Roll Away Your Stone

Apparently women are accommodating, nurturing, modest, subtle and considerate. How awful. We're taught to value the happiness of loved ones over material things and we ensure everyone in a room has what he or she needs before taking care of ourselves. Really disgraceful. Thanks, 21st century philosophy, for opening my eyes to these atrocities and wagging a finger at me for lacking self-interest. From now on we will all be bossy and narcissistic to make the world a better place. No more "really, it was nothing…" and "I'm fine with whatever you want." The days of softening critical feedback by also highlighting a strength are in the past. From here on out, it's every [wo]man for himself as we step on one another in the race to the top.

March is Women's History Month. I've yet to hear anyone talk about the struggles that women have overcome in recent years (we American women only got the vote in 1920) or, perhaps more importantly, the struggles that women continue to face all over the world. Women were only granted the right to vote in Saudi Arabia in 2011 (it didn't make front page news). The next major election there is not until 2015. So in that very wealthy country with which the United States regularly conducts business, roughly half of the population has been disenfranchised until now. And even that is a success story compared with the horrors that women continue to face throughout the third world.

But by no means should we discount the tremendous strides women have taken toward gender equality in the past several centuries. In fact, given my own nationality and education, I'm more privileged than most in that regard and have only very rarely been made to feel inferior to a male counterpart because of my gender. But in this country, where we're much closer to equality than elsewhere, the dialogue has shifted so drastically that we may be missing the mark. Rather than continuing to pressure those in power (be it the government or men in our society generally) for suffrage or anti-discrimination laws, we've turned on ourselves. The laws no longer distinguish between men and women (for the most part), so we can't yell at the government. Starting salaries (note: starting) don't differ drastically between men and women, so we can't yell at our employers. But somehow men still seem to hold most of the powerful positions in society…

… so it must be our fault. For guys, the pressure is off. They no longer need to actively ensure everyone is being treated equally because the laws say we are. Doesn't matter that typically female qualities aren't valued in society and typically male qualities are. The 21st century solution to achieving equality for women is making women act like men.

Be assertive.  Be direct.  Look after yourself first.  Don't let emotions come into play.  Be overt about your accomplishments. Know that you deserve things (whether earned or not).

The list goes on and on. Obviously not all men reflect these qualities; I'm oversimplifying because we are taught that certain qualities typify either men or women, but not both. These commands are specific instructions that are repeatedly given to women. And there's merit in some of it.  If half of the population doesn't appreciate or even recognize subtlety, then one could justifiably argue that being more obvious and direct will clearly convey a message to a greater number of people. Sure. But rather than encouraging women to abandon our natural state, why not encourage men to embrace it? Has anyone yet launched a training course that praises a woman's ability to express her feelings? I've yet to hear anyone stand in front of a room and say, "To all you managers, here's the thing. Men are terrible at talking through how they feel. If only they'd just cry when they need to and tell us why they're upset, then you'd know where they stand. But since they won't, you're going to have to go to great lengths to gauge their emotional state while they're sulking or storming off, so here are a few tricks of the trade…" And while there are several best sellers about "nice girls" getting stepped on, no one has recommended a book to me with a name like "Reading Between the Lines: How Women Skillfully Say Things Without Saying Them."

These assets are overlooked and under-appreciated (whether possessed by a man or a woman). And until the dialogue shifts to the innate and distinct value that female qualities bring to the table, rather than the ways in which women can learn to exhibit typically male qualities, we will not live in a truly equal society.

A Story Worth Telling

"We're here! We're here!" we shout to Ashley as we sprint to the gate, out of breath and frazzled. "You know this one likes to be fashionably late," I whisper loudly enough for Jess to hear, smirking.

Polite but anxious, Ashley smiles at us and quickly hands the attendant her ticket. "6:00 a.m. Right on time."

We scramble onto the plane and fling our bags into the only remaining overhead bins. I sink lower in my chair and close my eyes. Okay. Seatbelt fastened, seat pulled forward, iPad turned off. Let's go. The faster we get to New Orleans, the sooner we'll be away from New York. No work. No school. No rain and cold. Just sun and jazz and friends.

"KRIS. How long has it been?" I open my eyes. Jess's head peaks out at me from the seat in front of me, her lime green "baussy" eye mask resting on her forehead. "Why are we still sitting here?"

I look at my watch, which hasn't moved in 8 years. I check my phone instead. "7:15. We're delayed. Has the pilot said anything?" Jess begins to speak as we hear the static of the PA kick in.

***Ladies and gentlemen, we do have an update for you now. They're still checking on one of the engines underneath. Looks like this plane isn't flying any time soon. We're going to have you deboard while we change planes. We'll be sure to get you going just as soon as we can.***

We join the line of sleepy passengers slowly filing off of the plane like ants to sit at the mercy of the airline.  Hit by the cold as we re-enter the airport, we stand side by side when we reach the gate and gaze out at the prospect - Jess with her sunglasses on, Ashley with her Nicholas Sparks novel in hand, and me with my leather jacket slung over one shoulder.

"Over there." I motion to an alcove in the far corner of the gate. "Some room on the floor. Take my bag. I'll get us coffee."

I bypass the Juice King and Famiglia Pizza and head for Horizon Bakery. I'm second in line behind an older man with a Mets cap and trench coat. "I'll have a latte with skim milk and 3 Splenda."

"We only have sugar and Sweet and Low," the barista replies disinterestedly.
"No, I said Splenda."
"We don't have Splenda."
"I always drink my coffee with Splenda."
"Do you want the coffee or not?"
"Can you believe this guy? What kind of coffee place doesn't have Splenda?"

I've been gazing down the other end of the terminal, watching passengers wheel their suitcases, wondering where they're going. I'm aroused from my daydream when I don't hear a reply. Is grumpy guy talking to me? I freeze. Gingerly, I raise my eyes to his, still facing away from him.

"The pizza place might have coffee," I offer, holding eye contact. He looks at me for a minute, apparently trying to determine whose side I'm on. Then a quick look back at the barista and he storms off in a huff.

30 minutes and 3 lukewarm coffees later, we're assigned a gate at the other end of the terminal. Jess and Ashley take turns sending their suitcases rolling in front of them down the ramp and quickening their pace to catch them.  There's something about childhood friends together. Some feeling of youth and goodness that never goes away. Somehow it's impossible to remember why your big problems are so big… they seem only as important as  deciding what color to paint the treehouse or choosing bowling teams.

We sit and watch the clock. Jess is texting, sprawled across two chairs. Ashley's consumed by her romance novel. I'm scrolling for news that's actually new. I glance up at the board every few minutes, half expecting to see the flight disappear altogether. Destination: New Orleans. Departure time: 10:00 a.m. Boarding time: 9:15 a.m.

It's 9:30. I delve into Time magazine. The Emancipation Proclamation Turns 150 Years Old. It's 10:15. I look at my friends, both dozing off. Ashley looks up lazily. I smile and shake my head. "Dude, what are the odds they get us outta here today?"

***Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to begin boarding. We always board from the back of the plane. If your ticket says rows 21 − 25, we'll board you now.***

Take 2. This is like Argo. I won't believe it until I'm in the air. 40 minutes later and we're finally accelerating.  My heart races. I gaze out the window as we pick up speed. Bright sunshine. Faster. I feel the plane leave the ground. I hold my breath for a split second, waiting to see if it worked. Did we really lift this hunk of metal into the air? Amazes me every time. I sink down and close my eyes.

***The pilot has again turned the seatbelt sign on, ladies and gentlemen. At this time we ask that you return to your seats and fasten your seatbelt. We'll be able to deliver drinks when the seatbelt sign has been turned off.*** 

The plane shoots upward, then down. Left, right. Up again. Turbulence more extreme than I've ever encountered. My seatbelt digs into me with every jerk of the plane. Ashley and I exchange nervous glances. Jess is suddenly fully awake, adrenaline kicking in. She sits upright and fastens her seatbelt. I look around me. A woman across the aisle begins to pray. Others laugh nervously. A baby cries. I tighten my seatbelt.

More turbulence. The plane jerking every which way unrelentlessly. I hear a thud behind me as my body lurches forward. Seconds later a flight attendant rushes over with ice for the passenger's head.

***Good morning, ladies and gentlmen. This is your captain speaking. Because the flight was delayed, a pretty severe tropical storm has by this time started to brew near New Orleans and we're unfortunately heading for it. We're experiencing some turbulence now as we get closer. We'll see how it goes as we're flying through the heart of the storm, but unfortunately you'll have to remain in your seats throughout the duration of the flight. Thanks for flying with us. We hope to get you to New Orleans just as soon as we can.***

I turn on the flight map and watch us inch closer. Will it really get worse? Why were we allowed to take off?

Minutes pass as we sit, alert and upright, approaching the storm. No one speaks as we wait. The turbulence intensifies. Up. Down. Left. Right. Down. Left. Up. Right. Heads smack windows and chairs. Flight attendants sit quietly at the back of the plane. An indistinct noise emanates from several parts of the plane, followed by a stench.

***Ladies and gentlmen, we realize you're getting sick, but unfortunately we cannot help you at this time. We, too, are not allowed out of our seats. Motion sickness bags are in the seat pockets in front of you.***

Jess wraps her arm around the back of the seat and I squeeze her hand. "At least we'll go down together, Jessie," I say with a smile. Nervous laughter. I look back at Ashley and wink, as though that can assuage her fears.

The stench of sickness continues to permeate the air as passengers continue to ice their heads.

Up. Down. Right. Down. Left. Up. Down. Up.

***Ladies and gentlmen, this is your captain again. Unfortunately we won't be allowed to land until the storm has passed. We expect it shouldn't be longer than an hour and we're in no danger of running out of fuel yet. I'll come back on when we begin our descent.***

… yet? If I get out of here alive, I'm going to write this pilot some talking points. I sit, still holding Jess's hand, pretending to be calm. I'm nauseous... not because of the turbulence of the plane, but because I've willingly handed over control of my life to someone else. Why did I do that without a second thought, leaving myself no opportunity to flee? The vulnerability is eating away at me. Taking a flight is not like driving a car. When I stepped onto the plane, I put my life into someone else's hands and now look at what has happened.

Up. Down. Thud. Right. Left. Lurch. Still holding hands. Tapping my foot. Staring at the rain pounding the window glass.

***We've been given permission to land, folks, so we'll get you outta here in just a little bit. You'll still need to stay in your seats for the rest of the flight. The flight attendants won't come around to check that your seat backs are up, but we trust that you'll help us out and will also collect your garbage as you leave the plane so we can quickly turn it around for the next flight. Thanks for your patience.***

Jess releases my hand. I begin reading just to feel like I'm in control of something. We wait. Left. Right. Up. Down.

Eventually we land. Thud. People clap. I've always hated when people clap. Did you think we wouldn't make it? Cynical idiots.

I clap.

We get our bags and quietly file off of the plane. The three of us walk silently through the airport, desperate to leave this terrible memory behind and start our vacation. I smile like a kid as we see stroll past the statue of Louis Armstrong and his trumpet. We approach the exit and hear the rain from the tropical storm pouring down outside. Somehow I hadn't made the connection between the storm we flew through and the weather on the ground. We pause as we realize, then continue on through the exit, still without speaking. We stand in the pouring rain with our suitcases and look around for a taxi. We all see the sign at the same time and silently stare, too drained to have any reaction.

"Taxi stand closed. Welcome to New Orleans."

At the End of the Day

Struggling to determine which is more inspiring: a pleasant and quiet Christmas surrounded by friends and family or a gory and depressing three hours of Les Miserables. Both were entertaining and, admittedly, predictable. But only one involved murder, betrayal and revolution. So I guess Les Mis was better. Then again, Russell Crowe's singing voice (or lack thereof) nearly ruined the movie.   So… Christmas wins.

Have had some time to think and read since classes ended last week, and have decided that to write better - or more creatively, meaningfully, [insert another adverb here] - I should broaden my reading horizons. So instead of reverting to 19th century English literature when I can't think of any other delicious novels to feast on, I'll try modern American lit or a magazine that isn't the New Yorker. Will read more non-fiction (though only while reading fiction simultaneously. How can anyone go on without some tragic hero to worry about?) or something Russian or post-colonialist or whatever. If nothing else, maybe I'll find a new favorite author. Have just started reading A Hologram for the King by Dave Eggers. So far, so good.

Speaking of favorite authors… a few photos below from the Dickens exhibit at the NY Public Library.

Chinese edition of David Copperfield. When CD's works began to be translated abroad, he was criticized internationally for some of his politically incorrect and racially and religiously offensive characters (such as "Fagin the Jew.") A highly sensitive author, Dickens ensured that in subsequent novels he corrected for any offenses he might have caused. Hence "the gentle Jew" of Our Mutual Friend. 

An illustration for a later edition of David Copperfield (published 1849). Dickens was highly influenced by the artist Hogarth, who depicted scenes of the working class where the details of the background (settings that spoke volumes about societal norms and hypocrisies) were as important as the characters in the foreground. However, by the middle of Dickens's career, the impropriety of Hogarth's drawings were no longer considered appropriate and more proper and innocuous illustrations (such as this one) became fashionable. 

Doesn't every kid want a Charles Dickens action figure? The pen is mightier than the sword, eh?

Words in the News

On Writing (or, more accurately, On Not Really Writing).

Time to put pen to paper. And I mean business. I'm even sitting on my reading couch - the couch I only venture over to when I'm committed to doing my most importantest reading and writing (though lately it's the couch I've idly gazed at from across the room with a vague sense of repressed guilt and anxiety). Have stumbled through a few speed-writing attempts over recent weeks and now know that practice makes perfect. I've discovered this by conducting an experiment that I affectionately refer to as Being Lazy and Also Afraid to Write (side note: when you spell "write" as "rite" and only catch the error because of the red squiggly line, it's time to worry).

I'll have to ease into this until I've remembered how to string words together in a manner that is eloquent enough to hold someone's attention for longer than five seconds (including my own). So, will cheat and kick off with a witty quote from a new favorite literary magazine, McSweeney's Internet Tendency:

Don’t spend your career lost in a sea of copycats when you can establish your own set of rules. If everyone’s putting periods at the end of their sentences, put yours in the middle of words. Will it be incredibly difficult to read? Yes it will. Will it set you on the path to becoming a literary pioneer? Tough to say, but you’re kind of out of options at this point.

Perhaps I'll experiment with grammar. 

 Bang; zoom! or s.yntax said she. hi! ku?

onomatopoeia. 

And out of options I am. The issue I'm grappling with is overexposure to expendable writing. Cheap, bland writing simply meant  to convey some tactical, tangible message, or maybe without any real intention at all. Words that will be rendered meaningless in a day or are already meaningless because today's news article is just a modified iteration of yesterday's.  Prose whose only metaphors are dead ones and in which "corp speak"is more prevalent than imagery. We're surrounded by it when we consume our daily news and magazines. We hail it as efficient and clear when we send emails at work. And it serves a purpose in its own right. Sometimes we just need to know the facts. But when we spend our days reading news articles written for an 8th grade reading level (as is standard for nearly all major news publications) and typing concise bullets to ensure others read at least some of what we write, are we training our minds to forego the beauty of language in favor of convenience?

Language has for centuries been regarded as among the highest forms of art. In today's world, can we appreciate the flavor that an extra adjective adds to a description? Or relish with pleasure in a non-native English speaker's imperfectly written note, even if it's not as concise as we were hoping for? Most importantly, how can we ensure the beauty and richness of language and words continue to color our lives despite the writing we see and write every day - the prose that is stripped of art and flair? It's time to embark on a new experiment, or an effort at least: to re-train my mind to write artfully. Not practically or logically. Maybe not grammatically. But honestly and creatively, to appreciate and respect the essence of language. 

What Do I Desire?

"What if Money Was No Object" by Eastern philosopher and author Alan Watts.

Of Birthdays and Balls

Sadly I haven't been reading enough to write anything even mildly insightful about books, current events or anything at all. I can only write the second installment of what may become a lengthy series about my utter lack of productivity at the weekend, coupled with overindulgence in coffee and other beverages.

The downward spiral began with a Thursday afternoon shopping spree, followed by a day of coffee and cake at home with the family. Even without heat and sitting three-blankets deep in front of the fire for several hours, laughing with Mom and Dad made home feel like home.

Next came what can only be called a birthday extravaganza at a unique, if not somewhat confused, jazz-or-something-like-it bar in Chelsea.  This very queer venue has a restaurant vibe, yet with bottle service and guests dancing between tables, plus holograms on the ceiling, a fish tank through both floors of the space and what seemed like a Swing band disguised as a Bryan Adams cover band.

Birthday Girl

NYU's Charity Ball raised money on Saturday for Hurricane Sandy victims. 750 of us turned up and had a good time for a good cause.