tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31613823350282252452024-03-13T05:03:12.436-07:00The (mis)education of LELSchooling kids by day. Getting schooled by night.LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-48778483237647023132013-01-07T20:02:00.002-08:002013-01-07T20:05:49.952-08:00Go Above Your Nerve "How many women wrote beautiful novels and stories and poems and essays and plays and scripts in spite of all the crap they endured. How many of them didn't collapse in a heap of "I could have been better than <i>this</i>" and instead went right ahead and became better than anyone would have predicted or allowed them to be. The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker. It is not fragility. It's strength. It's nerve. And "if your Nerve, deny you--, as Emily Dickinson wrote, "go above your Nerve." Writing is hard for every last one of us--straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply <i>dig</i>." -Cheryl Strayed (alias, Sugar).LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-83660341525121888132012-03-26T06:33:00.001-07:002012-03-26T06:37:16.602-07:00Suicide, Jews and Savannah<b>What I've been reading: </b><br />
<br />
<i>The Sense of an Endin</i>g, by Julian Barnes: At first, Barnes' slim, Booker-prize winning novel seems like a thematic rumination on memory, nostalgia and personal history. The narrator, Tony--captured with equal precision in youth and age--looks back on his life and recounts the story of his first love, Veronica, consistently spiraling back to the same set of uncertain memories. After an odd weekend with Veronica's family and a subsequent break-up, Veronica ends up dating Tony's boyhood friend, Adrian, much to Tony's childish dismay. Adrian later commits suicide, but the reader is unclear why until the very last page of the book--brilliantly, at the exact same time Tony understands the weight of what happened 40 years earlier. As the reader gets enmeshed in Tony's churning psyche, and as Tony uncovers more and more information, the narrative darkens with intrigue, but remains faithful to its initial thematic focus. Keep at this book; the ending is worth it. <br />
<br />
<i>What We Talk About When We Talk about Anne Frank</i>, by Nathan Englander: Englander's latest book of short stories came out the same week as his modern Haggadah (compiled with Jonathon Safran Foer), and it's hard to say which text is more Jewish. The stories are diverse, but all come back to an enduring Jewish backdrop: antisemitism on Long Island, settlers in war-torn Israel, drug-induced recreations of the Holocaust. The stories are dark and complex, but infiltrated with bits of humor and compassion. My favorite of the eight told the story of a secular Jewish man who finds himself in a seedy Manhattan peep show before returning home to his suburban family. As he battles between guilt and desire, the women in the show morph into his family members and finally his boyhood rabbi, and the readers gets sucked deep into his neurotic fantasy. Though inconsistent in quality, the stories merge Jewish history and modern Judaism in inventive, surprising ways that definitely warrant a read.<br />
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<i>Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil</i>, by John Berendt: This book was the perfect companion for a recent trip to South Carolina. During a weekend in Savannah, GA, New York editor, Berendt, falls in love with this sleepy Southern city and takes up semi-residency. As a trained journalist, Berendt begins poking around, asking questions, meeting people and learning about the city's complex social network, twisted inner workings, racist history, long-standing grudges and sultry underbelly. Although the book centers on a drawn-out murder mystery, its real focus is the amazing cast of characters Berendt meets while living in Savannah. Through rich and evocative language, Berendt introduces readers to a drug-addled gigolo, a fly-keeper in possession of a deadly poison, a voodoo princess, a sexy black drag queen and the seedy founder of the historic preservation society. This book is hilarious and dramatic, and one of the few non-fiction books I've had a hard time putting down. <br />
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<br />LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-80292835417313576552012-03-19T11:21:00.001-07:002012-03-19T11:21:38.853-07:00What We Read<br />
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/12/nyregion/nonfiction-curriculum-enhanced-reading-skills-in-new-york-city-schools.html?_r=1&ref=education">http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/12/nyregion/nonfiction-curriculum-enhanced-reading-skills-in-new-york-city-schools.html?_r=1&ref=education</a><br />
<br />
This recent <i>New York Times</i> article hits close to home. The article discusses the familiar push toward more non-fiction reading in the classroom through the use of a study on the Core Knowledge Curriculum. The article says:<br />
<br />
<i>"Reading nonfiction writing is the key component of the Core Knowledge
curriculum, which is based on the theory that children raised reading
storybooks will lack the necessary background and vocabulary to
understand history and science texts. While the curriculum allows
children to read fiction, it also calls on them to knowledgeably discuss
weather patterns, the solar system, and how ancient Egypt and
Mesopotamia compare." </i><br />
<br />
Despite a personal bias toward everything literary, I know reading non-fiction is important. As a result, I have probably doubled the amount of non-fiction we read in my class, and I feel good about my students' overall comprehension. The majority of information for which people are held accountable in daily life comes from a variety of non-fiction sources: newspapers, the internet, magazines, work emails, even restaurant menus. Kids <i>must</i> be exposed to non-fiction in order to discuss, compete, analyze, synthesize and, of course, meet pesky benchmarks. Unless you are an illustrious English major, success in college depends on the ability to read and process a wide variety of informational texts. The new national standards for Language Arts (The Common Core) emphasize non-fiction reading skills and, as such, states are pushing their evaluations in that direction. In an effort to remain at the forefront of urban education and see our students become better readers, there's an increased focus on non-fiction in the reading department at my school. How can we best use non-fiction in the classroom, and what specific skills can we teach kids to be successful when reading dense, informational text? <br />
<br />
I support the non-fiction focus 98%, but a few things in the article made me bristle, like the mild insinuation that "children raised reading storybooks will lack the necessary background and vocabulary to understand history and science text." The lack of nuance in this statement devalues storybooks, a child's earliest exposure to literature. This undermining of picture books subtly devalues story, voice, imagery and figurative language--the stuff, the beauty, of fiction. Of course, kids must be exposed to non-fiction texts early in order to process harder ones later, but the statement suggests we discard storybooks entirely, replacing them instead with cold hard facts, graphs and history. This is sad. I also bristle at the verb <i>allow</i>: "While the curriculum <i>allows</i> children to read fiction..." This simple turn of phrase makes fiction out to be a child's guilty pleasure--one that grownups will <i>allow</i> as long as its secondary to things like weather, Egypt and planets. A reading curriculum should not <i>allow</i> fiction; a reading curriculum should uphold, teach and treasure fiction.<br />
<br />
I don't think anyone's actually suggesting we remove literature from reading and English curricula, but I do worry about slippery slopes and subtle messaging. With increased emphasis on how to teach non-fiction, I worry we're losing sight of how to teach and read fiction. I'm concerned literature will gradually depreciate in value until novels, stories and poems become an afterthought, secondary to more important pursuits in the classroom. Fiction and non-fiction exist in concert. Good readers must know how to process and appreciate both genres with equal aptitude. In the past, perhaps English curricula has favored fiction, leaving non-fiction in the dust. This new focus could be compensating for lost time, but as we reinvigorate non-fiction in the reading classroom, we have to be extra cognizant that we continue to elevate and teach literature.LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-35244255271201338212012-03-16T11:32:00.003-07:002012-03-16T12:49:42.600-07:00Number CrunchingI'm consistently surprised that I'm a teacher, but even more surprised that I'm a teacher at a school that spends one day every quarter analyzing data and crunching numbers--just the things I'd been <i>trying</i> to circumvent since wading through my math credit in college. I like words because they're malleable and nuanced and tap nicely on my tongue. I get words and words get me. Numbers, on the other hand, stare me in the face, mocking my inability to see the way they work. My own fear convinces me numbers are only useful when calculating my 15% teacher discount at J.Crew or how many hours of sleep I'll get it if I stay for one more drink. <br />
<br />
But I'm starting to think numbers aren't all bad; maybe even <i>I </i>can hang with digits and data. Once a quarter, my students take an interim assessment from which we gather and assess data on their performance and overall readiness. The data is meant to target certain deficiencies and inform our instruction for the next quarter. While this makes good sense, it goes without saying that my pals on the left coast probably cringe at the idea of so much testing. But what about the <i>child?</i> How can you reduce seventy children to a blinding Excel spreadsheet? Have you no heart?<br />
<br />
The fact of the matter is that I'm a teacher, and my job is to teach children to read better. When I open up my Excel spreadsheet full of data, I get to see something concrete. I get to see percentages, broken down by class, by passage, by skill, by standard. I get to see who's rocking it and who needs tutoring. I have numerical evidence that lends credence to hastily-conceived inferences I've made about proficiency and ability. I can create plans that make sense and avoid ones based on nothing. I've come to really like Data Day even if it forces numbers on me. Data doesn't reduce students to percentages, but it does help ensure they're getting the instruction they need at school every day. That's something I can geek out about.LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-16682416778819314302012-03-12T08:38:00.001-07:002012-03-12T08:38:31.068-07:00Have You Read?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Last week, I proctored tests for three days straight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This means hours of time when I can’t get work done because kids have questions and kids need tissues, but I
also can’t possibly circulate purposefully for two hours straight without
freaking the kids out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These stretches
of undirected time beg the perennial question: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What did people do before Al Gore invented the internet?</i> Were they more productive?
Happier and more focused? Bored and less informed? </div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After I binge on Facebook for a while, I get deep into
internet territory—from the very lowbrow to the very highbrow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first I’m looking at a list of where to get the best fries in the city, then
suddenly I’m reading up on controversial teacher evaluations, letting my
favorite sites take me to other sites in a manic whirlwind of Tweets and
hyperlinks. Part of me feels guilty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
eyes scan across hundreds of pages, and my fingers scroll errantly, while my saturated brain
tries to synthesize more information in less time. As a product of my
generation, does my mind only function if I’m clicking fast and skimming as I
scroll? Have I lost the ability to enjoy the long-form, the deliciously dull,
the arduously good?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way I obtain and
process information is fast and schizophrenic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder if it’s really taking me higher, or if
I’m just reveling in the cache of having “read”the right things. And by read, of course I mean skimming quickly and then gchatting links to (non)interested friends in order to prove I've done my reading. But, would our grandparents call this reading? </div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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One of the only<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
Portlandia </i>skits I liked was called “Have You Read?” The camera panned over
a coffee shop conversation of three twenty-somethings competing over who’d read
the most from a pre-approved list of pretentious publications. They don’t
discuss ideas or news, but merely trade titles and names, ensuring a certain communal
level of intellect while sipping Stumptown coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But with the
internet, the competition is endless and irrelevant; we can all read everything
at warp speed with very little focus required.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Where is it getting us? </div>
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While part of me feels guilty about my internet dependency, another part feels happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m amazed by the quantity and accessibility of
high quality journalism, photos, news and jokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s only 8:45, and I’ve read an archived <i>New
Yorker</i> expose about the LRA from 1998 and a funny piece by an unknown about the
downfall of PBS’s much-loved pup, Wishbone. The internet makes the world feel
smaller and more available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gives us
every possible bit of information at the tips of our fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The internet confirms good journalism, but also
allows us guilty pleasures. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last week,
when I was bored stiff during proctoring, the internet was welcome relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll suffer the consequences later in life, I’m
sure, but for now: Bring on that delicious guilt. </div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-16829205569958736752012-03-08T11:37:00.003-08:002012-03-08T11:50:50.169-08:00WorthyI haven't been blogging much, and <i>everyone's</i> noticing. People across the nation have sunk into deep depressions without weekly entries, and Obama fears we may have a national mental health crisis on our hands. I feel equal parts guilty, elated and relieved about this new development--or rather, lack of development. I told myself when I started that if blog entries turned from folly to burden, I'd stop. The thing is, I really don't want to join the disheartened masses of blog quitters, promising ideas so quickly lost to the labyrinth-like Interwebs. Rather than wasting time on my self-indulgent blogging crisis, though, let me share two things. <br />
<br />
I was at the gym last night doing a pretty half-assed workout, but I still felt good about myself and even <i>better</i> that I was rocking Nike shorts in early March. As I was leaving the YMCA--a bastion for hipsters and low-income families alike--I noticed a woman moving slowly up and down on the stationary bike. Ever-so-slowly because she was daintily pulling shoestring French fries out of a McDonald's bag. And suddenly, I felt even better about myself. <br />
<br />
That's blog-worthy, and so is this:http://gothamist.com/2012/03/08/spotted_goat_eating_pizza_in_midtow.php<br />
<br />LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-67950698585156053652012-02-06T08:52:00.000-08:002012-02-07T12:31:52.696-08:00I Like my Bike<b>The Top Ten Reasons Why I Like my New Bike:</b><br />
<br />
1. The prime acquisition. Ever since I moved to Brooklyn, I've wanted a bike. I come from the bike capital of the country, bikes make the world feel smaller, and all cool girls have bikes. However, I'd made very little headway in terms of putting my money where my mouth is. Majken, who is more of a doer, bought a cute little vintage silver bike on Craig's List that turned out to be a few inches too small for her. So, although I feel guilty, I got a sweet bike by doing absolutely nothing. Rest easy: Majken got a matching blue one from a man in Queens the next day AND I paid her back.<br />
<br />
2. It has those cool vintage gears and curved handlebars.<br />
<br />
3. I have a new friend at the Bike Shop on Atlantic Ave: a short guy with a buzz cut in grimy jeans who knows about gears and brakes and that I'd want a helmet to match my bike. <br />
<br />
4. I biked around Prospect Park in February with a boy who also has a bike and, even though my hands were freezing, my body got a little sweaty. <br />
<br />
5. My bike turns 45-minute sedentary subway rides into 20-minute bursts of exercise. <br />
<br />
6. I like my bike because I know that once I get a white basket, a bell and a clip-on light, it's going to be that much cooler.<br />
<br />
7. My bike cost only $100, which is an amount of money I have also thrown down for less useful things like designer jeans, an impromptu trip to Target, an overpriced dinner in Manhattan and red shoes I never wore.<br />
<br />
8. I can bike across bridges, which reminds me of the Portland Bridge Pedal, the Willamette River and my family.<br />
<br />
9. I can run red lights on my bike and sometimes even go faster than cars, but I'm outside and haven't spent any money on gas.<br />
<br />
10. When I put my bike in my living room, It transforms the space into instant urban-cool.<br />
<br />
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<br />LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-17652974741230854222012-01-31T08:22:00.000-08:002012-01-31T19:28:29.896-08:00Flop Like a ChampionThere are few things I do better than flop.<br />
<br />
Webster defines flop in two ways. 1. <span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">To</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">fall</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">or</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">plump</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">down</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">suddenly,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">especially</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">with</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">noise;</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">drop</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">or</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">turn</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">with</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">a</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">sudden</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">bump</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">or</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">thud; and 2. To be a complete failure. In <i>Of Mice and Men</i>, brothel workers charge a pretty penny for a nice flop. Recent headlines tell me that Newt Gingrich is flip-flopping on his position on the Middle East. My definition of flopping is more nuanced, more personal, though not entirely divorced from any of these connotations. Flopping is something I've been perfecting from cradle to college, but I've only recently come up with the semantics necessary to precisely capture the art of flopping. </span></span><br />
<span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">Humans have flopped since we were primates. Cavemen flopped and so did the Victorians; the hippies flopped with an unrivaled precision and grace. Flopping is an intensely lazy, but also necessary, form of relaxation. You may flop in your bed or on your couch, on your floor or in your roommate/boyfriend/best friend's bed. You may flop alone or with other, like-minded floppers. Flopping is best done after a long day of work, on a rainy Saturday or hung-over Sunday. A snow-day flop is an experience of pure beauty. Flopping may be accompanied by food (mostly of the take-in, pre-made variety), alcohol, books and movies, or it may be free of props. Flopping can last hours, but the craving can be satiated in mere minutes. Flopping attire is important and must be comfortable--real experts flop in something stretchy. Flopping is a highly personal and fluid art form, but it hinges on a deep desire to do very little in a comfortable setting. Though flopping takes almost no skill, it does require genuine dedication to the practice. You must recognize and take pride in the fact that you're going to be a lazy, worthless human being for the duration of your flop. There is no room for judgment in flopping. </span></span><br />
<span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">I am a productive person in most areas of life, but I cannot deny myself a good flop. On a particularly difficult day at work I might text one of my flopping partners: "all I wanna do right now is flop," and the message comes across loud and clear. People who deny themselves a flop on the basis of self-improvement or productivity are denying themselves one of life's simplest, most rejuvenating pleasures. Take it from a modest master: To flop is to live, and to live is to flop. </span></span>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-31577272430558685222012-01-23T15:40:00.000-08:002012-01-24T08:50:11.944-08:00Family Flashback<style>
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When my family got in a fight over winter break, my mom
threatened, only half-joking: <i>you
better not write in your blog about this.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> While a revealing family feud narrative
is far from my intention, the yearly—the unavoidable, the predictable—family
fight is an experience common to those who travel long distances to see our
kin. We do so with a mix of eager anticipation and mild trepidation because,
for so many of us, visiting family has big highs and big lows. Lofty ideals of familial perfection
often lead to unmet expectations, and we find ourselves falling into the same
old patterns. Despite a grass-is-always-greener mentality, no family is more perfect than the next. An argument may be as traditional as your honey baked ham or grandmother's menorah. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
At a quarter-century, my life is mostly on track in terms of
development and maturity, yet when I go home I’m met with a steep and
instantaneous regression to a moody former self. This reverting back manifests
in big, small and varied ways, but it always happens. </div>
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<br /></div>
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While I mostly clean up after myself in Brooklyn, I
haphazardly discard clothes and dishes around my Portland home—a throwback to
the teenage years of battleground bedroom. Maybe it’s muscle memory or maybe it’s dependency on parents
who still retrieve stray mugs from my nightstand. Whatever the reason,
it’s still happening seven years and three states after I moved out. In my adult life, I spend 50 hours a
week mediating adolescent arguments, but when I’m in Portland I find myself
enmeshed in similar debates myself. Feuding with my brother over things that don’t
matter or things that still matter just a little bit too much. Two grown-up people split up in the mini-van
because proximity provokes argument. When I get irritated, I elongate my
syllables like a preteen and, just like that, the mature rationality I work to
maintain is shattered. I might as well put my braces back on. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, of course we had a family fight. We each play the same roles as we argue
about the same things. We make up
in the same ways and eat the same take-in when it’s all said and done. Each
fight is like an uncanny flashback, a melancholy song left on repeat. We say things to family members we
would not say to others. Because we love more deeply, we judge and critique
with more severity. We express and emote with an abandon reserved for only
those closest to us. Shortcomings
are amplified, made enormous through microscopic lenses we turn only on our
own. This winter, just like every winter, everything was okay in the
end. It really always is. Family seems to have a unique ability to bounce back. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I flew back to NYC with three of my close
friends. In the airport, each
casually mentioned a fight, an annoyance, a spat, an argument--all involving moms, dads, brothers, sisters. We commiserated knowingly. Despite these minor or major difficulties, everyone had a great
trip home; we agreed it was hard to say goodbye to our families. Fighting is
part of what sets family apart from the rest of the people we interact with everyday. Maybe we fight because we can't help it, but maybe fighting reinforces bonds that need a little fine tuning. </div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-64370575445171943412012-01-10T10:47:00.000-08:002012-02-07T12:32:30.483-08:00Seeds and Ramen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqIeZc-HZmB7CJRi7CLkFHxI8PWbClkUSJm-nBUSp2mGXXM3uBhzWl15-kIUBcS9G1e8sKzaFR4y52Agn8EmCfPmqtp_AP7l5e5YftXTTQl2J238e6coN6j2s9ObE_KxzteFf9WUhzM8/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqIeZc-HZmB7CJRi7CLkFHxI8PWbClkUSJm-nBUSp2mGXXM3uBhzWl15-kIUBcS9G1e8sKzaFR4y52Agn8EmCfPmqtp_AP7l5e5YftXTTQl2J238e6coN6j2s9ObE_KxzteFf9WUhzM8/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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There are countless reasons New York is worth the price, but
if you’re not taking advantage of those reasons you might as well move to a
city with a few reasons for being cheap. </div>
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When I used to visit New York—as a kid with my nostalgic
parents and then as a college student enviously visiting friends—I packed every
minute full. The city shone with culture
and people, fashion and food. I wanted to see and shop and eat and sniff until
I was soggy with the weight of a place that lacks for nothing but quiet. So
saturated I needed to wring myself out before coming back for more. I
should have known better than to think life as full-time resident would be so
action-packed, but still I hoped. </div>
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Now that my full-time bed is in New York, it’s harder to
make the time. I suppose this is both
obvious and counter intuitive. As a
person with a packed schedule and groceries to buy, it’s harder to take advantage
of the dynamism surrounding me. Being
here should make me do more, but somehow I find myself doing less. The temptation to order Thai food and eat it
on the floor can be difficult to overcome on many Friday nights, but wasn’t I
doing the same thing in Suburban California? I’ve fallen into routines. I go to the same restaurants, visit museums
infrequently and go to shows even less. I
submit to Starbucks because it’s on the corner. In a way, the routines reflect the comfort of
reality over the illusion of vacation, but sink too far into routine and the
reasons for living here are diminished.
Someone once told me: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do things.</i> </div>
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Last weekend, I was proud of two things I did that were distinctly
New York. On a bizarrely warm Saturday
morning, my girlfriends and I trekked from Huevos Rancheros in the East Village
to a gallery in Chelsea where we took in one million hand-painted ceramic
sunflower seeds spread out across the floor of a sky blue room. They were pushed into a perfect rectangle. If you squinted, the individual seeds became a flat gray island. I knelt down and resisted the temptation
to push a stray seed back into formation.
I didn’t know if I could touch, but maybe also the stray was art. The
next day, a boy and I resisted the temptation of the familiar and went to
Chinatown for ramen. The tiny restaurant
was lit with neon and featured a few dingy tables, economy-sized bottles of
Sriracha and a menu with the English in parenthesis. We walked up to the kitchen and ordered two
bowls of ramen and pork dumplings. Standing in the doorway of the open kitchen, we
watched a young man thwack a giant piece of dough onto the counter until it
became skinny shoe lace noodles threaded expertly between his floury fingers . I sacrificed vegetarianism for experience and had
a bite of the best dumpling ever. </div>
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A sustainable life in New York relies on balance. I love that life
here seems normal every day. I change my sheets and clean my bathroom; I rely
on the same delivery and spend weekends never leaving my neighborhood. The banality of life can make it seem more livable,
but this year I want to complement that with a little more New York. </div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-49791052650051448272012-01-02T13:46:00.000-08:002012-01-02T13:55:44.856-08:00Good Things Come in ThreesOn New Year's Eve, we hosted a 4-course dinner party featuring a double dose of parsnips, chocolate mousse and unlimited seltzer from our new eco-friendly machine (apparently, either the key to sobriety if you're alternating or the ultimate downfall if you're mixing). Our group of friends has a penchant for going-around-the-table -- an awkwardly meaningful tradition in which everyone's gently required to speak on some topic. On birthdays, we sing praises; on Thanksgiving, we give thanks. On New Year's Eve, of course, it's resolutions. One way or another, people feel strongly about resolutions. The introspective among us spend December contemplating the best path to self-improvement while the hedonistic spurn the idea of resolving to do much of anything. The optimistic consider the possibilities while the pessimistic wonder: <i>Why make a resolution I'm only bound to break?</i><br />
<br />
Historically, I don't take resolutions very seriously. After vowing to leave my fingernails alone for close to 20 years, I'm starting to wonder about my ability to stick with it. Needless to say, I hadn't thought much about resolutions until the round robin got going. I sipped my seltzer, half listening to the speaker and half thinking of a passable resolution. I was impressed by my friends' thoughtful vows--to spend a summer abroad, to clean up a foul mouth and to eat more fresh produce. When the time came for me to speak, I mumbled something ill-conceived and washed it down with parsnip. <br />
<br />
When the proverbial talking stick reached my friend Zoe, she mentioned a coworker's resolution formula: <b>resolve to stop doing three things, start doing three things and continue doing three things.</b> At first I thought this was trite and overly complex--a three-part cocktail for guaranteed failure come February--but later in the night I became less cynical and realized the formula makes good sense. It recognizes that you're doing things right, while leaving room for stops and starts in the new year. So, here's my cocktail: <br />
<br />
<b>Continue Doing...</b><br />
<br />
1. Continue taking long NYC walks with or without destination. <br />
2. Continue having dinner parties with good friends, food and drink.<br />
3. Continue teaching vocabulary because kids really use it. <br />
<br />
<b>Start Doing... </b><br />
<br />
1. Start trying a new recipe every week.<br />
2. Start writing more fiction. <br />
3. Start making phone calls to parents when their students do <i>good </i>things. On the topic of phone calls, call my grandparents because it makes them insanely happy (that was 3.5). <br />
<br />
<b>Stop Doing...</b><br />
<br />
1. Stop buying things on sale for no reason except that they're on sale<br />
2. Stop losing credit cards<br />
3. And because maybe someday I will succeed: Stop picking my fingernailsLELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-39784814607385836742011-12-18T19:23:00.000-08:002011-12-18T19:23:10.500-08:00Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?<style>
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Growing up, my relatives were far-flung: a set of
grandparents deep in Texas, another in Virginia and outcrops of cousins across
the Eastern Seaboard. No one but
my nuclear family lived out West in Oregon and so, to me, seeing family meant
long plane rides and winter delays all for brief weekends with people I loved
without knowing very well. My
parents built a life in Portland far from their original homes—a life that was
worth the distance. We existed as a four-person unit miles away from anyone else who shared our blood. From my point
of view, a generation removed, this cross-country family situation was normal;
I knew nothing more intimate. We
saw each other when we saw each other. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles were an
occasional, special presence—not every day, never ordinary. </div>
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This is the norm for many people, but in the past few years
I’ve started to wonder whether it needs to be mine. I come from a city I love, one whose cool factor develops
much faster than my own, and my family is not one from which to run. But in spite of every reason to stay
put, I find myself very far away.
My motive for distance is not linked to escape. There was no boring suburb, no great
familial dysfunction that I needed to mediate with miles, but from a young age,
I knew I would leave home. My parents did it, and so would I. My first move was
mild and contained: a 2-hour flight or 20-hour drive to Southern California for
four short years. At the end, though, a country full of new cities opened up
and I found myself in Boston then New York. Three years later, I still find
myself a day’s worth of travel and three time zones away from my beloved city
and beloved family. In most every
way, this is the right choice for right now, but around the holidays—the most
family-oriented time of year—I take pause. </div>
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I start thinking about distance when seeing my family a few
times every year means two $50 cab rides, a $500 flight, a possible delay
because of weather, bad airport food at Newark and a pit in my stomach when I
have to say goodbye after a week. This is when I start to question whether it’s
worth it. Right now, the answer is
resoundingly yes, but I wonder if this yes will expire. The more enmeshed you get in a city—its
jobs, its friends, its men, its beauty—it becomes harder and harder to
leave. But the solution can’t be
to leave somewhere before you start to love it too much. That’s low-level
depravity. Then again, if you do
want to move back home, the window of opportunity might not be forever open. The Internet, iMessage and Skype give those of us living far away a false sense of closeness--like maybe we could do this forever. Even with cellphones, 4,000 miles is still 4,000 miles. </div>
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It’s hit me recently that I can make the choice to live
close to my family, to make relatives a year-round presence, not a holiday
rarity. It’s weird to think that the decisions I make now have the power to
reverse a trend for the next generation. My parents don’t pressure me, but I
know it’s on their mind, too.
While they’re proud to have a daughter living in the big city, they’re
also wondering when she’s coming back. When I mention a new boy, my mom always
asks, half-teasing: “Is he Jewish?” Now she’s added on a more-pressing query: “Is he from the
West Coast?” If not, “How does he feel about Portland?”</div>
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</div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-868306957375279172011-12-13T11:06:00.000-08:002011-12-13T11:11:20.110-08:00Pearls of WisdomIn my 25 years, I've learned mostly the following: <br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Passing out before midnight on a Saturday night doesn’t make you lame, it makes you confident. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cottage cheese looks gross, but tastes amazing. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Never do something yourself when you could bribe your sibling to do it for you. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Although tempting, it’s usually a bad idea to keep your credit card in your back pocket rather than tucked safely in your wallet. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s worth spending money on soft sheets and name brand hair products. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">6.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don't let anyone tell you coffee is bad for you. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">7.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Belting an outfit really does make you look skinny. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">8.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dance parties are usually more satisfying in your kitchen than in a bar, particularly when they include a certain Wiley Goy. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">9.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eating pizza while drinking is never a bad idea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eating pizza is never a bad idea. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">10.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes 12-year-olds have great taste in music. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">11.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Never use a glue trap to catch a mouse unless you’re cold-hearted. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">12.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Keep your deodorant in the fridge if the temperature gets above 90. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">13.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Leave home at least twice. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">14.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Procrastinate a lot, and then work harder.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">15.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Childhood friends are worth keeping around, because you never know when you might all end up in NYC. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">16.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Beware the transformative power of matching pajama sets. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">17.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bring plenty of water on all outdoorsy endeavors. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">18.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Reunite. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">19.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Travel far away when you have the money, but especially when you have the time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">20.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Create a secret language so you can be judgmental in public.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">21.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Get a few speeding tickets because going fast is fun. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">22.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Go on long walks with coffee and sandals. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">23.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Consider meat. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">24.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When shopping, never wear overalls, a sports bra, skinny jeans or shoes that tie. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">25.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Flop frequently and flop well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-16831707136369894542011-12-08T11:00:00.001-08:002011-12-08T14:22:34.101-08:00Good Reads, Part 2<strong>If Michiko Kakutani can do it, so can I. Here's what's on my nighstand lately:</strong> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>The Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides:</strong> </i>When a writer waits ten years between books, it’s hard to meet readers’ expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eugenides’ new book is criticized for its failure to live up to his first two novels—the inventive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Virgin Suicides</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Middlesex. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>And it’s true: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Marriage Plot</i> is not as original, thought provoking or beautiful as Eugenides’ earlier work, but this comparative critique doesn’t take us very far. The book is still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The novel chronicles the intertwined lives of three Brown graduates trying to keep love and intellectualism alive during the post-college letdown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As in his previous novels, Eugenides once again showcases his masterful ability to capture—with dry humor and attention to detail—what it feels like to be young and lost. The book is about intellectual snobs and, as such, will appeal mostly to readers who have intimate knowledge of life on an elite college campus (certainly no one I know). <em>The Marriage Plot</em> is a big, graceful novel in the finest sense: multigenerational, global and full of trial and tribulation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>The Tiger’s Wife, by Tea Obreht:</strong> </i>So much contemporary fiction is about dysfunctional people and their dysfunctional relationships, families and jobs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In its attempt to capture what life is like at the beginning of the 21<sup>st</sup> century, contemporary American fiction often fails to provide readers with the escapism for which literature is known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Realistic fiction is a little bit too real. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>24-year-old Obreht’s debut novel defies this trend by offering up a novel rife with fable, allegory and history—the Eastern European answer to magical realism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Set in the Balkans, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tiger’s Wife</i> tells the story of a young doctor trying to uncover the mystery surrounding her beloved grandfather’s death. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obreht weaves in a tale about a village haunted by a seductive tiger and another about a Deathless Man who cannot himself die but can predict the fate of others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The darkly beautiful book is driven not by characters and their neuroses, but by a culture so foreign and magical that it’s easy to escape into Obreht’s careful storytelling. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>“The Laramie Project” by Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Project:</strong> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because most of my life is consumed with what I teach, it seems appropriate to recommend what I’m teaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1998, gay Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered in what became the catalyst for the last decade’s hate crime legislation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Immediately following the murder, members of the Tectonic Theater Project interviewed everyone associated with the incident and compiled their interviews into a play. “The Laramie Project” is a powerful exploration of hate, intolerance and the unforgettable influence of one event on a small community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, if you need a copy, I have 90. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Open City, by Teju Cole</i>:</strong> This book isn’t about much, but it’s about something with which I’m very familiar: long walks around New York City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The protagonist is a foreign doctor living on the Upper West Side who takes long, solo walks around the city, which afford him contemplation, introspection and interaction. In his descriptions of Manhattan, Cole intimately captures what it feels like to live in a city that draws us in, but leaves us lonely. <em>Open City</em> offers only a shred of plot, but draws readers in with nuanced description and precise observation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bossypants</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">by Tina Fey</i>:</strong> When this book came out, I was against it for myriad reasons, including but not limited to Fey’s theft of my memoir title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other reasons can be categorized under literary snobbishness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finally took the plunge when I got a free copy for my school’s adult book club (like, for adults, not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">XXX</i>). The hype is true enough: parts of the books are literally laugh-out-loud funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fey gives sage beauty advice that I found personally helpful: always wear a bra because you’ll never regret it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Fey pieces together a coherent book from lists, scripts, drawings, fan mail and childhood stories. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though self-deprecating at times, the reader never doubts that Fey is proud of her accomplishments and what they mean for the world of comedy. The ending is the weakpoint: a devolution into what it means to be a mother with a high-power career that reads a bit too much like a late-night diary entry. Regardless, Bossypants is honest, funny and the perfect Subway read. </span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-6401817680964616042011-12-01T11:00:00.001-08:002011-12-01T13:01:22.326-08:00The More You Know<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Sex and the City</i> aired
in 1998 when I was 12 years old and knew very little about the city and far
less about sex. For better or for worse, by the time I was 14 its 40 minute
installments became a facet of my education in both topics. My girlfriends and
I were obsessed with the show, devouring it despite parental objections.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> We were adolescent devotees of a show designed
for women much older than the set who truly adored it. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> After calling to check for availability, we’d
trek to the video store to pick up the next DVD installment of the latest
season. We had neither HBO nor driver’s licenses to aid in our quest. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> Enraptured by all we did not understand, we’d re-watch
episode after episode in whatever basement offered the least likely chance of a
dad popping in during a particularly rousing climax. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I don’t remember if we found <i>Sex and the City</i> funny. I can’t imagine we got many of the jokes—so
dependent on concepts just grazing our consciousness. Only in our delusional minds
could we empathize with or relate to the escapades of wealthy single women in
Manhattan. And yet we were fascinated with the fairy tale stories because of
their glimmer of attainability.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> A
glimpse into the lives of women who bore little resemblance to us or anyone we
knew but also seemed like not entirely inconceivable iterations of our
adolescent selves. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> Perhaps if life took
certain turns, we too could be Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha, sipping
cocktails, romping around in dozens of Manhattan bedrooms, then talking about
it over brunch. Because my hair was curly, I would be Carrie rather than the red-headed
cynic whose character more closely resembled who I would become ten years later.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In hindsight—and as a middle school teacher—I understand my
parents’ objections. We were probably too young to be watching a show that was
full of nudity and thematic questionability, but every girl whose mother would
let her was watching on similar subterranean screens across the country.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I wonder about the effect of <i>Sex and The City</i> on our early
understanding of dating, gender politics and sex itself. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> Was watching dozens of raunchy episodes innocuous or
influential to our development?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I think
of <i>Sex and the City</i> as something of
my generation, but in reality, weren’t we a little young to be watching? </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Recently, two girlfriends and I downloaded a season of <i>Sex and the City</i> on iTunes—the modern
day DVD for the HBO-less among us.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> These
are the same two girlfriends—the rotating Samantha and Charlotte to my Carrie—who
I watched these same episodes with years ago.</span><span style="font-size: small;">
Only now we are twentysomethings living in New York rather than
brace-faced teenagers living in Portland. On the surface, the resemblance doesn’t
amount to much other than gender and location. We are teachers and students,
not media reps and sex columnists. We live in Brooklyn and buy cheap wine.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The experience was nostalgic, but also
unsettling.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> In the most oxymoronic way, <i>Sex and the City</i> seemed more real
fantasy or fake reality than ever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My roommate remarked as the episode entitled “are all men
freaks?” came to its voiceover conclusion: “this doesn’t seem so funny anymore.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> And she’s right.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> With
more knowledge of both sex and the city, the plotlines are more relatable, but
lilt toward depressing. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> We laughed at
the nineties clothing, but couldn’t find much comedy in the plotlines.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Despite questionable content, maybe <i>Sex
and the City </i>is better for girls than women.
Girls who wonder if this reality could someday be their own rather than women who worry that maybe it really is.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<br />LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-80542776106030301362011-11-24T08:17:00.001-08:002011-11-24T08:49:12.549-08:00Dar GraciasI am beyond thankful for the same things all lucky people are thankful for: my friends, my family, my job, my health. My friends are a step above. The ones in New York make living across the country from home a wonderful, communal experience, and the others who are far flung remind me it's worth traveling and picking up the phone. My family, too--people who live far away, but talk like me and look like me and love me unconditionally; I am thankful to spend this holiday together. I am thankful for my job. Somehow, waking up at 5:30 in the morning feels okay when you get to work with inspiring people, laugh all day long and never doubt that you are doing something important and meaningful. I am thankful, too, for my youth and health--my only real concern being spots from too much sun. For all this, I give thanks and knock on wood. <br />
<br />
On this holiday that asks for reflection and thanks, I want to thank a few other things as well: <br />
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<b>The B62 bus:</b> I take this bus to work every morning at 6:26am. I get on at the beginning of the line, and although I know the exact time of departure, I am thankful that if the bus driver sees me crossing the street a minute late, he'll hold up traffic to wait for me. I'm thankful for the gossipy, Christian ladies who get on 10 minutes later to entertain me, and I'm thankful for the sleepy kids who ride it all the way to school.<br />
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<b>H</b><b>ummus: </b>Because it comes in many delicious flavors, and I'm not sure I could be a vegetarian without its protein-y goodness.<br />
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<b>Down comforters:</b> My mom taught me years ago that the best way to sleep is beneath only a down comforter. We live in a household free of top sheets. I am thankful for a blanket that provides cozy warmth in the winter and comforting weight in the summer. <br />
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<b>Coffee:</b> For ritual, warmth and the ability to talk to adolescents at 7:30 in the morning, I am eternally thankful.<br />
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<b>The bagel guy:</b> I am thankful for this guy who wears gold chains and a velour jacket and tells me to "have a great day, babe" when he gives me my fresh-outta-the-oven bagel at 6:15 in the morning. <br />
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<b>Gchat:</b> Some may try to swear off techy addictions, but in fact I'm thankful for mine. Though a powerful tool for procrastination, Gchat allows me to chat with friends across the country during the work day. I can look at bridesmaids dresses with Julianne, talk about weekend plans with Claire and make fun of Ian all while "getting work done." I am also thankful for my worrisome but useful ability to multitask.<br />
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<b>My students:</b> The best and worst part of every day. I am thankful for 75 kids with all different personalities, one of whom asked if he could come to Texas with me because he's always wanted to ride a horse. <br />
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<b>Paul Simon:</b> I am thankful for music that never gets old and fits every occasion besides Saturday night. From roommate dance parties to morning productivity sessions, I am thankful for "Graceland." <br />
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Happy Thanksgiving! <br />
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<br />LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-38700741514199545052011-11-21T07:53:00.001-08:002011-11-21T08:01:09.735-08:00Don't Mess<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWAiJ8eE53PeUGA429mjJ7dTfOYuCrFDhv47ry3foTYWZXFqrD5kuVVN0PAyMswGcW9eyR23jc8Z4GpRYvqJaj24yFACUgWGJkgPQABqBd4ZK9RfB2-8O_3RYemlI03WgZInduq1Ol9I/s1600/tex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWAiJ8eE53PeUGA429mjJ7dTfOYuCrFDhv47ry3foTYWZXFqrD5kuVVN0PAyMswGcW9eyR23jc8Z4GpRYvqJaj24yFACUgWGJkgPQABqBd4ZK9RfB2-8O_3RYemlI03WgZInduq1Ol9I/s1600/tex.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every person could have been many things she is not. Who you end up is the result of the choices you make, but also choices others made long before your birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To this end, I sometimes remind myself I could have been a Texan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A card-carrying member of that most prideful, contentious state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My almost identity is equal parts dodged bullet and missed opportunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disturbing, yes, but also intriguing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A very different fate that so easily could have been my own. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mom is a Texan living in Oregon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are probably more Texans living in Oregon than there are Oregonians living in Texas, but she is a rare breed nonetheless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Generally speaking, Texans don’t leave Texas. A fierce loyalty dictates you stay in state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People simply see no reason to leave its expansive boundaries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother, the loveable black sheep, did exactly that: packed her bags for faraway places like Colorado, Massachusetts and ultimately Oregon where she landed and would not leave. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because of those choices made years before my birth, I am not a Texan but instead its antithesis: a first-generation Oregonian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Oregon, Texas is not well-liked. Texas is everything Oregon abhors contained in one land mass: the Bush family, SUV’s, beef far from free-range, beer far from micro, sticky air and flatness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a widespread dislike of Texas, particularly among those who have never been and never plan to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The haters consider Austin the exception, a liberal oasis in a desert of belt buckles and homophobia, but prefer not to sully its name by association with the nation’s most despicable state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Texas is the scapegoat for all that’s wrong in our country; Texas has encroached on us before and it could happen again at any time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cue hysteria, phobia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oregonians and liberals nationwide just don’t like Texas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was a kid and sometimes still today, I’m often met with thinly-veiled distaste when I tell people I’ll be spending a holiday in the land of Texas. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Really?? Why?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Does your family own guns? Do they hunt?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually</i> like it there?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The answer is yes, I do like it there, but not in the way I like trendier locales like New York City or San Francisco.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the way Texas smells, like humid air, pinto beans cooked long in animal fat and my grandma’s Cover Girl foundation. I like driving a gigantic, gas-guzzling SUV high above the freeway even though it goes against every liberal sensibility I swear by. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like that my cousins listen to country, and that my cowboy boots are actually from D&D Ranch and Supply. I like salty, fatty Tex-Mex from places that start with El and La. Places that are neither clean nor vegetarian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I like that I know how to ride a horse and elongate my vowels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I staunchly defend Texas, but I do not wish I were from Texas. I like too many things about being an Oregonian, so I'm content to call Texas home once removed. Still, though, had my mother done what was expected of her, I would be a Texan. No questions asked, most likely there to stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you change something crucial about your identity—the state from which you hail, for example—how much of you really changes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> That, I do not know. What I do know is that tomorrow I'm getting on a plane heading South not West, and it's exactly the direction I want to fly. </span></span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-35457700263990674392011-11-10T08:48:00.000-08:002011-11-11T14:27:34.494-08:00I Like The Way You Move<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My teacher training program drilled the moves of classroom management into my mind until I was dreaming in teacher-speak. I mean moves in the most literal sense. Plays like in Football, moves like in chess, calculated game at a bar. It was a packaged deal: learn to control a classroom of hormonal adolescents in nine easy steps (no money back guarantee, though). This precise method to managing the madness is progressive and mostly effective, a hallmark of the “no-excuses” classroom. And for this method, my sanity is forever grateful. Distill something massive into an exact, replicable science and practice, practice, practice until the impossible becomes second nature. Like a puppet master, use non-verbals and hand gestures to make kids sit up, turn around, face forward. Modulate your voice while delivering consequences. Stop and stare. Self-interrupt. Be emotionally constant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had a reunion dinner this week with several of the people who completed the teacher training program with me. We talked about the endless perks of being a second-year teacher. My friend Andrew mentioned that he lets his personality show through a lot more in the classroom—that he actually <i>uses</i> his personality as a management tool. While this move was never taught in our teacher training curriculum, I got what he meant. My teacher-self is no longer at odds with my normal-self, she’s just a slightly more-in-control version with frumpier clothes. No longer a manic Sybil, my unified self is contented. My classroom is also a much saner place. This is probably not a coincidence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This prescribed method of classroom management can look like a robo-teacher conducting a tiny military, but this doesn’t have to be the case. What my program failed to emphasize—or maybe a nuance I failed to internalize—is that within this disciplined framework, there is ample room for personality and modification. That, in concert with a firm background in these moves, your personality is the single greatest classroom management tool you’ve got. Conversely, if you’re lacking in the personality department, these moves may lose their effectiveness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">More than anything, kids long to see humanity in their teachers. To know that you make jokes and laugh when things are ridiculous. To know that you do things (sub-free things) on the weekend, have interests and hobbies and brothers and sisters. To know that you are quirky just like them. Kids respect personality more than much else. A shared understanding of what’s happening around us makes the classroom a happier space. I faulted my program for removing the humanity and personality from the profession. It seemed to clash so irreconcilably with my West Coast sentiments. I see now, though, that with a firm grasp of the moves, you free up space to layer on personality and use it to your advantage. Within reason, imbuing your teacher self with your normal self yields great results. </span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-39279176882513817942011-11-04T10:44:00.000-07:002011-11-04T10:47:38.015-07:00Why We Slide<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhegQ0Mw3Fg46lxlpMmKPtNuF5m9I9GwHkbyHtTLlTuf4icMU8ADZrgO-v_5Eytm8M5RtHrCY5Fg0XewQq7_rnNdj0w-T3Y2o9RWnFi72xKlxlGYkKjy3uZnTp4a-yZFGk7F-u1oECJ4Gk/s1600/s-CARSTEN-HOLLER-large300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhegQ0Mw3Fg46lxlpMmKPtNuF5m9I9GwHkbyHtTLlTuf4icMU8ADZrgO-v_5Eytm8M5RtHrCY5Fg0XewQq7_rnNdj0w-T3Y2o9RWnFi72xKlxlGYkKjy3uZnTp4a-yZFGk7F-u1oECJ4Gk/s1600/s-CARSTEN-HOLLER-large300.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I spent many years of my life under the impression that I loved art museums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those monoliths of culture, those labyrinths housing the relics of our time, those places where I belonged and felt inspired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew museums were important, the type of thing I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">supposed</i> to love, and so I dutifully visited their hallowed hallways. I traipsed through museums in several continents and dozens of cities—with friends, family, boyfriends and strangers—until they turned into a giant unrecognizable blob of oil paint and gift shops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I didn’t admit that to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a proud museum-goer, pretentiously soaking up culture and loving every ounce of artsy cred I was getting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It wasn’t until recently that I started to wonder about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me and the museum</i>—coincidentally, the pending title of my upcoming instructional manual on how to pretend you like museums. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my already-pathetic attention span dwindles down to close to nothing, I find it increasingly difficult to buy into the idea that I love museums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have loved specific museums and specific exhibits, but I’ve begun to realize that I might not be the museum type I </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-no-proof: yes;"><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><stroke joinstyle="miter"></stroke><formulas><f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></f><f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></f><f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></f><f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></f><f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></f></formulas><path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"></path><lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></lock></shapetype><shape alt="Description: Options" id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 0.75pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 0.75pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="Options" src="file:///C:\Users\llatto\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.gif"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">once assumed I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Huge buildings that require quiet contemplation without definitive end time are not exactly my thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This realization is mildly disorienting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have I changed as a person or was I lying to myself all along? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My best friend Majken is a graduate student in museum studies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only is she a museum lover in the purest sense, but she’s interested in what museums say about society, what role they play in our communities, how they function in a much broader sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Majken’s totally genuine interest in museums is awesome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talking to her about this field, I’ve realized a few things that shed light on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me and the museum</i>. Not all museums are for everyone. It’s okay if I like some museums—read: small, interactive ones—and would rather avoid others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay if I don’t want to look at 16<sup>th</sup> Century Italian art for very long. Or ever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some ways, this helps legitimize my budding identification as a non-museum lover. I can pick and choose which museums I visit and for how long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can casually like museums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love some, abhor others, spend no more than an hour in any one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This brings me to the slide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve always liked the New Museum—small, modern, close to Brooklyn, with a sweet roof-deck and bookstore attached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I heard the New Museum was installing a 40-foot slide I was as excited as most 24-year-olds get when they hear the word slide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to the exhibit—Carsten Holler—on opening weekend and waited an hour to race down a three-story tunnel slide on the Bowery on a strip of canvas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition to the slide, there was a mirrored carousel, a nude sensory deprivation-tank and upside down goggles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure if any of this is art. If it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> art, I’m not sure it’s any good or what it means.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Moreover, I'm not sure I care. </span>What I do know is that the exhibit was really fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids and adults were chatting, laughing, experiencing the odd dissonance between playground and art museum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I left the museum, I didn’t feel that faux-sense of cultural validation—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thank God that’s over and I can eat</i>—but I did feel happy and intrigued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe, for me and others in my camp, that’s exactly what we need from a Sunday trip to the museum. </span></div>
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<br /></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-32035620104441441232011-10-28T09:03:00.000-07:002011-10-28T09:07:21.696-07:00Baring All on October 31<br />
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I had catch-up dinners with two different friends this week.
Once we'd covered job, friends and love life, we got into what really matters: Halloween. Fodder for conversation. Costume
decisions and bar-hopping routes are the just the tip of the Halloween iceberg,
entry points into a more philosophical discussion. For twentysomethings still
riding high on the coattails of college, Halloween is an institution—everyone’s
favorite or least favorite holiday—rife with story, connotation and debate. </div>
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Yesterday, I got an email from a college friend—subject line
“Halloween”— saying only: “I’ve figured out a way to my wear my nude bodysuit
again this year!” Like your favorite black
cardigan, a nude body suit is a useful transition piece—from Lady Godiva to the
Coppertone Girl to a Never Nude to a streaker.
When you shell out for such an item at the Claremont, California sex
shop, you expect it to deliver until it gets too snug. For those who have made similar investments, rest
easy: Slutty Halloween is here to stay. Your
tight-fitting nude bodysuit will always be en vogue on October 31. </div>
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For whatever reason, the holiday formerly marked by Reeses
Cups and friendly ghosts has become a nationwide slutfest starting around age 18. From unknown
origins, Halloween has burgeoned into a yearly excuse to bare all under
infinite guises. </div>
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The first dinner was Brooklyn Thai with a friend who also
experienced life as a women’s college undergraduate. As such, we share a
similar set of jumbled feminist values that we can conveniently pull out or
obscure at will. She expressed a general distaste for slutty Halloween, a
tradition she forcefully defies every year.
Intellectually, I totally agree. There’s a feminist disconnect inherent in
Slutty Halloween that doesn’t sit well when I stop to think about it. How is it
that empowered women spout gender theory in co-ed classes, best their male counterparts
on exams and hold their own in every professional field, yet still relish the autumn
opportunity to dress like a costumed slut and let booze drip down their insides
for the benefit of barely-costumed men? More personally: How is it that I
studied feminist literature with professors I admire and still dressed up as a
slutty Pikachu one year? And, embarrassingly generic, a slutty firefighter the
next? Couldn’t I have just been Jane
Austen?</div>
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The feminist in me objects to the objectification, the explicit
provocation for men who spend little time on their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">own</i> costumes. But a new
strand of feminism insists that we’re past all that—that the choice to dress
provocatively is empowering in its own right. The stereotyped posterchild for this
way of thinking is Samantha from “Sex and the City.” As powerful women, we can do what we want
with our bodies and our wardrobe. It shouldn’t affect who we are or where we
stand. In some ways, Halloween embodies
this power of choice, but I do think the costumes would make Betty Friedan and
co. blush for more than one reason. It doesn’t
quite add up, but the question is: Does the apparent disconnect really matter?
Of all the feminist battles to fight, is Slutty Halloween really worth our
time?</div>
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The second dinner was Manhattan Italian with a close male
friend from college, someone whom I’d probably drunkenly encountered on four
separate Halloweens. Sipping red wine, we
rehashed our college costumes. When I
got to “cowgirl,” he repeated twice, “oh yeah. I remember that one.” While my friend is mostly an upstanding
gentleman, I had a feeling his memory was more exposed pushup bra and denim
mini skirt than the historical accuracy
of my Annie Oakley—handstiched boots and bolo tie imported directly from the
Lone Star State. But he can’t be blamed.
I dressed up as a sexy cowgirl of my own free will, implicitly for the benefit
of the men I was sure to encounter. </div>
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Southern California was the perfect backdrop for slutty
Halloween. Still warm well into October,
we had little choice but to masquerade as glorified prostitutes once a year (one year, a group ironically dressed up as actual prostitutes, because why not?) Anything can be turned slutty—the hoochier the
better. At the time, I don’t think dressing up as a
non-slutty nurse, lobster, cadaver, Pokemon, Sarah Palin, Steve Jobs even
crossed my mind. Why bother going out? Slutty Halloween is institutionalized.
Well into our twenties, we can’t shake the connotation, nor do most seem to want
to. The conservative among us get a
chance to cut loose and the already loose among us are vindicated. The formerly-wholesome holiday has officially
been degraded, but only the slimmest minority seems to want to reverse the
trend: <a href="http://takebackhalloween.org/">http://takebackhalloween.org/</a>. </div>
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I asked a coworker for her thoughts on Slutty Halloween. “Well,
it works,” she responded, and explained that she met a long-term boyfriend at a
Halloween party. I was reminded of my
college roommate, who is now engaged to a man she started dating on
Halloween. I doubt either of these respectable
women was fully clothed. These tales of Halloween love are definitely coincidence, right?</div>
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Frankly, Slutty Halloween is fun and harmless. This year, I’m dressing up as Amelia Earhart. My choice to dress up as an overly-clothed,
independent woman is not meant to be a feminist statement. At all. I just wanted to buy some aviator
goggles and a cap. When a male friend
asked if I was going to be Amelia EarWHORE, I laughed. Because it’s funny. And if Amelia <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> ends up wearing a push-up bra and shorts instead of pants: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sue me.</i> </div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-17802064349852460602011-10-20T11:13:00.000-07:002011-10-20T11:16:19.817-07:00Middle School 101<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fact: Middle schoolers have a bad reputation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arguably deserved. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No one thinks too highly of these awkward in-between years. Kids have mostly shed their cute factor, but have yet to replace it with any other factor. They are loud and run in packs--leaning on the safety of blending in when individuality seems terrifying. There’s a common perception of middle school kid as volcano, a sweaty Vesuvius waiting to explode with the slightest provocation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Middle schoolers are known for hormones, animal noises, bad smells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence the reputation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>When I tell anyone I teach middle school, the response is a clenched grin and one of these stock diplomatic phrases: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wow, that’s a rough age.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(read: that sucks)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“God bless you!” (read: I know neither of us is religious, but I can’t think of anything better to say)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I hated middle school.” (read: I had braces twice and boyfriends never)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s a lot of hormones in one building.” (read: middle schoolers smell and get their periods. Don’t you want a desk job?)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thanks for the support, friends. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I try to defend the age group, but mostly I just change the subject.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So, what do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>do?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Middle school is an undeniably awkward stage of life. The bad reputation is mostly deserved, but I’ve developed a soft spot for hormonal 7<sup>th</sup> graders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not Devonte’s fault that his best friend is literally twice his size with twice as many girlfriends. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor is it Kevin’s fault that his mom calls his teachers every day to check up on his homework completion (maybe if he did his homework, she’d stop, but that’s beside the point). It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>Alisha’s fault that she asked me for a “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pad</i> for her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">period</i>” in front of half the class. Nice alliteration, Alisha, here's a pass to go to the office. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Middle schoolers are starting to come into their own, slowly developing budding senses of self. This is terrifyiningly exciting. The road is obstacle-ridden like Downtown Brooklyn, and they need all the help they can get navigating it. As a middle school teacher, you get to help out 75 kids during their bleakest hour. All in a day's work. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Teaching middle school involves endurance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You must endure millions of unwarranted eye rolls and buckets of sass worse than anything you remember dishing out. You must endure a classroom that smells like the amalgamated body odor of 25 pre-teens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You must endure note-passing, teeth sucking, classroom flirting, constant lip-gloss application. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But a</span>s a middle school teacher, you are rewarded for your endurance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> You are rewarded b</span>y the student who uses every single vocabulary word you've taught her on her unit test--each accompanied by a smiley face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the thank you notes and cartoons dropped on your desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> By the priceless running document of quotes on your desktop. </span>The bad reputation middle schoolers have garnered is maybe deserved, but it masks a lot of the cute stuff about the age group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The skeptics probably haven't spent a day in a middle school since they were learning the periodic table. I'm not sure I blame them, but still. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A sense of humor and yoga help me keep calm and carry on. Mostly, though, I remind myself of one fact:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is so much better to <em>teach</em> middle schoolers than it is to <em>be</em> a middle schooler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So. Much. Better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On particularly trying days (today, for example), this becomes a wise mantra. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someday, each of my students will have a similar sense of perspective. For now, I repeat it in my head during choice interactions--moments of extreme endurance--and this job actually becomes pretty fun. </span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-38667287094662992722011-10-17T09:43:00.000-07:002011-10-17T09:43:39.644-07:00Traveling Pants<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Women’s college instilled in me persistent ideas about sisterhood—a concept that’s related to but distinct from feminism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along with traveling pants, there are hallmarks of sisterhood; there are unwritten rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the iteration I know best, sisterhood involves fierce loyalty, red wine and late-night voyages to either the frozen yogurt shop or a more grown-up shop. Both in one night for the ambitious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a graduate of a place where the water was metallic with the taste of sisterhood, I carry with me an outline of how I should treat other women and how they should treat me in return. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, how all this corresponds to the way we date. The outline can be titled, crassly, “Chicks Before Dicks,” but the sub-points are infinite and nuanced. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a mostly single woman, I attempt to navigate hetero-dating terrain while staying true to the sisterhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This can be tricky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At school, whenever I started to date someone, I felt a pang of guilt for spending my Friday nights with a boy rather than with the sisterhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Intellectually, I knew this was crazy, but it always felt like I’d broken a rule, betrayed my sisters for a co-ed who may or may not turn out to be important. No matter who I chose—the sisterhood or a boy—guilt was unavoidable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a near-impossible balancing act: admitting to yourself that you did, indeed, want to date, but that you also wanted to be a genuine part of the sisterhood. Not the flakey sister who came and went with the unpredictable tides of relationships. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a friend left the flock for a boy, we’d be excited, but there were undertones of less enthusiastic emotions from the sisters left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The seedy underbelly of sisterhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This weekend, I messed with the rules of sisterhood by putting a dating desire over the feelings of another woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This isn’t really my style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s not much space in sisterhood for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>type of girl, but suddenly I was strutting in her ill-fitting shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt guilty about the minor betrayal, but mostly I started to think about contemporary sisterhood more broadly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> How should sisterhood play out as we date and try to keep balance? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the past, I have strained relationships by being too distant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I isolated sisterhood at the peak of the priority mountain, I realize looking back that I wasn’t much of a girlfriend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the flipside, I have made irresponsible, embarrassing dating decisions—blatantly going against the advice of my girlfriends and knocking over others on my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being a member in good-standing is no easy feat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You practice and learn from your mistakes, but there are always more to be made. Hurt feelings, confused boys, offended girls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been on both sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sisterhood is important, but so too is functional dating in your twenties. Isolating one too dramatically can lead to an imbalance from which it might be hard to recover. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the answer is to wear your traveling pants on a date and your sexiest underwear out with your girlfriends. Subtle reminders to stay conscious while pursuing what feels right.</span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-35880021074163990602011-10-13T10:35:00.000-07:002011-10-13T10:35:19.665-07:00Bouncy<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">A happy life is the product of many components. </span>For those people of whom you are jealous, the components fit together like a mildewed jigsaw puzzle found at a Seventies beach house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But who really spends time re-piecing together cut-up cardboard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of these components you create for yourself and others are dictated by the higher-ups: your parents, the media, your college, your friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the happiness components are as obvious as they are elusive—the hardest and most essential to-do list we’ve got. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You should have a job that is fulfilling, meaningful and lucrative enough. You should have a diverse group of friends, a handsome significant other and a functional family to fulfill you socially, sexually, romantically. You should have hobbies and interests—well-developed and unique.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Intellectually, we mostly know what it takes to feel happy, but the laundry list rarely lines up like you dream it might.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you have a great job, you are hopelessly single, and when you have a great boyfriend, you’re more than likely unemployed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, for the mortals among us, it sometimes seems this is how happiness works. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like many 24-year-old upper-middle-class white girls, I’ve bought into the idea that exercise is a small but crucial happiness factor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exercise has many obvious benefits that can be summed up under “hard-bodied.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But magazines are constantly spewing statistics about how exercise is more than physical. In addition to toning your bod, exercise makes you happy and smart and beautiful, or so says <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cosmpolitan </i>(a dubious source of information as there can’t possibly be 101 new sex tricks every month). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nonetheless, I’ve read this stuff enough that I’m bought in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In college, I had myself convinced that I was happier and more productive when I was getting regular exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a handy conclusion to bring forth when I’d rather be at yoga than working on my thesis (read: always). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My commitment to exercise has waned over the years. I’ve been into kickboxing and yoga; I’ve convinced myself walking is equivalent to running; I’ve also been into a strict beer and Swedish fish regime. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If good teaching hinges on consistency, so too does a rocking bod. This is a mindset I've yet to master. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last summer, I was fed up with exercise and essentially stopped doing it. The gym had become mind-numbingly boring, and even the fleeting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thought </i>of going was excruciating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple motionless months passed, and I started thinking about happiness factors—reevaluating my placement of exercise in this amorphous blob of contentment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you’ve made a decision to stop doing something, it’s easy to convince yourself that it’s stupid, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But after a while I was feeling a little funky, and I wondered if my swearing off of a good thing was partially to blame. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I realized is that if I’m to believe <em>Cosmo’s</em> credo that exercise makes you happy, I should pursue it in ways that are enjoyable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This realization brings me to my new favorite form of exercise and the point of all this: Urban Rebounding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Urban Rebounding is a chic name for trampoline-ing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s offered at your local YMCA, and I highly recommend it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It involves bouncing on a mini-trampoline that is slightly updated, but mostly similar, to the one you had in your basement growing up. While bouncing along to remixed pop music, you attempt a series of complex punches, kicks and other assorted rebounding moves. I’m not sure exactly what makes it so urban, except that I'm doing it in Brooklyn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Point is: it’s really fun, I spend most of the hour laughing with my new rebounding gang, and still end up sweaty and sore the next day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So there you have it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The link between exercise and happiness is pretty legit, but if exercising itself makes you want to kick a puppy, the link gets tenuous. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The happiness components are only viable if they actually make you happy. That should be obvious, but it's not. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The solution, then, is apparent: Urban Rebounding. The cure for what ails us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-36898358875900807312011-10-07T09:48:00.000-07:002011-10-12T05:16:46.842-07:00Profiling<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">During two college summers, I spurned the boring suggestion of an internship and worked instead at a summer camp on Orcas Island. Rather than building up important professional skills I could later leverage toward a JOB, I opted to flirt with outdoorsy boys and make friendship bracelets. My foresight was and remains impeccable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was not the type of East Coast camp where kids stay the whole summer and get tutored for their Bat Mitzvahs in between digital photography class and soccer games. It was a YMCA camp where the favorite activities were the “Dork Dance” and “Get Wet, Get Dirty.” The “Dork Dance” is self-explanatory and uncomfortably similar to my middle school experience. Surprisingly, the latter activity was entirely PG and involved running into the Puget Sound, rolling around in the dirt and gallivanting around camp screaming in totally appropriate ecstasy (or if you are me, screaming because you’re freezing and miserable). Everyone (but me) loved it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was the type of camp where kids stayed for a week and then left. By the end of each summer, I’d had something like eight different cabins of ten adolescent girls. For the first couple of cabins, I felt a close sense of connection to each child. I knew their interests, their quirks, their habits. By the end of the summer, though, my memory could manage no such distinction. The kids started to blend into types: homesick girl, skanky girl, shy girl, brown-nosing girl, sneaky girl. And so on. There was one of each in every cabin—the flavor of the week—and the group dynamic never changed too dramatically once I got the hang of it. This profiling of children during their coming-of-age may be insensitive, but I wasn’t a worse counselor for it. I remembered their names during the week and then forget them as soon as they boarded the bus, sobbing because camp was over. My memory can only hold so much information; after all, there were outdoorsy boys to think about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My third year into it, I find teaching follows a similar pattern. I love my students, and I love my students from last year and the year before. But with 75 personalities per year, things inevitably start to blend like a watercolor painting. Lines become a little blurry. As I get to know more and more students, their behaviors, habits and quirks have mostly (<i>mostly</i>) ceased to amaze me. Last night, my roommate told me that one of her students had earned a demerit for doing chest compressions on his backpack. Weird, yes, but simply one kid oddity among so many. Not so original, buddy. There are reoccurring classroom characters, and I can’t help but profile some of the major players: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b>The Hot Mess: </b>The Hot Mess is in a perpetual state of disarray for no apparent reason. His shirt is untucked, his shoes are untied and his tie is only halfway around his neck. When leaving the bathroom, he is still buckling his belt. Despite the air-conditioned classroom, The Hot Mess is always sweating profusely, forcing teachers to discuss who’s best fit for the deodorant conversation. When asked to pack up his things, half of them wind up on the ground and the sweat just keeps pouring out. The Hot Mess is usually endearing, but also disruptive as his body is never quite still. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b>The Lip Glosser: </b> Or as Tiny Fey coined her: the Mean Girl. The Lip Glosser is usually sharp and inquisitive, but is choosy about where to focus the antennae of her brain power. It may be in class or it may be in the creation of subtly exclusive social groups. The Lip Glosser can be found surreptitiously glossing her lips at the end of class (because it’s worth the consequence) or hanging out with popular boys after school. The Lip Glosser is precocious, and you can’t help but worry about her. Although you recognize that you would have been her wannabe prey in middle school, you still kind of love her because she brings up feminism in class. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b>The Ladies Man: </b>The Ladies Man is usually a good-looking short kid. While he may be able to leverage his killer looks post-growth spurt, the Ladies Man is incorrect in his assumption that he can do so at barely five feet. Every single thing he does throughout the day is motivated by a desire for female attention. Behaviors include nods and raised eyebrows in class, slightly-off compliments and a signature strut that needs more practice. At times, the Ladies Man attempts flirtation on his female teachers; a harsh look reminds the Ladies Man that this is totally inappropriate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b>The Helper</b>: The helper is motivated by an intense, never-ending desire to be of assistance. Though this will probably die off by high school, it’s best taken advantage of while it lasts. For The Helper, there is no greater pleasure than alphabetizing hundreds of papers or running to the front office to get more tissues for his sniffling classmates. The mundane tasks that annoy normal people give The Helper a wonderful sense of accomplishment. The Helper’s hand shoots up when he hears the phrase, “I need a volunteer…” With no knowledge of the task at hand, the Helper wants to be that volunteer. So. Freaking. Badly. </span></div>LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3161382335028225245.post-37031446951902359662011-10-02T17:53:00.000-07:002011-10-03T04:07:44.786-07:00Dealing with Post<style>
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There’s a glass-half-empty fact that most relationships end. Unless he’s the one—and with sky-high divorce rates, there may well be a two or three—your relationship will expire. Of course, you put this reality out of your mind during the genesis of any relationship. The crash-and-burn nature of dating is hardly start-up fodder unless you aim to be the cynic whose relationships collapse before they accelerate. So relationships end, and many brunches are spent with girlfriends analyzing the minutiae of the post-relationship. In some instances, there was a significant pre-relationship preceding the real deal. The last in the trilogy—the post-relationship—is also relevant to the series. </div>
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In particular, fountains of ink are spilled on the topic of remaining friends with your ex. Should we or should we not? Rather than accepting finality, we contemplate mutation—from lover to pal, Saturday dinner to occasional coffee date. Why not, right? We draw firm conclusions from our experiences, then debate them with friends when, of course, the conclusions are individual, pulled from the wreckage of our own growing collections of post-relationships. A weighty collection it becomes—heavier than stickers, stamps or Beanie Babies—perhaps better kept in mint condition than taken out to play. </div>
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I initiated the end of my college relationship. I was the plug-puller and, with the wisdom of a few more busted fuses, the smooth pull I planned was more akin to a harsh tug. Driven by the notion that our post-relationship would be beautifully marked by friendship, I broke up with him rather brutally and then insisted on regular communication. I squeezed lemon juice into fresh wounds—his and mine—and made sharp pain more shooting. He eventually told me to stop calling, the ironic result being that our post-relationship was instead marked by a sad year of almost no communication. Probably smart, but it was inconceivable at the time that I could no longer speak to someone I’d loved—not when things were good and not when things were bad. But, when you are the plug-puller, the rules of the post-relationship are not yours to make. I could yap all I wanted with my friends about what to do, but he’d made up his mind. </div>
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After that mess, I drew the firm conclusion that being friends with your ex is unnecessary and impossible. I was quick to share my cliché thesis with friends as if it were hard fact. Like any English major worth her weight in gold, I felt my supporting details were more powerful than any of theirs. Do not confuse your post-relationship for friendship; you’ll wind up rotting in purgatory. </div>
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A guy I dated in Boston stayed with me in New York about a month ago. Based on my slippery conclusion about post-relationship friendship, I viewed this as potentially disastrous. In stark contrast, the weekend was pleasantly platonic. Maybe because there was less emotion attached to this one, but the post-relationship hang-out went off without a hitch. I’ve enjoyed dinners and baseball games with ex-whatevers—something I’d heretofore thought impossible—working under the assumption that there was some reason other than animal instinct we were kissing in the first place. And so I’ve been made to rework prior notions. </div>
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I removed a boy’s number from my phone earlier this year because my post-relationship antics were unhealthy and embarrassing. I’m told this digital erasure is a helpful thing people do, and so I followed suit. With this particular post-relationship, the aforementioned “friend date” was out of the question; my temper had flared, and that ain’t pretty. The best thing to do was tie my wrists behind my back and find someone else to kiss until he became more memory than flesh. </div>
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I have mixed relationship with post-relationship, a bitter cocktail that results in a brutal hangover. Once a relationship is over, it should really be over, but we’re addicted to recycling, reusing the familiar and then reusing it once more. Like my hometown, maybe it's time to consider composting. </div>
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Finality is hard to accept. There are myriad ways to handle the post-relationship, none of which is universally correct. No one rule is unanimously applicable. Still, the idea that there may be some magic formula is comforting when thinking how to pull yourself up from a crash. If it helps in the aftermath to trade stories and theories at brunches nationwide, bring on the bloody maries. </div>
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LELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04994997110774691682noreply@blogger.com0