So just before Christmas--when most of my friends had already taken off for their respective holiday plans--I went to the movies by myself. It was a beautiful, well-made movie and I was absorbed with thinking it over as I made my way out of the theatre and back to my car.
Needing to pick up a few last things before I too left for the holidays, I drove to the drugstore, where I suddenly realized that I no longer had my wallet. After tearing apart my car, I realized that I must have lost it at the movies. I went back to the theatre, and with the help of an usher, scoured the theatre, with no luck. My wallet was gone.
Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been annoying, but I was supposed to be getting on a plane the next day, and now I had no money, no ID, and no credit cards, and no immediate way to get any of those things. This was far more than annoying: it was horrible. I had no idea what to do, and thinking about it was stressing me out to the point that I thought I was going to cry.
Upset and unsure what to do next, I drove home. As I fumbled for my door key, I looked down. What was that under my doormat? I bent down, pulled back the mat, and there lay my wallet, with everything--license, cash, credit cards--all still in it. No note--no nothing--to explain who had put it there. I chalk it up to a Christmas miracle (surely engineered by my homeboy Saint Anthony) meant to remind me how many good, honest, and lovely people are out there.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
30 More Seconds
To my mom, in honor of the Winter Solstice.
Every Tuesday, for seven years, my mother dropped me off and waited while I went to my piano lesson. Every so often she would come in to listen, but mostly, she just sat in the car. I often wondered why she didn’t try to run errands, why she rarely brought the Southern Living or Grisham novel she happened to be reading, why she didn’t bring work to do in the car. She just waited. She never seemed to mind.
Weeks and months slipped by, seasons faded one into the next and rolled into years as every week she waited in the car. There was a certain cyclical rhythm to it, as steady and certain as my piano teacher’s metronome. Week after week, as I worked my way through the intricacies of Bach Inventions and Chopin Nocturnes, the hour from 6 to 7 pm belonged only to my mother. No distractions, no demands. Just my mother and the world, slowly and subtly shifting around her. Waiting in the car, she was the axis around which a changing world spun: a constant witness to the slow slide of light into darkness as winter’s sleepy death approached, a constant witness that inevitably, miraculously, the light of spring would once again awaken and steal surreptitiously back into the world before exploding in the full-blown dazzling warmth of the summer sun. For years this unfolded around her, this slow dance of seasons and light, as she sat waiting in the car.
Every Tuesday, for seven years, my mother dropped me off and waited while I went to my piano lesson. Every so often she would come in to listen, but mostly, she just sat in the car. I often wondered why she didn’t try to run errands, why she rarely brought the Southern Living or Grisham novel she happened to be reading, why she didn’t bring work to do in the car. She just waited. She never seemed to mind.
Weeks and months slipped by, seasons faded one into the next and rolled into years as every week she waited in the car. There was a certain cyclical rhythm to it, as steady and certain as my piano teacher’s metronome. Week after week, as I worked my way through the intricacies of Bach Inventions and Chopin Nocturnes, the hour from 6 to 7 pm belonged only to my mother. No distractions, no demands. Just my mother and the world, slowly and subtly shifting around her. Waiting in the car, she was the axis around which a changing world spun: a constant witness to the slow slide of light into darkness as winter’s sleepy death approached, a constant witness that inevitably, miraculously, the light of spring would once again awaken and steal surreptitiously back into the world before exploding in the full-blown dazzling warmth of the summer sun. For years this unfolded around her, this slow dance of seasons and light, as she sat waiting in the car.
One day, in the brutal, slushy cold of February, when the days seem the greyest, I asked my mom what she thought about while she waited. “Did you know,” she said, “that there were 30 seconds more light today than there were yesterday?” I just sat and looked at her, dumbfounded. That was what she thought about? “And,” she continued, “there will be 30 more seconds tomorrow, too.”
In the hours and hours that she spent waiting for me while I plowed my way through tedious scales and chords, she was pondering the rotation of the sun and the earth and the inevitable creeping forward of one season into another? I don’t know what I thought she was going to say. Looking back, perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me. Never one to shirk responsibility, my mother worked long hours and brought more work home at the end of the day. She made sure dinner was on the table, the bathroom was clean, the dogs were fed and the permission slip was signed. She even did her best to get me to practice the piano. A swirl of never-ending deadlines and demands dogged her every moment—except for the one hour a week when all of it melted away, usurped by the play of shadows and light as they shifted and slid across the mountain landscape right before her eyes.
In the bleak, dreary darkness of a February winter, my mother’s comment bore witness to a faith—as old as humanity—that the sun would return, that winter’s gloom would yet again succumb to the sweet, still freshness of spring, to the bright, bold vibrancy of summer. My mother knew this, for she had seen it and pondered it—one hour a week—for years. And like a plant whose leaves open and close with the rising and setting of the sun, she was preparing herself to break out of the confines of winter’s darkness and into the light—to open, to stretch, to grow and to live.
Today is the winter solstice. It will be darker—longer—today than any other day of the year. Like my mother, I will welcome it, knowing that tomorrow will bring 30 seconds more daylight, and the promise of new beginnings.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Warrior-women and Sages
My last post reminded me of a story I'd almost forgotten. My friend and former co-worker Leslie has this beautiful grey poodle named Athena. One day, Leslie and Athena and I were hanging out, drinking coffee and killing time before a meeting. A young guy who was clearly into dogs approached us and we started talking. He asked Athena's name, and when Leslie told him, he said "Athena--what a great name! She was the goddess of warriors and sages, you know."
After he'd walked away we sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, Leslie said "You know, all the women I know are warriors and sages."
I've always considered that to be one of the best compliments I've ever received.
After he'd walked away we sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, Leslie said "You know, all the women I know are warriors and sages."
I've always considered that to be one of the best compliments I've ever received.
Double Standards
Word of the Day for Wednesday October 26, 2005
virago \vuh-RAH-go; vuh-RAY-go\,noun
1. A woman of extraordinary stature, strength, and courage.
2. A woman regarded as loud, scolding, ill-tempered, quarrelsome, or overbearing.
I wish it surprised me that a word meaning a woman who is strong, powerful and brave can also be used to mean a woman who is a shrew, or worse, a "bitch." But I am not surprised. It's 2005. Women can vote, run for office, run corporations or stay at home, get married or choose not to, and have babies with or without a husband. What women cannot seem to do, however, is undo the insidious social perception that a powerful woman is a problem.
The double standard is blatant. It's also everywhere in our society. A powerful man is respected. But a powerful woman? All too often, she's disliked and resented. How many fabulous women--well on their way to doing amazing things, taking leadership, and providing much-needed vision--have been stopped dead in their tracks by fear of being pigeonholed as "pushy," "nagging" or worse? It's not much of a choice for women when the two options are either being nice (and ineffective) or being a bitch.
I cannot help but wonder if, in an era of corporate scandals, the reason Martha Stewart spent time in jail is because of her wrongdoing or because she's a powerful--and therefore threatening--woman. Why wasn't Ken Lay keeping her company? And what about Cheney's good friends at Halliburton? Apparently a culture where "good old boy" cronyism is alive and well isn't quite ready to make room for women, or better still, judge (and punish) people fairly based on their actions, not on their gender or who their political connections are.
2. A woman regarded as loud, scolding, ill-tempered, quarrelsome, or overbearing.
I wish it surprised me that a word meaning a woman who is strong, powerful and brave can also be used to mean a woman who is a shrew, or worse, a "bitch." But I am not surprised. It's 2005. Women can vote, run for office, run corporations or stay at home, get married or choose not to, and have babies with or without a husband. What women cannot seem to do, however, is undo the insidious social perception that a powerful woman is a problem.
The double standard is blatant. It's also everywhere in our society. A powerful man is respected. But a powerful woman? All too often, she's disliked and resented. How many fabulous women--well on their way to doing amazing things, taking leadership, and providing much-needed vision--have been stopped dead in their tracks by fear of being pigeonholed as "pushy," "nagging" or worse? It's not much of a choice for women when the two options are either being nice (and ineffective) or being a bitch.
I cannot help but wonder if, in an era of corporate scandals, the reason Martha Stewart spent time in jail is because of her wrongdoing or because she's a powerful--and therefore threatening--woman. Why wasn't Ken Lay keeping her company? And what about Cheney's good friends at Halliburton? Apparently a culture where "good old boy" cronyism is alive and well isn't quite ready to make room for women, or better still, judge (and punish) people fairly based on their actions, not on their gender or who their political connections are.
I do have hope. Maybe my perception is a little skewed by living in the most off-the-charts liberal part of the country, but I do think my generation is more open to strong and powerful women. We're the generation that watched our moms push their way up the ladder of political, social and business success. Perhaps we're in a better position to respect and emulate that struggle--whether we're women or men--instead of being threatened by it. Perhaps not. But I choose to believe that women--and the culture at large--will keep moving in the right direction: toward equity in power and equality in our perception of those who possess it.
And what about for me personally? As an organizer, my job was to be "pushy," "nagging," and yes, even a "bitch" (depending on who you talked to). It took the whole three years I organized to really own the truth behind those words: organizing actually made me a strong, persistent, bold and powerful woman. I like that, and I wouldn't trade it for anything, regardless of what words you choose to define it. I don't really care if you'd say I was a bitch. I know which definition of virago I'm aiming for.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Straight from the Employee Handbook. . . .
I met a guy in a bar last night who told me that he worked as a tour guide for an Egyptian museum in San Jose. He said the people who ran the museum were "interesting."
"Interesting, how?" I asked.
"Well. . . .they're sort of spiritual," was his reply.
"Spiritual. . . . .?" I probed, trying to figure out exactly what he meant.
"Maybe New Age-y is a better way to describe them. Yeah. Definitely New Age-y."
My next question, of course, was what exactly made them so New Age-y.
"Well," he said,"I get all of the solstices off as holidays."
"Interesting, how?" I asked.
"Well. . . .they're sort of spiritual," was his reply.
"Spiritual. . . . .?" I probed, trying to figure out exactly what he meant.
"Maybe New Age-y is a better way to describe them. Yeah. Definitely New Age-y."
My next question, of course, was what exactly made them so New Age-y.
"Well," he said,"I get all of the solstices off as holidays."
Friday, October 21, 2005
I couldn't make this stuff up. . . .
This came straight from the mouth of a guy on the streets of downtown Oakland. He was marching down the street, mumbling loudly to himself, when suddenly he proclaimed (to no one in particular):
"THE PROBLEM WITH THIS COUNTRY IS THAT ALL OF THE MEN LIE TOO MUCH, AND NONE OF THE WOMEN ARE HAVING ENOUGH ORGASMS."
Sign him up for a run for president!
"THE PROBLEM WITH THIS COUNTRY IS THAT ALL OF THE MEN LIE TOO MUCH, AND NONE OF THE WOMEN ARE HAVING ENOUGH ORGASMS."
Sign him up for a run for president!
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
The best pick up line I've ever heard
Berkeley (especially near campus) is an interesting place . . . . between the street people parked every couple of feet asking for change and the spiky-haired/pierced hipster students oblivously talking on their cell phones and not watching where they are going, walking up Telegraph Avenue can feel like a venture onto a Marine Corps obstacle course.
I have the good fortune of taking a class at UC Berkeley this semester, so every week, I get to witness this bizarre mix of humanity up close. Yesterday, as I was rushing to class--much later than usual and having parked about a million miles away in the only available parking space in all of Berkeley--I got my best dose to date of what exactly makes Berkeley so great. Hustling my way up the street toward campus, a young guy caught my eye. He could have been a street person, or maybe he was just some pierced punk student loitering on the street scowling at tourists. When he saw me, however, the scowl became a smile and he said "Hey! If I can make enough money tonight, can I take you out on a date later?"
Ah Berkeley, where even the street people are charming.
I have the
Ah Berkeley, where even the street people are charming.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Loss
My cousin Randall was killed in a car accident yesterday. He was 27 years old.
It hurts to write that. Writing it makes it real, and I don’t want for it to be real. My brain cannot make sense of it. My brain cannot make this jump; it doesn’t want to. And I don’t want to either.
I don’t want to have to come to terms with the fact that my cousin is gone. And that he’s not coming back.
I didn’t know it was possible to feel so much loss for someone who, in many ways, I barely knew. I can probably count on one hand the number of times that I’d even seen him in the last 5 years. But despite that, I’d known for years that on some level we had connected; I’d recognized him as a kindred soul a long time ago, and I knew it was just a matter of time before we developed the friendship we were clearly meant to have.
When we were kids, I thought he was a brat: the annoying, mean “brother for a week” I had to put up with when we went to visit the relatives. My cousin Julie was the one I hung out with—Randall was just the older brother who spied on us and made fun and did all the things that older brothers do.
Then, for a number of years, I didn’t really see my cousins. We took vacations to Disneyland, New Orleans, San Francisco. We didn’t go to South Carolina.
When we finally did, I was a sophomore in college and was shocked to discover that we had all grown up. The mean older brother was now a grown man: smart, kind, funny. A bit of a smart-ass, just like me. Randall had become the kind of person that I wanted my friends to eventually marry. He had become the kind of person that I wanted—desperately—to be friends with.
Even though there were a million things that I didn’t know about him—or him about me—I knew that we were supposed to be friends, that he was supposed to play a role in my life, and I in his. Ever so slowly, we began taking baby steps towards building that friendship.
We wrote e-mails. Sometimes we’d shoot them back and forth in a flurry of thoughts. Other times months would go by without a reply. We were busy, but always, eventually, the thread got picked back up and we continued.
He talked about coming to San Francisco to visit. He never did; my crazy work schedule meant I wouldn’t have any time to spend with him. I talked about coming to hang out with him at the beach house at Easter. I never did; he changed his mind about coming home, staying in Lansing, at school, instead. It made me sad not to see him, but I didn’t worry. “All in good time,” I’d tell myself.
Randall was family, and I expected he’d be in my life for a long, long time. It never occurred to me that in one moment, an 18-wheeler could change all of that.
Tomorrow I’ll fly to South Carolina for the funeral. I die a little inside every time I think about it. If words on paper can hurt this badly, then what kind of pain will tomorrow bring—when I have to really let go of someone who had come to mean so much to me?
It hurts to write that. Writing it makes it real, and I don’t want for it to be real. My brain cannot make sense of it. My brain cannot make this jump; it doesn’t want to. And I don’t want to either.
I don’t want to have to come to terms with the fact that my cousin is gone. And that he’s not coming back.
I didn’t know it was possible to feel so much loss for someone who, in many ways, I barely knew. I can probably count on one hand the number of times that I’d even seen him in the last 5 years. But despite that, I’d known for years that on some level we had connected; I’d recognized him as a kindred soul a long time ago, and I knew it was just a matter of time before we developed the friendship we were clearly meant to have.
When we were kids, I thought he was a brat: the annoying, mean “brother for a week” I had to put up with when we went to visit the relatives. My cousin Julie was the one I hung out with—Randall was just the older brother who spied on us and made fun and did all the things that older brothers do.
Then, for a number of years, I didn’t really see my cousins. We took vacations to Disneyland, New Orleans, San Francisco. We didn’t go to South Carolina.
When we finally did, I was a sophomore in college and was shocked to discover that we had all grown up. The mean older brother was now a grown man: smart, kind, funny. A bit of a smart-ass, just like me. Randall had become the kind of person that I wanted my friends to eventually marry. He had become the kind of person that I wanted—desperately—to be friends with.
Even though there were a million things that I didn’t know about him—or him about me—I knew that we were supposed to be friends, that he was supposed to play a role in my life, and I in his. Ever so slowly, we began taking baby steps towards building that friendship.
We wrote e-mails. Sometimes we’d shoot them back and forth in a flurry of thoughts. Other times months would go by without a reply. We were busy, but always, eventually, the thread got picked back up and we continued.
He talked about coming to San Francisco to visit. He never did; my crazy work schedule meant I wouldn’t have any time to spend with him. I talked about coming to hang out with him at the beach house at Easter. I never did; he changed his mind about coming home, staying in Lansing, at school, instead. It made me sad not to see him, but I didn’t worry. “All in good time,” I’d tell myself.
Randall was family, and I expected he’d be in my life for a long, long time. It never occurred to me that in one moment, an 18-wheeler could change all of that.
Tomorrow I’ll fly to South Carolina for the funeral. I die a little inside every time I think about it. If words on paper can hurt this badly, then what kind of pain will tomorrow bring—when I have to really let go of someone who had come to mean so much to me?
Sunday, September 11, 2005
5 ridiculous but loveable things. . .
To curtail the impression that I am some sort of anti-NoCal curmudgeon, I thought I'd throw out a few things that, despite being totally ridiculous, I really love about the Bay Area.
5) The port of Oakland. It's ghetto, it's industrial, it's a bunch of oversized metal structures marring an otherwise picturesque view of the San Francisco Bay, but I love it. At night, the whole area has this beautiful eerie glow and the metal structures look like post-modern Trojan Horses
4) The ubiquity of soy products and other vegetarian-friendly food options. No where else would a waitress ask you if you wanted milk, yogurt, plain or vanilla soy milk with your granola.
3) The word "hella." (Or, if you're really ghetto, "hecka.") It's the go anywhere, use anytime word. Seriously, it's even better than "wicked."
2) Spring comes in February, and September and October are the real summer. (A warning to tourists: if you're coming in June, July or August, you won't be needing that bathing suit or the shorts. Try packing a sweater, a fleece and a hat instead.)
1) Chirping and ticking pedestrian crosswalks. I'm so well trained now that it would never even occur to me to TRY to cross the street until I hear the bird start chirping, and if it never started . . . well, I'd probably stand on the street corner all night.
So there you have it. At least 5 good things about the Bay Area. Maybe I could even come up with more. . . .
5) The port of Oakland. It's ghetto, it's industrial, it's a bunch of oversized metal structures marring an otherwise picturesque view of the San Francisco Bay, but I love it. At night, the whole area has this beautiful eerie glow and the metal structures look like post-modern Trojan Horses
4) The ubiquity of soy products and other vegetarian-friendly food options. No where else would a waitress ask you if you wanted milk, yogurt, plain or vanilla soy milk with your granola.
3) The word "hella." (Or, if you're really ghetto, "hecka.") It's the go anywhere, use anytime word. Seriously, it's even better than "wicked."
2) Spring comes in February, and September and October are the real summer. (A warning to tourists: if you're coming in June, July or August, you won't be needing that bathing suit or the shorts. Try packing a sweater, a fleece and a hat instead.)
1) Chirping and ticking pedestrian crosswalks. I'm so well trained now that it would never even occur to me to TRY to cross the street until I hear the bird start chirping, and if it never started . . . well, I'd probably stand on the street corner all night.
So there you have it. At least 5 good things about the Bay Area. Maybe I could even come up with more. . . .
Friday, September 09, 2005
A rant against Northern California
When I first moved to the Bay Area from Boston, I loved it. So many things were better: the weather, the diversity, the food, the political climate, the people. (As in: they were actually friendly, smiling or saying hello on the street instead of just glaring, cursing and clutching their purse or briefcase tighter to their side as they plowed past you on the sidewalk.)
In three years, however, my love affair with the Bay Area has dimmed. In fact, I dare say, it might just be over. And it's not going to be a pretty break up.
Things that I used to think were cute I'm just f-ing done with now. The word "partner," for example. When I moved here I was so excited by the term and the concept: finally a way to describe people in a long-term, committed loving relationship who didn't want to be pigeon-holed into the traditional roles of a "marriage." The problem now, however, is that using the term "partner" is just what you do here if you want to be considered hip and cool and edgy and post-traditional (and of course everyone in the Bay Area seems to want to be all of those things) whether or not you are, in fact, in a long-term committed loving relationship. It seems that no one here has boyfriends or girlfriends anymore; they don't even have people they're dating. It's partner or nothing, because everyone knows how mainstream and limiting the term boy/girlfriend is. I am tired of people introducing their girlfriends of two months to me as their partner--"PARTNER IN WHAT?" I want to scream. "YOU TWO HAVEN'T BEEN TOGETHER LONG ENOUGH TO SHARE A COLD OR A TUBE OF TOOTHPASTE, SO CUT THE PARTNER CRAP."
The term "progressive" is another example of this PC hipster bullshit that I'm tired of. No one here likes to be called "liberal"--it has such a bad connotation. "Flaming liberal." "Bleeding heart liberal." "Crazy liberal." We prefer "progressive" because it sounds more reasonable. But guess what? A rose by any other name is still, well. . . a crazy liberal. I am tired of euphemisms that try to cover the truth. I am tired of people who can't see the truth. I am very tired of the black and white "us" vs. "them" fascist groupthink that passes as discourse in liberal or progressive--or whatever the hell you want to call it--circles. It's no better than the extreme fanatacism of the religious right. In fact, maybe it's worse, because at least the right is still making an effort to reach out to those in the middle, who haven't made up their minds. All the left has succeeded in doing is alienating all those people in the middle with their self-righteous "if you're not with us then you must be a stupid, evil Republican" schtick. Guess what kids? Writing off whole groups of people as stupid evil Republicans isn't exactly the most effective way to argue your case or gain any support.
One of the first things I learned about organizing is that you have to start with building relationships with people. Be willing to listen to where they're coming from and engage in a dialogue--not a 1-sided "I'm right and you're wrong" lecture--but a dialogue. When there is trust and open communication, it is possible for people to open up to new ideas, new ways of seeing. It is possible for people to move and change. Unlikely supporters will surface if you're willing to let them. If you're willing to do the humble--and humbling--work of meeting people where they are and engaging in real give-and-take dialogue, change will happen.
I mean, sure you can write off whole groups of people--because they're Republicans or business-people or they still eat meat or they drive an SUV or whatever--but the smug, self-satisfied thrill you get at thinking yourself to be intellectually or morally superior won't get you too far in an election year. Take one look at the administratio of this country to see that fact for yourself.
This leads me to the next thing that I've started to hate about the Bay Area. It occurred to me the other day that every single person I know here works for a non-profit. I find this sad in the extreme. But I suspect that for many people, it is a badge of honor not to be associated with "those" people. I am tired of the assumption that if you work for corporate America, then you "sold out." People do what they do for a million different reasons. Maybe they're good at it. Maybe their parents did it before them. Maybe they failed French and business was the only course of study that didn't require a foreign language (that's just for you, dad!) Maybe they want to make sure they'll be able to support themselves and their family. Maybe they just want to make buckets of money. I don't care. What I do care about is the fact that people on the left talk so much about how judgmental the right is; they worry so much about being labeled and pigeon-holed, and they're doing the exact same thing. Except that the left's judgmentalism is based on career choice, not skin color or sexual orientation. Does that make it any more acceptable? i don't think so. Grow the fuck up and learn how to get along with and appreciate others--even if they're I-bankers.
I could go on (don't get me started about how I can count the number of people I know who believe in God on one hand), but I won't. I'm all raged out for one day. It basically comes down to the fact that the Bay Area is a silly, self-absorbed mess of a place, where everyone takes themselves and their identity too seriously (me included). But even though it IS a mess, I know deep down I still think it's a beautiful, glorious mess that I'm glad I experienced, even as I contemplate running like hell for someplace saner.
In three years, however, my love affair with the Bay Area has dimmed. In fact, I dare say, it might just be over. And it's not going to be a pretty break up.
Things that I used to think were cute I'm just f-ing done with now. The word "partner," for example. When I moved here I was so excited by the term and the concept: finally a way to describe people in a long-term, committed loving relationship who didn't want to be pigeon-holed into the traditional roles of a "marriage." The problem now, however, is that using the term "partner" is just what you do here if you want to be considered hip and cool and edgy and post-traditional (and of course everyone in the Bay Area seems to want to be all of those things) whether or not you are, in fact, in a long-term committed loving relationship. It seems that no one here has boyfriends or girlfriends anymore; they don't even have people they're dating. It's partner or nothing, because everyone knows how mainstream and limiting the term boy/girlfriend is. I am tired of people introducing their girlfriends of two months to me as their partner--"PARTNER IN WHAT?" I want to scream. "YOU TWO HAVEN'T BEEN TOGETHER LONG ENOUGH TO SHARE A COLD OR A TUBE OF TOOTHPASTE, SO CUT THE PARTNER CRAP."
The term "progressive" is another example of this PC hipster bullshit that I'm tired of. No one here likes to be called "liberal"--it has such a bad connotation. "Flaming liberal." "Bleeding heart liberal." "Crazy liberal." We prefer "progressive" because it sounds more reasonable. But guess what? A rose by any other name is still, well. . . a crazy liberal. I am tired of euphemisms that try to cover the truth. I am tired of people who can't see the truth. I am very tired of the black and white "us" vs. "them" fascist groupthink that passes as discourse in liberal or progressive--or whatever the hell you want to call it--circles. It's no better than the extreme fanatacism of the religious right. In fact, maybe it's worse, because at least the right is still making an effort to reach out to those in the middle, who haven't made up their minds. All the left has succeeded in doing is alienating all those people in the middle with their self-righteous "if you're not with us then you must be a stupid, evil Republican" schtick. Guess what kids? Writing off whole groups of people as stupid evil Republicans isn't exactly the most effective way to argue your case or gain any support.
One of the first things I learned about organizing is that you have to start with building relationships with people. Be willing to listen to where they're coming from and engage in a dialogue--not a 1-sided "I'm right and you're wrong" lecture--but a dialogue. When there is trust and open communication, it is possible for people to open up to new ideas, new ways of seeing. It is possible for people to move and change. Unlikely supporters will surface if you're willing to let them. If you're willing to do the humble--and humbling--work of meeting people where they are and engaging in real give-and-take dialogue, change will happen.
I mean, sure you can write off whole groups of people--because they're Republicans or business-people or they still eat meat or they drive an SUV or whatever--but the smug, self-satisfied thrill you get at thinking yourself to be intellectually or morally superior won't get you too far in an election year. Take one look at the administratio of this country to see that fact for yourself.
This leads me to the next thing that I've started to hate about the Bay Area. It occurred to me the other day that every single person I know here works for a non-profit. I find this sad in the extreme. But I suspect that for many people, it is a badge of honor not to be associated with "those" people. I am tired of the assumption that if you work for corporate America, then you "sold out." People do what they do for a million different reasons. Maybe they're good at it. Maybe their parents did it before them. Maybe they failed French and business was the only course of study that didn't require a foreign language (that's just for you, dad!) Maybe they want to make sure they'll be able to support themselves and their family. Maybe they just want to make buckets of money. I don't care. What I do care about is the fact that people on the left talk so much about how judgmental the right is; they worry so much about being labeled and pigeon-holed, and they're doing the exact same thing. Except that the left's judgmentalism is based on career choice, not skin color or sexual orientation. Does that make it any more acceptable? i don't think so. Grow the fuck up and learn how to get along with and appreciate others--even if they're I-bankers.
I could go on (don't get me started about how I can count the number of people I know who believe in God on one hand), but I won't. I'm all raged out for one day. It basically comes down to the fact that the Bay Area is a silly, self-absorbed mess of a place, where everyone takes themselves and their identity too seriously (me included). But even though it IS a mess, I know deep down I still think it's a beautiful, glorious mess that I'm glad I experienced, even as I contemplate running like hell for someplace saner.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Thoughts on awkwardness
I like to think of myself as a writer. Correction: I'd like (someday) to think of myself as a writer. For now I'm going to have to settle for thinking of myself as someone who writes. And who doesn't even write as much as she'd like to. (I do, however, make up for the lack of actual writing with a lot of thinking and even more talking about how much I want to write, so that's something.)
My friend, Carrie (check out her blog at www.itstoolateforthis.blogspot.com) had suggested that blogging might be a good way for me to get my writing groove on, so here I am, despite serious reservations. I'm not a very technology friendly person--seriously, I'm writing this blog on a dial-up internet connection, and I still don't really get how to use digital cameras. And there's something a little unsettling about posting your thoughts in a place that anyone can see them, even when (like now) you're talking about nothing. But my motto for a long time has been to embrace the awkward, and even though I usually try to limit the awkwardness to the sphere of my personal life (ask me about the last date I went on), it can't hurt me to try this blog thing.
Remember kids, being uncomfortable and a little scared is good. It's gonna suck like no other at the time, but worst case, later on you'll get a damn good story out of it. (And thanks to the wonderful world of blogs, we'll all get to read about it later!)
Peace.
My friend, Carrie (check out her blog at www.itstoolateforthis.blogspot.com) had suggested that blogging might be a good way for me to get my writing groove on, so here I am, despite serious reservations. I'm not a very technology friendly person--seriously, I'm writing this blog on a dial-up internet connection, and I still don't really get how to use digital cameras. And there's something a little unsettling about posting your thoughts in a place that anyone can see them, even when (like now) you're talking about nothing. But my motto for a long time has been to embrace the awkward, and even though I usually try to limit the awkwardness to the sphere of my personal life (ask me about the last date I went on), it can't hurt me to try this blog thing.
Remember kids, being uncomfortable and a little scared is good. It's gonna suck like no other at the time, but worst case, later on you'll get a damn good story out of it. (And thanks to the wonderful world of blogs, we'll all get to read about it later!)
Peace.
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