phone. "What color is your hair?!" she said, in her terrifying phone/teacher voice. (I should add that my mom isn't really that scary - and I'm grateful that she let me do so much experimentation during those years. I may not have looked great, but I was figuring myself out. I respect her willingness to let me try that, just like when she would let me wear her high heels and my play dresses to church when I was little.)
(This is what I'm talking about when I stress the importance of inner beauty.)
Those were interesting years. I cut my bangs myself. They were always horrifying. Short, uneven. Not really bangs. Not really side bangs. For evidence of this bad bang cutting, see my sophomore year school picture - it's still on display at Mom's house. Compounded with my ever-changing hair color, I was not my best self. It's a good thing that there are still people on this planet (my friends) who value inner beauty.
College. I chopped off all of my hair. I looked like a goon. (That's not entirely true. It was actually sort of cute.) I spent the next three years in various stages of hair length, usually around my chin. Sometimes adorable, sometimes not at all.
(I have horrible posture, but hey, it makes me look like I have boobs, so that's not all bad.)
Cut to Africa. Mama P wanted me to have fringe. So I sat on one of her kitchen chairs and her daughter took shears to my hair. Full fringe. I kept that until this spring, when I grew them back out.
So of course, December rolls around and what do I want to do again? (I haven't gotten any tattoos or piercings in years, so I get the urge to do something drastic every six months or so.) Bangs. My super ego was telling me no, but my stubborn self was saying yes.
Jacob wants me to go crazy short on the sides and back, and keep the front long. I was trying to find images for this, so I googled "hipster haircuts." Bingo.
(I actually think this would be fun. But what if it didn't work? Then I'd be SOL in a big way.)
But I was waffling. I didn't know. I looked back through pictures, realized I couldn't find a single one with bangs that I liked, and then thought, let's do it again! (That is nothing if not sound logic right there.)
(That's a lie - I like this picture. Long Street, 2010.)
So I'm back to half-bangs. But I swear, I am growing all of it out and just having hair that's one length. 2012 is the year of less hair cut, more learning how to style the hair I have. Curling irons? I can master them. Learning to love my curly hair? I can learn that too. I have taken baby steps - I own good hair products. I am open to re-embracing hair spray.
(Imagine if I wasn't doing the mickey ave - I'd look adorable.)
Moral of this story? Stop messing with your hair. Learn how to style it. Stay away from the scissors. Curling irons are your friend. Your natural hair color is that way for a reason. Listen to your mother, at least when she tells you to stop trying to rock bangs. She might be right.
Other moral? Pick friends who will still love you when you look ridiculous. Or just make sure you pick ridiculous friends.
Monday, December 19, 2011
On the Celebration of Life
It's days like Saturday that make me realize that the human capacity for emotion is much deeper than we could possibly even realize. Necessities like food, water, and shelter are nothing without love.
Brian and I are standing by his golf clubs. I'm asking what the difference between a wood and an iron is. He tells me that woods are made out of wood. Then he pulls out a club. "So that's an iron?" I ask. (The club is not made of wood.) No, he tells me, it's a wood. We laugh. I understand the difference now. If you can imagine that it might be made of wood, it's a wood, even if it's made of metal. Irons are more like fireplace instruments. Heavier. Deadlier.
Brian is fiddling with the cover. "Grandpa never had the right covers for his clubs," he says. And that's when I feel it. His loss is so palpable in that moment. The fact that everything Brian knows and loves about golf, he got from Marshall. The fact that Marshall and Brian used to go golfing and then go get lunch. It was his childhood. He and his grandpa were inseparable, even at the end.
I don't know how to say I'm sorry. I do know how to learn about something that they both loved, so I ask more golf questions.
"I'm only telling you this because I know you'll appreciate it," said Juanita, leaning into me. She introduces me as her adopted granddaughter. I am so happy in that moment. She didn't want them to bring that picture, she says, but she's glad they did because it's one of her favorites. She tells me that on their wedding day 63 years ago, there's a picture of him looking at her exactly the same way. My eyes were on her sweater, rhinestones at the wrists. I didn't dare look up. My eyes were already full. She tells me that even though he was a quiet man, he always reminded her that he loved her. "And he really did love me," she says. I smile. I mean, I really smile. My heart is full of love and a little bit of hurt - the pull of the sadness of a great loss.
(I couldn't get a picture of the picture without the glare! I'm sorry for the poor quality!)
The speeches are beautiful. There is nothing better than honest memories. Laughter fills the space. When one of my cousins gets up to say something, I feel my eyes start to fill up again. Even though this is sort of the worst part of life, the saying goodbye, it's also the best. It reminds you how much love you have surrounding you. It reminds you how much every single person can mean to you, how much they can impact you.
My adopted grandparents. My other grandparents. My spare grandparents. My not grandparents. We never could figure out just what to call them. So we threw terms out and tried them on. They mean just as much to me as my actual grandparents. And I mean just as much to them as their grandchildren. Mom tells me that when I was little, we were leaving Grandma Mary's house and I asked her, "Who are those people?" They've been a part of my life since I was little, since before I could figure out how they fit into the scheme of things.
And I'm so grateful for that.
Marshall was a wonderful father, a wonderful husband, and a wonderful grandfather. I am so happy that I got to be a part of it. And I promise to help take good care of Juanita.
Brian and I are standing by his golf clubs. I'm asking what the difference between a wood and an iron is. He tells me that woods are made out of wood. Then he pulls out a club. "So that's an iron?" I ask. (The club is not made of wood.) No, he tells me, it's a wood. We laugh. I understand the difference now. If you can imagine that it might be made of wood, it's a wood, even if it's made of metal. Irons are more like fireplace instruments. Heavier. Deadlier.
Brian is fiddling with the cover. "Grandpa never had the right covers for his clubs," he says. And that's when I feel it. His loss is so palpable in that moment. The fact that everything Brian knows and loves about golf, he got from Marshall. The fact that Marshall and Brian used to go golfing and then go get lunch. It was his childhood. He and his grandpa were inseparable, even at the end.
I don't know how to say I'm sorry. I do know how to learn about something that they both loved, so I ask more golf questions.
(I couldn't get a picture of the picture without the glare! I'm sorry for the poor quality!)
The speeches are beautiful. There is nothing better than honest memories. Laughter fills the space. When one of my cousins gets up to say something, I feel my eyes start to fill up again. Even though this is sort of the worst part of life, the saying goodbye, it's also the best. It reminds you how much love you have surrounding you. It reminds you how much every single person can mean to you, how much they can impact you.
My adopted grandparents. My other grandparents. My spare grandparents. My not grandparents. We never could figure out just what to call them. So we threw terms out and tried them on. They mean just as much to me as my actual grandparents. And I mean just as much to them as their grandchildren. Mom tells me that when I was little, we were leaving Grandma Mary's house and I asked her, "Who are those people?" They've been a part of my life since I was little, since before I could figure out how they fit into the scheme of things.
And I'm so grateful for that.
Marshall was a wonderful father, a wonderful husband, and a wonderful grandfather. I am so happy that I got to be a part of it. And I promise to help take good care of Juanita.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
"I was born a poor black child"
Sometimes I'm grateful that my attention span is equivalent to that of a golden retriever. It leads me places I never expected to go. Today, I was reading about legal issues involving lawyers accessing sensitive information from their iPads, smartphones, etc and I got sidetracked, thus stumbling on this gem of an opinion piece from Gene Marks in Forbes.
Marks touches on the sociological impact that the neighborhoods these kids are growing up in has on them, but he doesn't explore it, and that's where I find the most fault with this article. He's looking at his "poor black kid" self without realizing that there's a lot more to it than desire. There's a lot more to it than drive, than ignorance. I mean, yeah, not knowing what's out there can really hurt you. But Skype-ing with other students in your school who want to succeed just like you do is a dumb suggestion.
That's never going to fly. Why is that? Because of the expectations of masculinity that we place on our boys. We've been hearing all about how black men are falling behind black women as black women become more and more educated; we hear about the decline of the black family, caused by the decline in marriage. We put this on the black women, some of whom don't want to marry a black man based on the fact that she's out-earning him and that she's far more successful. We have completely forgotten about our black men. We don't want them to be super nerdy, we don't want them to be thugs, we don't value them if they don't conform to the white elite's expectations of what a black man should be.
But all of that starts at a much younger age. These black kids - who grow up to be black men - are receiving mixed messages. They're watching the glorification of gangsters in pop music, in pop culture, in movies and tv shows. They're watching their friends and relatives go to prison (the odds are that 1 in 5 that a black man will go to prison at some point in his life). But more than that is the fact that to fit in and thrive in this social environment - the entirely socially constructed idea of "black", they must mirror the actions and behaviors of their peers as a way to earn respect. This is where the problem of black being equal to ghetto becomes problematic. There is no need for such associations, and yet we all make them. And kids grow up thinking that to own their identity is to engage is behaviors that correspond with the perceptions of what that identity is.
White people - men, specifically - don't have to work for that respect as hard because they have it. Their power is less tangible. It's in their jobs. It's in their suits. It's in their bank accounts. But for a black man, one who is going to be targeted and profiled by police and just about everyone he'll meet in his life, power and respect have to be earned in a more physical way. This is where the violence begins. To be super brainy and black in an inner city school isn't going to make you friends. And the kind of bullying that goes on there is much different than the kind of bullying we are seeing at upper-class white middle schools.
Kids who are smart and well-read are still going to fall through the cracks, even if they have the support systems that Marks assumes they lack. He's correct in bringing up that they may not have the family backing - but he seems to be negating the importance of familial expectations and involvement. There is no way that a 10 year old kid who has to make sure his siblings have dinner, get baths, and get into bed on time is going to have time to seek out extracurricular scholastic help. And he's not going to find leadership and mentors through sports programs - the gear and economic involvement required to be a part of the team can't possibly be met by a struggling family.
So let's not assume that Skype, EverNote, etc. are going to be the tools that launch this hypothetical "poor black" Marks into the 1%. He talks about private school scholarships and how black kids just need to get on the internet and let these elite school boards know how they can improve the appearance of diversity for only the cost of reduced tuition. Wow. Let's talk about devaluing personhood for a second.
No poor black kid should have the self-awareness to use that angle. No kid should have to use their skin color as a bargaining chip. By doing so, they are saying that they are not worth the same amount that those rich white kids are. That's already the message that the white elite is hammering home, let's not force kids to have to de-value themselves in order to get a better education.
We haven't even covered college yet. But wait, Marks does. Just for a second.
Having a college degree doesn't make you successful. Wanting something better for yourself doesn't guarantee that you'll find it. Yeah, the dream is alive. But that doesn't meant that we should assume that it's attainable. It's not just as simple as, "Oh, I want to go to college and learn stuff so I can get a great job!" and pow! Holy shit, that's one successful middle-aged black dude right there.
There's a lot more to it. Being white and assuming that everyone will be afforded the same luxuries as you isn't helping anything. Being white and segregating isn't helping either. You're putting black kids into a box that it's really hard to get out of. You're making nasty assumptions. You're fostering racist attitudes that have perpetuated social and racial problems in the US for too long.
This isn't about the 1%, or the American Dream. This is a sad excuse for technology-based journalism.
(By the way, most of the commenters didn't take too kindly to the article either.)
Source: Forbes
Marks spends two pages talking about how he's a lucky white man in his mid-40s, reaping the benefits of his white privilege, and then he decides to posit that black kids from the inner cities are going to be fine if they just learn how to read, and learn how to write code, and somehow stumble on the right answers and the right direction.
He gets points for freely admitting that it's circumstance that places kids on such separate paths from birth - the circumstances of color and economic standing. But he fails so hard at realizing that what he's trying to get across - this idea of the self-made man, the epitome of the American Dream - is just that, a pipe dream.
He starts out just fine here:
The President’s speech got me thinking. My kids are no smarter than similar kids their age from the inner city. My kids have it much easier than their counterparts from West Philadelphia. The world is not fair to those kids mainly because they had the misfortune of being born two miles away into a more difficult part of the world and with a skin color that makes realizing the opportunities that the President spoke about that much harder. This is a fact. In 2011.
I am not a poor black kid. I am a middle aged white guy who comes from a middle class white background. So life was easier for me. But that doesn’t mean that the prospects are impossible for those kids from the inner city. It doesn’t mean that there are no opportunities for them. Or that the 1% control the world and the rest of us have to fight over the scraps left behind. I don’t believe that. I believe that everyone in this country has a chance to succeed. Still. In 2011. Even a poor black kid in West Philadelphia.
But that's also where he starts to go wrong. Sort of. I'm not wowed by the fact that of course it's the poor black kids in these inner-city neighborhoods - I realize that to make his point he has to give an example that's stereotypical enough to make sense to a wide variety of readers, but then again, he's just reinforcing the lack of expectations that we have for our black citizens. He's unintentionally setting "poor black kids" up for failure based solely on their color. This annoys me - there are a ton of white kids who come from wealthy neighborhoods who somehow manage to never make anything of themselves, just as there are a ton of kids of all colors who do the same. Just like there are a ton of motivated, successful, intelligent people who come from diverse backgrounds.
But his article ends without ever really exploring the real obstacles to success. Marks completely ignores entire segments of life that can't be forgotten when trying to figure out why inner-city kids are so screwed.
President Obama was right in his speech last week. The division between rich and poor is a national problem. But the biggest challenge we face isn’t inequality. It’s ignorance. So many kids from West Philadelphia don’t even know these opportunities exist for them. Many come from single-parent families whose mom or dad (or in many cases their grand mom) is working two jobs to survive and are just (understandably) too plain tired to do anything else in the few short hours they’re home. Many have teachers who are overburdened and too stressed to find the time to help every kid that needs it. Many of these kids don’t have the brains to figure this out themselves – like my kids. Except that my kids are just lucky enough to have parents and a well-funded school system around to push them in the right direction.
Technology can help these kids. But only if the kids want to be helped. Yes, there is much inequality. But the opportunity is still there in this country for those that are smart enough to go for it.
Marks touches on the sociological impact that the neighborhoods these kids are growing up in has on them, but he doesn't explore it, and that's where I find the most fault with this article. He's looking at his "poor black kid" self without realizing that there's a lot more to it than desire. There's a lot more to it than drive, than ignorance. I mean, yeah, not knowing what's out there can really hurt you. But Skype-ing with other students in your school who want to succeed just like you do is a dumb suggestion.
That's never going to fly. Why is that? Because of the expectations of masculinity that we place on our boys. We've been hearing all about how black men are falling behind black women as black women become more and more educated; we hear about the decline of the black family, caused by the decline in marriage. We put this on the black women, some of whom don't want to marry a black man based on the fact that she's out-earning him and that she's far more successful. We have completely forgotten about our black men. We don't want them to be super nerdy, we don't want them to be thugs, we don't value them if they don't conform to the white elite's expectations of what a black man should be.
But all of that starts at a much younger age. These black kids - who grow up to be black men - are receiving mixed messages. They're watching the glorification of gangsters in pop music, in pop culture, in movies and tv shows. They're watching their friends and relatives go to prison (the odds are that 1 in 5 that a black man will go to prison at some point in his life). But more than that is the fact that to fit in and thrive in this social environment - the entirely socially constructed idea of "black", they must mirror the actions and behaviors of their peers as a way to earn respect. This is where the problem of black being equal to ghetto becomes problematic. There is no need for such associations, and yet we all make them. And kids grow up thinking that to own their identity is to engage is behaviors that correspond with the perceptions of what that identity is.
White people - men, specifically - don't have to work for that respect as hard because they have it. Their power is less tangible. It's in their jobs. It's in their suits. It's in their bank accounts. But for a black man, one who is going to be targeted and profiled by police and just about everyone he'll meet in his life, power and respect have to be earned in a more physical way. This is where the violence begins. To be super brainy and black in an inner city school isn't going to make you friends. And the kind of bullying that goes on there is much different than the kind of bullying we are seeing at upper-class white middle schools.
Kids who are smart and well-read are still going to fall through the cracks, even if they have the support systems that Marks assumes they lack. He's correct in bringing up that they may not have the family backing - but he seems to be negating the importance of familial expectations and involvement. There is no way that a 10 year old kid who has to make sure his siblings have dinner, get baths, and get into bed on time is going to have time to seek out extracurricular scholastic help. And he's not going to find leadership and mentors through sports programs - the gear and economic involvement required to be a part of the team can't possibly be met by a struggling family.
So let's not assume that Skype, EverNote, etc. are going to be the tools that launch this hypothetical "poor black" Marks into the 1%. He talks about private school scholarships and how black kids just need to get on the internet and let these elite school boards know how they can improve the appearance of diversity for only the cost of reduced tuition. Wow. Let's talk about devaluing personhood for a second.
No poor black kid should have the self-awareness to use that angle. No kid should have to use their skin color as a bargaining chip. By doing so, they are saying that they are not worth the same amount that those rich white kids are. That's already the message that the white elite is hammering home, let's not force kids to have to de-value themselves in order to get a better education.
We haven't even covered college yet. But wait, Marks does. Just for a second.
There is financial aid available. There are programs available. And no matter what he or she majors in that person will have opportunities. They will find jobs in a country of business owners like me who are starved for smart, skilled people. They will succeed.Oh, how could we have forgotten? Financial aid. The magical salve that heals all and makes dreams come true. I'm calling shenanigans. Financial aid and programs aren't going to send you to the Ivy League school of your dreams, the ones those "poor black kids" might be reading about on their low-cost computers that they manged to buy (how, again?). Even if you end up at your local community college, your success is in no way guaranteed. Financial aid only gets you so far. And then you have travel expenses. And then you have books. And pens. And those stupid class projects that require the purchasing of dumb materials. And then there's eating. And oh, wait, not again - that whole fitting in thing. Being a poor kid at a rich school is not a cakewalk.
Having a college degree doesn't make you successful. Wanting something better for yourself doesn't guarantee that you'll find it. Yeah, the dream is alive. But that doesn't meant that we should assume that it's attainable. It's not just as simple as, "Oh, I want to go to college and learn stuff so I can get a great job!" and pow! Holy shit, that's one successful middle-aged black dude right there.
There's a lot more to it. Being white and assuming that everyone will be afforded the same luxuries as you isn't helping anything. Being white and segregating isn't helping either. You're putting black kids into a box that it's really hard to get out of. You're making nasty assumptions. You're fostering racist attitudes that have perpetuated social and racial problems in the US for too long.
This isn't about the 1%, or the American Dream. This is a sad excuse for technology-based journalism.
(By the way, most of the commenters didn't take too kindly to the article either.)
Source: Forbes
Monday, December 12, 2011
On the Game
Warm December days are the best days for football. Denver is one of those truly magical places - warm weather for late season games. I don't know how we keep winning (we really shouldn't win some of these games), but we keep doing it. The atmosphere was electric, especially once the Bears fans fell silent. I love the camaraderie. The cute elderly couple who sits in front of us always leaves at the beginning of the fourth quarter - they go and get dinner on their way home - stayed until the very end of overtime. She had her blanket wrapped around her, but put it away so that she could stand and cheer. She was high-fiving the little girl in front of her, and hugging the Kid Who Drinks. It was really cute.
It was a good time. Check the facebook for the pictures!
It was a good time. Check the facebook for the pictures!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
On my toes
Life goes on, whether or not you're ready to go with it.
The past few weeks have been a blur of wonderful newness, of comfort and bliss. They've also been full of stress, cancer, death, uncertainty, and pain. But that's how life goes. Sometimes it throws everything at you at once, just to make sure you're on your toes. So that's where I've been. On my toes.
The first funeral was on Friday. I put on the black dress only to find that I had shrunk (or it had somehow stretched two sizes) and it wouldn't be suitable. So instead, I found another black dress. This one still fits. (I really do need to start with this eating business. I'm a little bit bony.) I wasn't going to go, and I didn't tell Dad that I was going until I was on 6th Avenue, headed west, but I feel like I was in some ways obligated to go. It was good. Merrilee was such a funny person, and the last time I saw her was at Jeanie's graduation party earlier this summer. It was good to meet the people who meant so much to her. They had pairs of nose glasses that she used to wear on a board, along with pictures of people wearing the nose glasses. It was good that I went because that meant that I got to chat with Jeanie while Dad talked to everyone else. On a nearly irrelevant note, they had mini quiches. I am such a fan of any party that has mini quiches.
But mini quiches aren't the point. (Unless they are? Wouldn't it be so nice if the entire meaning of life could be reduced to mini quiches? I could get down with that.)
Life doesn't last forever.
Marshall died late Thursday night. He is now listening to the harp music at the great golf course in the sky. (What? It could totally happen. Maybe my personal heaven is bubble baths and wine.)
I sat next to him at Thanksgiving and watched as Juanita fussed with him about whether or not he was happy and comfortable. I was really touched by the fact that after so many years together, they were still taking care of each other. He was constantly aware of her presence and she always made sure that he had what he needed - although there was that one time when someone was missing a cup of coffee and she just grabbed his and said, "Here, have this one." That's the kind of love that everyone should be looking for. It might not always be the most effective, but at least it's real. They are seriously the best non-grandparents I could have had. (Although, now it's our turn to make Juanita cookies just because.)
Cancer cancer cancer cancer. I've not got a lot to say about this one. Seriously, every time I turn around, someone else has it. We've got two at work, two on one side of the family. I was talking to Mom about this and she reminded me that this is just a bad spell. I warned her that she wasn't allowed to get any more cancer just because everyone else was doing it. So we go on. I come from a family of tough people, particularly the women. We've got this. We'll tackle it like we tackle anything else. Everyone will help where they're needed. We'll cover the gaps and everyone will emerge alright. I promise. And if anyone wants a healing animal, they're welcome to borrow Carlos for a few weeks. Nothing will make you want to heal like having the very grumpy Carlos around. (He's currently at the bottom of my bed with his his paws wrapped around my foot. I love him so much. Best worst decision ever.)
Got an email from the other side of the family today. God, I hate holidays so much. When I am ruler of the universe, there will be no family obligations unless, of course, you want to. I am already stressed at the thought of them cornering me. I'm already imagining it happen. And I'm already tense and terrified. Gross.
The grad school application is limping along, coming together bit by bit.
The giant proposal due at work remains unfinished. Tomorrow will be the ultimate race to the finish line.
But those things don't really matter. I mean, of course they do. I'd be an idiot not to get my application in, since I still have a month left. And I'd be an idiot if I didn't bust my ass to get that proposal done. But in the larger scope of things, there is so much more that matters, well, so much more.
On the brighter side, guess what's awesome?
We went up to Keystone yesterday. Day 5 of snowboarding this season. I'm starting to get it. I did a Blue run with the boys then headed back up to find Emily. Spent the rest of the day on some long greens. It was good. Kevin and his brother came down from Vail to meet up with the group. The boys that we went up with are fun - one of them is in town from Boston, and he'll be on our New Year's trip. I'm starting to be able to do my toe side stuff, which means I'm actually able to snowboard properly. Pretty soon I'll be doing sweet jumps! (That's actually what I dream about.) Mom, best Christmas present ever. Without your insistence, I'd never be doing this. And I think it's pretty rad. Also, pass is officially paid for now. Be stoked on that.
I have a boyfriend-thing going on. That was unexpected. I blame the Real World for making me question our relationship situation. So I asked him if we were dating. He said yes. Apparently, that was enough of an exclusivity conversation for him. (We later discussed all of this and figured everything out. It was very reminiscent of our first date.)
I am so ridiculously happy. He's wonderful. He's smart, funny, sarcastic, sweet. We are different enough that it will continue to be interesting for me. But we are similar enough that we just mesh well. He takes good care of me. The thing that I think I like the most is that he's up for anything. When I'm like, let's go to this concert (I've done that twice so far), he's always open to it. He likes the random adventures that I like, which is good.
Broncos game today. I realize that the tickets came to us in the midst of sadness, but on the plus side, Mike and I are sort of going on a double date. I am bringing Kevin, who is awesome and driving back from family vacation in Vail in time for this. Mike's bringing a girl! I think I'm probably more excited for this than I am anything else.
This is not one of those "live every day like it's your last" posts, because those are dumb. But seriously, if you're not doing something awesome, or something that you love, or something that's wonderful, what are you doing with your life? After babysitting, I slept for nearly twelve hours last night. (that's the something wonderful I was talking about.) That was exactly what I needed to do after being an idiot and going out with Katie before I went snowboarding. So today is marching forward and if I don't hurry, I'm going to miss all the excitement.
I almost forgot: I started writing about being on your toes and life and then I looked down and remembered all the bandages on my toes. Yesterday morning, sometime in the pre-dawn hours, while I was frantically searching for snowboard gear in my room, I somehow managed to step into the side of a laundry basket, taking skin off of two of my toes. I didn't think anything of it until I saw little bloody toe-prints. As it turns out, sometimes being on your toes doesn't quite work out the way you'd planned.
Have a beautiful day, world, you deserve it.
The past few weeks have been a blur of wonderful newness, of comfort and bliss. They've also been full of stress, cancer, death, uncertainty, and pain. But that's how life goes. Sometimes it throws everything at you at once, just to make sure you're on your toes. So that's where I've been. On my toes.
The first funeral was on Friday. I put on the black dress only to find that I had shrunk (or it had somehow stretched two sizes) and it wouldn't be suitable. So instead, I found another black dress. This one still fits. (I really do need to start with this eating business. I'm a little bit bony.) I wasn't going to go, and I didn't tell Dad that I was going until I was on 6th Avenue, headed west, but I feel like I was in some ways obligated to go. It was good. Merrilee was such a funny person, and the last time I saw her was at Jeanie's graduation party earlier this summer. It was good to meet the people who meant so much to her. They had pairs of nose glasses that she used to wear on a board, along with pictures of people wearing the nose glasses. It was good that I went because that meant that I got to chat with Jeanie while Dad talked to everyone else. On a nearly irrelevant note, they had mini quiches. I am such a fan of any party that has mini quiches.
But mini quiches aren't the point. (Unless they are? Wouldn't it be so nice if the entire meaning of life could be reduced to mini quiches? I could get down with that.)
Life doesn't last forever.
Marshall died late Thursday night. He is now listening to the harp music at the great golf course in the sky. (What? It could totally happen. Maybe my personal heaven is bubble baths and wine.)
I sat next to him at Thanksgiving and watched as Juanita fussed with him about whether or not he was happy and comfortable. I was really touched by the fact that after so many years together, they were still taking care of each other. He was constantly aware of her presence and she always made sure that he had what he needed - although there was that one time when someone was missing a cup of coffee and she just grabbed his and said, "Here, have this one." That's the kind of love that everyone should be looking for. It might not always be the most effective, but at least it's real. They are seriously the best non-grandparents I could have had. (Although, now it's our turn to make Juanita cookies just because.)
Cancer cancer cancer cancer. I've not got a lot to say about this one. Seriously, every time I turn around, someone else has it. We've got two at work, two on one side of the family. I was talking to Mom about this and she reminded me that this is just a bad spell. I warned her that she wasn't allowed to get any more cancer just because everyone else was doing it. So we go on. I come from a family of tough people, particularly the women. We've got this. We'll tackle it like we tackle anything else. Everyone will help where they're needed. We'll cover the gaps and everyone will emerge alright. I promise. And if anyone wants a healing animal, they're welcome to borrow Carlos for a few weeks. Nothing will make you want to heal like having the very grumpy Carlos around. (He's currently at the bottom of my bed with his his paws wrapped around my foot. I love him so much. Best worst decision ever.)
Got an email from the other side of the family today. God, I hate holidays so much. When I am ruler of the universe, there will be no family obligations unless, of course, you want to. I am already stressed at the thought of them cornering me. I'm already imagining it happen. And I'm already tense and terrified. Gross.
The grad school application is limping along, coming together bit by bit.
The giant proposal due at work remains unfinished. Tomorrow will be the ultimate race to the finish line.
But those things don't really matter. I mean, of course they do. I'd be an idiot not to get my application in, since I still have a month left. And I'd be an idiot if I didn't bust my ass to get that proposal done. But in the larger scope of things, there is so much more that matters, well, so much more.
On the brighter side, guess what's awesome?
We went up to Keystone yesterday. Day 5 of snowboarding this season. I'm starting to get it. I did a Blue run with the boys then headed back up to find Emily. Spent the rest of the day on some long greens. It was good. Kevin and his brother came down from Vail to meet up with the group. The boys that we went up with are fun - one of them is in town from Boston, and he'll be on our New Year's trip. I'm starting to be able to do my toe side stuff, which means I'm actually able to snowboard properly. Pretty soon I'll be doing sweet jumps! (That's actually what I dream about.) Mom, best Christmas present ever. Without your insistence, I'd never be doing this. And I think it's pretty rad. Also, pass is officially paid for now. Be stoked on that.
I have a boyfriend-thing going on. That was unexpected. I blame the Real World for making me question our relationship situation. So I asked him if we were dating. He said yes. Apparently, that was enough of an exclusivity conversation for him. (We later discussed all of this and figured everything out. It was very reminiscent of our first date.)
I am so ridiculously happy. He's wonderful. He's smart, funny, sarcastic, sweet. We are different enough that it will continue to be interesting for me. But we are similar enough that we just mesh well. He takes good care of me. The thing that I think I like the most is that he's up for anything. When I'm like, let's go to this concert (I've done that twice so far), he's always open to it. He likes the random adventures that I like, which is good.
Broncos game today. I realize that the tickets came to us in the midst of sadness, but on the plus side, Mike and I are sort of going on a double date. I am bringing Kevin, who is awesome and driving back from family vacation in Vail in time for this. Mike's bringing a girl! I think I'm probably more excited for this than I am anything else.
This is not one of those "live every day like it's your last" posts, because those are dumb. But seriously, if you're not doing something awesome, or something that you love, or something that's wonderful, what are you doing with your life? After babysitting, I slept for nearly twelve hours last night. (that's the something wonderful I was talking about.) That was exactly what I needed to do after being an idiot and going out with Katie before I went snowboarding. So today is marching forward and if I don't hurry, I'm going to miss all the excitement.
I almost forgot: I started writing about being on your toes and life and then I looked down and remembered all the bandages on my toes. Yesterday morning, sometime in the pre-dawn hours, while I was frantically searching for snowboard gear in my room, I somehow managed to step into the side of a laundry basket, taking skin off of two of my toes. I didn't think anything of it until I saw little bloody toe-prints. As it turns out, sometimes being on your toes doesn't quite work out the way you'd planned.
Have a beautiful day, world, you deserve it.
Friday, December 09, 2011
[placeholder]
I'm sorry I've been such a terrible blogger this week!
I have so much to tell you!
Some of it is sad and some of it is super awesome.
So be excited - I promise that there will be updates soon. I have to babysit tonight and since I'm going snowboarding tomorrow, I promise that there will be time for updating.
Happy Friday, world. You're beautiful.
I have so much to tell you!
Some of it is sad and some of it is super awesome.
So be excited - I promise that there will be updates soon. I have to babysit tonight and since I'm going snowboarding tomorrow, I promise that there will be time for updating.
Happy Friday, world. You're beautiful.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
On Blogging as Not-Journalism
Judge Hits Blogger With $2.5 Million Fine for Not Being a Journalist
by
In a case that’s sending a frightening message to the blogger community, a U.S. District Court judge ruled that a blogger must pay $2.5 million to an investment firm she wrote about — because she isn’t a real journalist.
As reported by Seattle Weekly, Judge Marco A. Hernandez said Crystal Cox, who runs several blogs, wasn’t entitled to the protections afforded to journalists — specifically, Oregon’s media shield law for sources — because she wasn’t “affiliated with any newspaper, magazine, periodical, book, pamphlet, news service, wire service, news or feature syndicate, broadcast station or network, or cable television system.”
The Obsidian Finance Group sued Cox in January for $10 million for writing several blog posts critical of the company and its co-founder, Kevin Padrick. Obsidian argued that the writing was defamatory. Cox represented herself in court.
The judge threw out all but one of the blog posts cited, focusing on just one (this one), which was more factual in tone than the rest of her writing. Cox said that was because she was being fed information from an inside source, whom she refused to name.
Without the source, she couldn’t prove the information in the post was true — and thus, according to the judge, she didn’t qualify for Oregon’s media shield law since she wasn’t employed by a media establishment. In the court’s eyes, she was a blogger, not a journalist. The penalty: $2.5 million.
The debate over whether bloggers are journalists has been going on for years, but the consensus has been largely settled — on the opposite side of what Judge Hernandez has ruled. Attorney Bruce E. H. Johnson, who wrote the media shield laws in next-door Washington State, told Seattle Weekly that those laws would have protected Cox had her case been tried in Washington.
In a more high-profile case, an editor from Gizmodo escaped criminal charges after revealing to the world an iPhone prototype lost in a bar. Although police raided the California home of editor Jason Chen in 2010, the case was cited as a test for that state’s media shield law, and the district attorney said publicly this year that no charges would be filed to anyone from the site.
When discussing the case, Steve Jobs told The Wall Street Journal‘s Walt Mossberg that he believed Chen was “a guy,” not a journalist. Mossberg countered that he himself was a blogger, and that he thought bloggers were journalists. (You can see the exchange in this video, at about the 17:00 mark.)
Are bloggers the same as journalists? And if not, what is the dividing line? Share your thoughts in the comments.
source: Mashable
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
On the Letter of Intent That Isn't
I've been procrastinating for the better part of five months now.
Instead of trying to do the big push for graduate applications due in the fall, I decided to wait until the January 15 deadlines.
So I took the big test. I got my scores back. I am awesome at either knowing stuff or test taking, perhaps both.
In early November, I contacted one of my professors. (Mid-November, maybe.) Then Thanksgiving happened. I still haven't written my personal statement. That's what is standing in the way of graduate school application completion.
Transcripts have been requested, from both institutions of higher learning that I attended. The basic forms have been printed out, inked. Recommendations have been asked for - but I can't get them until I write my statement, because my professor wants to read all of it.
Thus, all I really have to do is write the damn statement. It is three pages. It shouldn't be that hard.
And yet, it is. I stare at the blank page, unsure of how to begin. This is attempt number seven. I've even made it a Google Doc so that Maddie can read it and start appearing in my dreams again (she's my super ego, isn't that strange? Whenever I'm upset at myself, or stressed, Maddie shows up in my dreams and bosses me around. It's oddly effective, although I'm not too sure she's entirely pleased because Dream-Maddie is mean).
If I had my way, I'd write my entire letter of intent like I was writing a profile in a magazine. It'd be a sweet look back at my life from my perch on a sweet couch. I'd have sweet gray hair and a mug of steaming tea. I'd even have my colorful reading glasses dangling from a chain around my neck. Badass.
Instead, I'm being professional. I'm being bland. I'm being overly accomplished - that's a lie, I actually look really bad on paper. Real life me is so much more exciting than paper me. Come on, three pages. Just be out of me so I can edit them and then be on with my life!
Instead of trying to do the big push for graduate applications due in the fall, I decided to wait until the January 15 deadlines.
So I took the big test. I got my scores back. I am awesome at either knowing stuff or test taking, perhaps both.
In early November, I contacted one of my professors. (Mid-November, maybe.) Then Thanksgiving happened. I still haven't written my personal statement. That's what is standing in the way of graduate school application completion.
Transcripts have been requested, from both institutions of higher learning that I attended. The basic forms have been printed out, inked. Recommendations have been asked for - but I can't get them until I write my statement, because my professor wants to read all of it.
Thus, all I really have to do is write the damn statement. It is three pages. It shouldn't be that hard.
And yet, it is. I stare at the blank page, unsure of how to begin. This is attempt number seven. I've even made it a Google Doc so that Maddie can read it and start appearing in my dreams again (she's my super ego, isn't that strange? Whenever I'm upset at myself, or stressed, Maddie shows up in my dreams and bosses me around. It's oddly effective, although I'm not too sure she's entirely pleased because Dream-Maddie is mean).
If I had my way, I'd write my entire letter of intent like I was writing a profile in a magazine. It'd be a sweet look back at my life from my perch on a sweet couch. I'd have sweet gray hair and a mug of steaming tea. I'd even have my colorful reading glasses dangling from a chain around my neck. Badass.
Instead, I'm being professional. I'm being bland. I'm being overly accomplished - that's a lie, I actually look really bad on paper. Real life me is so much more exciting than paper me. Come on, three pages. Just be out of me so I can edit them and then be on with my life!
Monday, December 05, 2011
On Capital, sort of.
The 99%: "Money Can't Buy You Class"
A very special thank you to the Countess LuAnn of the Real Housewives of New York for supplying the title to today’s post. I doubt this is what the Countess was going for, but she brings up a good point: what’s the difference between having money and having class privilege? Is there one anymore?
There’s always been the concept of “old money” and “new money,” and the former seems to spend a good deal of time spurning the latter until begrudgingly accepting them—usually when newer money comes along. In fact, when Caroline Schermerhorn married William Astor in 1854, this was a marriage of old and new money. Caroline brought to the marriage old New York Knickerbocker stock (this is where the New York Knicks get their name from) and William Astor brought the new real estate money. The Astors were now “old” money, and would be allowed to look down their noses at the upstart Vanderbilts with their tacky railroads.
But do these lines between old and new money ever really go away? The Beverly Hillbillies of the 1960s showed us an unsophisticated rural family transplanted into swanky Beverly Hills after oil is found on their land. Are they accepted by their neighbors? No, obviously not. But their tight-knit family and clearly voiced morals place them as superior to their rich, superficial neighbors. If upward mobility won’t get you accepted by the people with money, well, that’s OK—did you really want to be like them anyway?
Even on Gossip Girl, ruling prep school princess and over-achiever Blair Waldorf is portrayed as a bit of an upstart because both of her parents have earned, rather than inherited, their money (like Serena’s parents did). As Jenny (who lives in Brooklyn, takes the subway to school, and makes her own clothes, so is clearly “poor”) tells Blair in season two: “You might be privileged, Blair, but you work for every single thing you’ve achieved. Like me. Serena just glides through.”
What’s really going on here?
Well, the Countess has a point. Class privilege is something different from having money, even though having money can take you pretty far. (And it should go without saying that class privilege is connected to race privilege—people of color don't have the same opportunities or experiences as white people, regardless of how wealthy they are.)
Sociologist Pierre Bourdieu was one of the first to spell out how class privilege really comes from different kinds of capital. There’s the obvious kind: economic capital, cash money, the stuff that gives you purchasing power and freedom from having to worry about how to pay rent, your heating bill, and your student loans.
Then there’s social capital. This is your network: who you know, who your parents know. Unsurprisingly, if you go to a fancy prep school with the grandsons of Congressmen and the daughters of business leaders, you have pretty darn high social capital. You have easier access to sources of power, which means you have more power and privilege.
Finally, there’s cultural capital. This form of capital is not who you know, but what you know about how to succeed in the culture you live in. (It can also include what you own, based on what you purchased because of what you know.) So, if you’re well educated, and you read the right books, know the right artists, own the right gadgets, watch the right TV shows, can name the right designers, speak with the right accent, and eat with the right fork—well, that’s a form of privilege all on its own. Middle-class families can be really, really good at giving their children lots of cultural capital, even when they lack economic and social capital.
I’m opening my series with this little sociology refresher so that, as you (hopefully) read on, you understand what I mean when I refer to class privilege, and you can think about what kinds of privilege different characters in pop culture might have and where they got it. Additionally, when we talk about social mobility, we might wonder with kinds of capital are most important to that mobility. Because, really, we’re not just talking about money.
source: Bitch Magazine
Friday, December 02, 2011
Weekly Non Sequiturs and such
It's been a quiet week.
Actually, the exact opposite is true.
Blog-wise, I've been substituting articles for actual original content, but you've already noticed that.
Life-wise, I've been making more calls to Mom asking her advice than I have in a long time. I hate that there are no right answers. I hate uncertainty. I hate it when people can't communicate. So this has all been really fun. It's not one thing. It's all the things.
There is so much potential in a specific situation (which I am overjoyed about), and I'm worried that the slightest movement in the wrong direction could jeopardize everything. There's been a lot of exterior pressure on this specific situation and I can tell that it's starting to affect things. Honestly, I much prefer agonizing over my every move rather than agonizing over what else could be screwing this up. It's cloudy territory and I'm in a position where I could be really hurt. I seriously do not want that to happen and will do everything in my power to prevent it. (This is why actually liking the people you date is problematic. The potential for pain is not pleasant.)
On the plus side, tomorrow will find me driving Frank (Mike's car) up to the mountains. And then I will slide down the face of the mountain on my various body parts. It's going to be excellent. Em's going up with another group, so I'm thinking I will trade the greens for blues. Someone text me at 5am and remind me to bring ibuprofen.
I'm also going to a birthday party for one of the little girls I babysit. I'm excited. I still need to find her a present - I think I want to get her temporary tattoos. The little girls love them. Ever since we had the conversation about tattoos before I went swimming with them this summer, I've laughed every time I think about the middle one saying, "Mommy doesn't let us have the kind that stays on forever," when I offered her a temporary one from my car. I'm so lucky that I get to be a babysitter. I'm also so lucky I found this family - I seriously adore these people.
Mickey Avalon is in town tomorrow night. I have a feeling that this show will either be the biggest letdown ever or the best experience of my life. There is no middle ground. It's definitely going to be an adventure. I'm excited.
Okay, million dollar idea of the day (other than Wine-Away, which removes the horrid wine stains from your lips before your 8am meeting, I don't have much in that department): personal Google. I want to Google: "Do I own a VHS copy of Better Off Dead? Did I leave it in Chicago?" or perhaps "Where is my black mini skirt?" Both of those are seriously necessary queries. (If you've seen my black mini skirt, shoot me an email. I'm lacking sex appeal like mad and it's all with that skirt!) If Google could just index all of my things and ideas and then just know where they are or what they were, I'd be such a better person. I'd be on time for work every day because it would know where my keys and phone are.
I'm wanting to make K watch Better Off Dead tonight. We were going to go down to the Parade of Lights, but I can see how that might not materialize as a solid plan. The early morning mountain trek precludes participants from partying heavily the night before, and if I am stuck downtown, I will naturally wander into a bar and commence adventuring. (I can't help it. Adventure finds me, I swear.) So perhaps I'll suggest quiet dinner and a movie? But does that make me/us lame? (Of course not, I'm Katie Barry and this kid's got chutzpah to match - in a good way, not like traditional Hebrew-ish.)
I've been reading a website dedicated to black women. At times, I find it surprisingly boring - just like Cosmo stopped holding my interest when I was like 17 [secret confession: I bought one this month to read in the bathtub] - but there times when I can't look away. I keep thinking, why can't this be a multi-cultural site? But then I realize that most "multi-cultural" sites are totally in white-gaze and don't even take into account multi-racial perspectives. Whatever. I've been reading about what I shouldn't bring up in relationships (oops), which friends are toxic (ha, we already knew the answer to that), etc. It's addicting. I mean, who doesn't want to know the "7 Insecurities All Women Have in Relationships"? I do.
I've been being way too over-analytical lately. I can't stop trying to put sociology on everything I see. It's like my brain is turned on by the thought of grad school and so has started to work again, but instead of limiting its processing to normal work hours, I've had the urge to start deconstructing everything I see, hear, or read. If only I could channel all of this and get to work on my application, we'd be in business. I was so productive this week at work. Seriously. Overdrive. This is good.
Happy Friday, world. I hope you're all loving your beautiful selves this weekend. I most certainly am.
Actually, the exact opposite is true.
Blog-wise, I've been substituting articles for actual original content, but you've already noticed that.
Life-wise, I've been making more calls to Mom asking her advice than I have in a long time. I hate that there are no right answers. I hate uncertainty. I hate it when people can't communicate. So this has all been really fun. It's not one thing. It's all the things.
There is so much potential in a specific situation (which I am overjoyed about), and I'm worried that the slightest movement in the wrong direction could jeopardize everything. There's been a lot of exterior pressure on this specific situation and I can tell that it's starting to affect things. Honestly, I much prefer agonizing over my every move rather than agonizing over what else could be screwing this up. It's cloudy territory and I'm in a position where I could be really hurt. I seriously do not want that to happen and will do everything in my power to prevent it. (This is why actually liking the people you date is problematic. The potential for pain is not pleasant.)
On the plus side, tomorrow will find me driving Frank (Mike's car) up to the mountains. And then I will slide down the face of the mountain on my various body parts. It's going to be excellent. Em's going up with another group, so I'm thinking I will trade the greens for blues. Someone text me at 5am and remind me to bring ibuprofen.
I'm also going to a birthday party for one of the little girls I babysit. I'm excited. I still need to find her a present - I think I want to get her temporary tattoos. The little girls love them. Ever since we had the conversation about tattoos before I went swimming with them this summer, I've laughed every time I think about the middle one saying, "Mommy doesn't let us have the kind that stays on forever," when I offered her a temporary one from my car. I'm so lucky that I get to be a babysitter. I'm also so lucky I found this family - I seriously adore these people.
Mickey Avalon is in town tomorrow night. I have a feeling that this show will either be the biggest letdown ever or the best experience of my life. There is no middle ground. It's definitely going to be an adventure. I'm excited.
Okay, million dollar idea of the day (other than Wine-Away, which removes the horrid wine stains from your lips before your 8am meeting, I don't have much in that department): personal Google. I want to Google: "Do I own a VHS copy of Better Off Dead? Did I leave it in Chicago?" or perhaps "Where is my black mini skirt?" Both of those are seriously necessary queries. (If you've seen my black mini skirt, shoot me an email. I'm lacking sex appeal like mad and it's all with that skirt!) If Google could just index all of my things and ideas and then just know where they are or what they were, I'd be such a better person. I'd be on time for work every day because it would know where my keys and phone are.
I'm wanting to make K watch Better Off Dead tonight. We were going to go down to the Parade of Lights, but I can see how that might not materialize as a solid plan. The early morning mountain trek precludes participants from partying heavily the night before, and if I am stuck downtown, I will naturally wander into a bar and commence adventuring. (I can't help it. Adventure finds me, I swear.) So perhaps I'll suggest quiet dinner and a movie? But does that make me/us lame? (Of course not, I'm Katie Barry and this kid's got chutzpah to match - in a good way, not like traditional Hebrew-ish.)
I've been reading a website dedicated to black women. At times, I find it surprisingly boring - just like Cosmo stopped holding my interest when I was like 17 [secret confession: I bought one this month to read in the bathtub] - but there times when I can't look away. I keep thinking, why can't this be a multi-cultural site? But then I realize that most "multi-cultural" sites are totally in white-gaze and don't even take into account multi-racial perspectives. Whatever. I've been reading about what I shouldn't bring up in relationships (oops), which friends are toxic (ha, we already knew the answer to that), etc. It's addicting. I mean, who doesn't want to know the "7 Insecurities All Women Have in Relationships"? I do.
I've been being way too over-analytical lately. I can't stop trying to put sociology on everything I see. It's like my brain is turned on by the thought of grad school and so has started to work again, but instead of limiting its processing to normal work hours, I've had the urge to start deconstructing everything I see, hear, or read. If only I could channel all of this and get to work on my application, we'd be in business. I was so productive this week at work. Seriously. Overdrive. This is good.
Happy Friday, world. I hope you're all loving your beautiful selves this weekend. I most certainly am.
On Working Moms
Working Moms Multitask, And Stress, More Than Dads
Allison Long/MCT /Landov
A Kansas City family prepares a meal together. A new study finds that working mothers log more hours — and get more stressed — than working fathers while multitasking at home. (This family wasn't part of the research.)
A new study in the December issue of the American Sociological Review comes up with some findings that lots of women may feel they already know too much about: Working mothers spend significantly more time multitasking at home than working dads. And those mothers aren't happy about it.
Researchers from Bar-Ilan University in Israel and Michigan State University looked at 368 working mothers and 241 fathers who worked outside the home. Turns out, the women were on overdrive, with some even describing the hours between 5 and 8 p.m. as the "arsenic hours."
"The first thing they had to start worrying about is getting dinner, interfacing with their kids, getting done all the housework chores," says sociologist Barbara Schneider with Michigan State University, who co-authored the study. "You could see from the data all the stresses and strains they felt as they walked in the door, and all the tasks" they felt they had to accomplish during those early-evening hours.
The working parents in the study wore watches that beeped randomly seven times throughout the day. Researchers wanted to know how much they were multitasking. So, after the beep, the men and women filled out forms that described what they were doing, what "else" they were doing, and whether they were happy, stressed or wished they were doing something else.
After gathering all the information, the researchers found that working mothers spent 10.5 more hours every week on multitasking compared with working fathers — typical chores like preparing dinner, doing laundry, maybe even doing some work brought home from the office, while also talking with their child and helping with homework.
Fathers, on the other hand, did a different kind of juggling. "When they're multitasking, it tends to be more work related — so they might be answering a work call" while spending time with the kids, Schneider says.
As a result, Schneider says, the women reported much greater feelings of stress and being overwhelmed than the men reported. The men reported feeling pleased with their multitasking.
Psychologist Russell Poldrack, of the University of Texas at Austin, studies how our brains make decisions and process information. He says there's a big difference between multitasking in the short term — answering the phone while driving, for example — versus multitasking over a number of hours, like the mothers in this study. These mothers were likely overloading their "working memory," he says.
"Our brains can only hold so much information in working memory, and when we get overloaded, a different set of systems turns on in the brain — chemical systems that are actually related to the stress response," says Poldrack. "And the neurons in our prefrontal cortex lose the ability to hold information in the same way that they can when we're not stressed out."
Understanding the biology behind being frazzled may not be much comfort to the average over-stressed working mother.
Which is why researcher Barbara Schneider suggests some big changes. While men in the study worked longer hours on the job outside the home than women, Schneider says, employers could be more creative in scheduling, giving men more flexible hours and more time at home so that child care and household chores can be more equitably divided.
Source: NPR
Thursday, December 01, 2011
On an article that made me laugh
By JOSH GONDELMAN
Guys, we all know that what women say they want is different from what they actually need. Sure they might say they want a nice guy or a chance to study yoga in India, but that’s just a cover up for deeper needs that they usually won’t admit to. Fellas, no matter what ladies say, the things they need most are food, shelter, and potable drinking water.
Seriously, women need food. Sometimes they may want to eat salad. Sometimes they may want to eat sloppy joes. It doesn’t matter. Without food, women will physically die. Literally, they will stop living. Food contains nutrients such as Vitamin C and Riboflavin that women need to survive. So when a woman says she wants a good listener, know that the subtext is that she needs potassium to live. She also needs a ton of other vitamins and minerals that she’ll “conveniently” never mention to you. There’s glucose in food that the mitochondria in her cells need to produce adenosine triphosphate so she can move around and stuff. These are things that you’re just expected to know. It’s 2011, guys, and women don’t want to be with someone that doesn’t understand that.
But food alone can’t fulfill a woman. Not kale, and not even chocolate. It’s not like the comic strip Cathy. Women in this day and age need more. Like shelter. Seriously, dudes. Women need shelter from the elements. They can’t just live on a hammock or in a pillow fort. They’ll get sick. Women need walls. They need roofs. I’m not saying you need to provide those for them, but if a woman is trying to find shelter, and you stand in her way, you’re being a jerk. It’s not the prehistoric era anymore. You can’t just drag a woman back to your cave by the hair. First of all, that’s assault. Secondly, a cave does not provide adequate protection from rain, wind, and large predatory animals. Why are you even living in a cave? That’s insane. Get with the program.
Finally, women need potable drinking water. As a guy, you’re probably like: “I’ll drink any water, regardless of the toxins it may contain. Who cares if it is radioactive or full of the ebola virus?” Women aren’t like that. When they say potable drinking water, they really mean it. If you say your drinking water is potable, and it isn’t, a woman will know. She’s not going to write off that flesh eating bacteria or radiation poisoning as fun or cute. Be a man. Face facts. It is not too much for a woman in this day and age to ask for water that she can drink that will hydrate her with little to no crippling physical side effects.
Don’t go crazy trying to meet these needs for a woman right away. If you just met someone and all of a sudden you’re digging her a well or building her a wigwam, you’re probably coming on a little strong. Start small. Maybe with a sandwich (food) or a glass of water (water). Plus, given that women under thirty are now earning as much as men of the same age, they are likely to have addressed these needs on their own. Don’t just assume that a woman is lacking a sturdy residence. Listen to her. Just know, that there are certain things that may go unsaid.
Look, when you meet a woman, and she tells you that she wants someone to build a future with or to find an internship in San Diego so she can be near her family, be aware that there are some deeper issues she’s not addressing. On a basic level, if you’re standing in the way of her ability to secure food, shelter, or potable drinking water, then all the backrubs in the world aren’t going to make this work.
Sorry, bros. That’s just how it is.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
On Afghan Acid Attacks...
One of the biggest issues facing our planet is women's rights. It won't stop being an issue. We can't stop the fight for education; independence; equality.
This goes beyond women's rights - which are often neglected after revolutions. Globally, we need to redefine our definitions of masculinity. We need to reinforce that violence (in all forms) has negative consequences. We need to start discussions about the negative impacts of violence on our communities.
I applaud the parents of this young woman for making the choice to refuse the man who asked for her hand in marriage. It's a shame that their strength was answered with violence. I hope that they find the support they need in their community.
Afghan woman attacked with acid after refusing marriage
KUNDUZ, Afghanistan |
(Reuters) - An Afghan family who refused to give their daughter in marriage to a man they considered irresponsible were attacked at home by unknown gunmen who beat the father and then poured acid over both parents and three children, officials said Wednesday.
Eighteen-year-old Mumtaz, the oldest daughter, had been pursued by a local gunmen who the family considered a troublemaker and bully. With her parents support, she turned him down and instead got engaged to a relative.
A few weeks later, six or seven armed men burst into their home in the Bulk Awal area of the northern Kunduz city -- the largest in the region -- in the middle of the night.
"First they beat her father and then they attacked with acid," said Mumtaz's mother, who asked not to be identified.
All five are now receiving medical treatment, said Abdul Shokor Rahimi, head of the Kunduz regional hospital.
"The father and oldest daughter are in critical condition as they have been attacked all over the body," Rahimi said.
"Their mother and two daughters who are 14 and 13 have some wounds only in hands and faces."
Ghulam Mohammad Farhad, the senior police detective for Kunduz, promised to track down the attackers, who he called immoral and irresponsible.
"We have started an investigation and those who have attacked them will be prosecuted," he told reporters.
Acid is used intermittently as a weapon in Afghanistan, but not always against women. In the conservative, and Taliban influenced south and east, it has been thrown at girls attending schools.
With foreign combat troops set to return home by the end of 2014, some activists inside and outside Afghanistan fear that women's rights may be sacrificed in the scramble to ensure the West leaves behind a relatively stable state.
Men have also been targeted with acid.
In January, veteran Afghan journalist Abdul Razaq Mamon, a presenter, commentator and author, was left with burns to his hands and face after acid was thrown at him in Kabul.
Officials said that attack may have been politically motivated.
(Reporting by Mohammad Hamid, Writing by Mirwais Harooni; Editing by Emma Graham-Harrisonand Yoko Nishikawa)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)