I get riled up about the news on a fairly regular basis. Max still finds it entertaining when I shout at the TV, radio or newspaper in the morning - frustrated at the headlines, or sometimes the person presenting them. Someone recently reminded me of the bumper sticker expression "if you're not outraged, you're not paying attention." Well I'm paying attention, trust me.
But yesterday was a different kind of anger, because to me it hits upon so many emotive issues for me; racism, violence, love, gun-control (or lack there of), and judicial failure. I was reminded of the story of the man who was gunned-down by police on the early morning of his wedding a year and a half ago. He was unarmed, coming out of a strip-club with his friends at the end of his bachelor party. There were no weapons found on any of the men who were shot, yet Sean Bell and his friends were fired upon more than fifty times by NY police officers. On Monday, those police were acquitted of any blame.
This is not the first time a case like this has sullied the American Criminal Justice system, and each time I've been hurt and outraged at the incidents. But this, a man murdered hours before he was to get married? A man taken away from his fiancee and child as their family prepared themselves for what should have been the happiest day of their lives. And now, after all of the pain this family has endured, they are told that the justice system believes no one was at fault. Instead of getting answers, the family has watched helplessly as Bell's criminal record and alleged behaviour at the club was used to justify his death - his past mistakes dragged out for the world to look at and judge. Just another black man with drug convictions and threatening behaviour. We can all sleep soundly knowing that it we're not racist, he was just a criminal, and the police were just doing their jobs.
Playing devil's advocate, let's say that the police were justified in being afraid for the safety of their own lives and the lives of others. I realise there were allegedly (although refuted by the defense) events leading up to the shooting that could have indicated one of the men had a weapon. But fifty shots? Fifty? Am I the only person that thinks this exceeds minimum force? How are we going to ensure that those officers won't react with the same level of violence on another occasion? What message do we send when we say it is OK to shoot four men FIFTY times without even seeing a weapon?
Then there is the issue of race. How often do we hear about incidents such as these happening to white people? Perhaps I am misinformed, but this whiffs of racial profiling to me - and isn't racial profiling just institutional racism at its worst? During my undergraduate degree in America I read a study which found that 80% of motorists stopped in New Jersey were people of colour, in spite making up only 13% of all motorists in the state. This is one simple example in a list of many that demonstrates the fact that in spite of equality legislation and the general public's perception that we live in an equal society, the colour of your skin matters. It matters even to those who are employed to protect those equal rights and freedoms we are all so proud of.
Finally, this story is one of many that reinforces my belief that constitution or not - there is no place in a civilised society for guns. If citizens are permitted to carry and have relatively easy to access weapons, how can we expect the police to manage crime without the same weapons? And if those powers who are employed to 'protect and serve' the citizens are faced daily with the threat of gun violence, isn't it only a matter of time before those fears result in an over reaction? When I over react to difficult situations in my job, people get shouted at. When the police over react, there is a body count. And no one seems to be willing to hold anyone accountable.
I am not ragging on the police. The events described here certainly not every day occurrences. Police have a difficult job, and I am sure that the majority of them do it with dignity and respect for human life. But there are greater problems to face, problems that exist in several parts of our society. Problems that will eat us all alive if we don't acknowledge and address them. The powers that be must take tragic events such as these and use them to take a good hard look at what causes them. If they don't, the Sean Bells of the world will have not only died, but they will have died in vain. Who is going to explain that to his daughter? I certainly don't want to have to explain it to mine.
Tuesday 29 April 2008
Monday 28 April 2008
The Great X-Box Scandal of 2008
Well, folks - If you are tired of hearing about my bad days, swiftly proceed to the next blog on your reading list. I told myself I wouldn't write about this (probably the main reason I haven't written for a few days), but this blog is for me at the end of the day and I need to get this all out.
This week has left me feeling like one of the children in the Lemony Snicket stories, afraid to settle into happiness for fear of something lurking in the shadows. I have really been fighting to stay positive. I keep myself busy and focus on all the good I have in my life. Believe me, I do know how good I have it. I really do. I am trying to remind myself of that every day. That said, I spent all night last night in tears, and today is shaping up to be of a similar standard.
My journey back to the land of the miserable began early last week, when my mother-in-law reminded me again how ungrateful I am. Usually this is her husband's job, but apparently I had really offended her this time and she just couldn't contain it. My offence - I bought my husband an X-Box360 for his birthday.
Apparently me spending £170 (total bargain, for those of you who are unaware of its normal £230 price tag) is a slap in the face and evidence of my lack of gratitude for the endless sacrifices they are making on my behalf. I tried to explain that this was a one-off. It was meant to be a special treat after two years of tight budgeting which has included agreeing to set £20 spending limits on all presents, not having a honeymoon, not going on vacation in five years and avoiding trips home because they cost too much. I tried to say how I knew that things would be even tighter once we moved into the new house, and so I wanted to be able to give him this one gift (which he has wanted for two years) since he never buys himself anything or does anything even remotely financially indulgent or irresponsible. I tried to point out that we have no credit card debt and used some of the profits from our last house to pay off our wedding and car loans so that the only debt we now have is from a mortgage and tuition fees. I wanted her to understand that I was trying to find a way to sufficently tell Max "thank you" for how wonderful a husband he has been lately and how I couldn't make it without him.
Not good enough. Ungrateful and irresponsible. And I don't even do anything around the house to every one's lives easier after all they do for us. Don't I realise that someday I am going to have to be able to run my own home so I may as well learn how to do these things? I won't go on, although I could, because my mother-in-law is a wonderful woman who really has done a lot for me and I feel bad portraying her in her not-best light. In isolation, this would be the kind of thing you just shrug off and hope will blow over. But my defenses are down, I am barely dragging myself out of bed some mornings and I burst in to tears spontaneously at least once every other day. It is partly sleep deprivation and stress, partly a lack of personal space and the indefinite nature of my living situation, partly grief over the Dark Day that I try so hard not think about. I told mother-in-law I was sorry she felt the way she did and that I would try to do better. Then I told Max I was moving out.
I know, I know. It seems like an overreaction. But I needed it. I need to wake up each morning without the awareness that my every action is going to be scrutinised and perhaps held against me at a later date. If I don't, the "I'm sorry"s and "I'll try to do better"s will start turning into "I never wanted you to do any of this anyway, you are just control freaks who won't let your son and I make our own decisions in life"s and "Why do you expect me to conform to every thing about your family/life/culture without showing any respect or acceptance for mine?"s or even "shove your help and my gratitude up your arse"s. I don't want that. Max wants to say something, to tell his parents how much they are hurting me and that he won't stand for it, but I keep begging him not to. I know full well that it will end in an un-holy argument, leaving us with no support system and him stuck in the middle of his family and his wife. So I told Max's family that my friend Suz's husband was starting the night shift (true) and she didn't like staying on her own (also true) so I was going to spend the week with her. The week has been tense, everyone knowing I was leaving and no one talking about it. I've spent the majority of it in my room - but I made sure to clean the house before I left.
Which leads me to Drama - phase II.
My suitcases are all in Max's parents' garage full of summer clothes, so I needed a bag to pack my crap into. That's when my mother's package arrived. She sent it before the Dark Day. A box full of books about pregnancy and babies, including a 7 year memory book. I knew it was coming. Mom had tried to stop it but Amazon had already put it in the post. I resolved to put the package directly into the garage and leave it there until I needed it, but it arrived in a large white sack which seemed the perfect thing for storing all of my belongings in during the move. I figured it wouldn't hurt to take the box out of the bag. As it happened, the bag was very useful, but the box was open. I had to look, I have always been a bit of a masochist and the curiosity got the better of me. There they were, mocking me. What to Expect when you're Expecting, The Expectant Father, Baby's First Year, and Baby's Memory Book.
I flipped through the books, remembering those brief days when I was filled with the excitement that was written all over each page. I thought about the fact that if I were still pregnant I would be getting ready for my first scan, approaching the time when you can start telling everyone the good news. I imagined being able to fill out the pages with how things were developing, what names we were thinking of, how I was coping with morning sickness. I started weeping and I couldn't stop myself, I cried so hard my stomach hurt. I hadn't realised how sad I still was. Eventually I managed to calm myself down and pack the books away, reassuring myself that I would need them again someday soon.
The problem is, that "reassurance" does little to comfort me. Although I want so much to have a family, I am absolutely petrified to get pregnant again. I am a firm believer in the powerful effects the mind has on the body, and I am so afraid of what my anxiety will do to another pregnancy. What if I am not just one of the 1 in 5 women who miscarries her first pregnancy? What if there is actually something wrong? What if I worry so much about having a miscarriage when I do get pregnant that the stress and worry causes more problems? The thought of it makes me nauseous. Not that I would tell anyone these worries. They would think I was crazy, over dramatic, not able to get over something that so many women have suffered in so much more terrible ways. Hell, I think those things about myself.
I have been working so hard to put this out of my head, move on quickly and not let myself get so sad that I get depressed. Unfortunately I have ignored the warning signs that it is happening anyway, perhaps because I am trying so hard to ignore it. I can't sleep, I'm snappy and irritable, I'm smoking again. Every time I take the folic acid tablets the doctor gave me I well up, so I've stopped taking them. I'm eating like a pig but still losing weight. I think I finally have to acknowledge that I am not quite OK yet. The biggest problem with that is having to admit it to other people.
So here is a start. People, I am not quite OK yet. I may need a little more time, and a little more help, before I feel 100% again. I do not have a stiff upper lip, I am a soft-hearted, bleary-eyed sap. I cry, feel things, and think too much. It's how I cope, it's how I need to cope. I'm off to brace the people in my life for a reality check (and to re-read Alan Carr's Easy Way to Quit Smoking).
This week has left me feeling like one of the children in the Lemony Snicket stories, afraid to settle into happiness for fear of something lurking in the shadows. I have really been fighting to stay positive. I keep myself busy and focus on all the good I have in my life. Believe me, I do know how good I have it. I really do. I am trying to remind myself of that every day. That said, I spent all night last night in tears, and today is shaping up to be of a similar standard.
My journey back to the land of the miserable began early last week, when my mother-in-law reminded me again how ungrateful I am. Usually this is her husband's job, but apparently I had really offended her this time and she just couldn't contain it. My offence - I bought my husband an X-Box360 for his birthday.
Apparently me spending £170 (total bargain, for those of you who are unaware of its normal £230 price tag) is a slap in the face and evidence of my lack of gratitude for the endless sacrifices they are making on my behalf. I tried to explain that this was a one-off. It was meant to be a special treat after two years of tight budgeting which has included agreeing to set £20 spending limits on all presents, not having a honeymoon, not going on vacation in five years and avoiding trips home because they cost too much. I tried to say how I knew that things would be even tighter once we moved into the new house, and so I wanted to be able to give him this one gift (which he has wanted for two years) since he never buys himself anything or does anything even remotely financially indulgent or irresponsible. I tried to point out that we have no credit card debt and used some of the profits from our last house to pay off our wedding and car loans so that the only debt we now have is from a mortgage and tuition fees. I wanted her to understand that I was trying to find a way to sufficently tell Max "thank you" for how wonderful a husband he has been lately and how I couldn't make it without him.
Not good enough. Ungrateful and irresponsible. And I don't even do anything around the house to every one's lives easier after all they do for us. Don't I realise that someday I am going to have to be able to run my own home so I may as well learn how to do these things? I won't go on, although I could, because my mother-in-law is a wonderful woman who really has done a lot for me and I feel bad portraying her in her not-best light. In isolation, this would be the kind of thing you just shrug off and hope will blow over. But my defenses are down, I am barely dragging myself out of bed some mornings and I burst in to tears spontaneously at least once every other day. It is partly sleep deprivation and stress, partly a lack of personal space and the indefinite nature of my living situation, partly grief over the Dark Day that I try so hard not think about. I told mother-in-law I was sorry she felt the way she did and that I would try to do better. Then I told Max I was moving out.
I know, I know. It seems like an overreaction. But I needed it. I need to wake up each morning without the awareness that my every action is going to be scrutinised and perhaps held against me at a later date. If I don't, the "I'm sorry"s and "I'll try to do better"s will start turning into "I never wanted you to do any of this anyway, you are just control freaks who won't let your son and I make our own decisions in life"s and "Why do you expect me to conform to every thing about your family/life/culture without showing any respect or acceptance for mine?"s or even "shove your help and my gratitude up your arse"s. I don't want that. Max wants to say something, to tell his parents how much they are hurting me and that he won't stand for it, but I keep begging him not to. I know full well that it will end in an un-holy argument, leaving us with no support system and him stuck in the middle of his family and his wife. So I told Max's family that my friend Suz's husband was starting the night shift (true) and she didn't like staying on her own (also true) so I was going to spend the week with her. The week has been tense, everyone knowing I was leaving and no one talking about it. I've spent the majority of it in my room - but I made sure to clean the house before I left.
Which leads me to Drama - phase II.
My suitcases are all in Max's parents' garage full of summer clothes, so I needed a bag to pack my crap into. That's when my mother's package arrived. She sent it before the Dark Day. A box full of books about pregnancy and babies, including a 7 year memory book. I knew it was coming. Mom had tried to stop it but Amazon had already put it in the post. I resolved to put the package directly into the garage and leave it there until I needed it, but it arrived in a large white sack which seemed the perfect thing for storing all of my belongings in during the move. I figured it wouldn't hurt to take the box out of the bag. As it happened, the bag was very useful, but the box was open. I had to look, I have always been a bit of a masochist and the curiosity got the better of me. There they were, mocking me. What to Expect when you're Expecting, The Expectant Father, Baby's First Year, and Baby's Memory Book.
I flipped through the books, remembering those brief days when I was filled with the excitement that was written all over each page. I thought about the fact that if I were still pregnant I would be getting ready for my first scan, approaching the time when you can start telling everyone the good news. I imagined being able to fill out the pages with how things were developing, what names we were thinking of, how I was coping with morning sickness. I started weeping and I couldn't stop myself, I cried so hard my stomach hurt. I hadn't realised how sad I still was. Eventually I managed to calm myself down and pack the books away, reassuring myself that I would need them again someday soon.
The problem is, that "reassurance" does little to comfort me. Although I want so much to have a family, I am absolutely petrified to get pregnant again. I am a firm believer in the powerful effects the mind has on the body, and I am so afraid of what my anxiety will do to another pregnancy. What if I am not just one of the 1 in 5 women who miscarries her first pregnancy? What if there is actually something wrong? What if I worry so much about having a miscarriage when I do get pregnant that the stress and worry causes more problems? The thought of it makes me nauseous. Not that I would tell anyone these worries. They would think I was crazy, over dramatic, not able to get over something that so many women have suffered in so much more terrible ways. Hell, I think those things about myself.
I have been working so hard to put this out of my head, move on quickly and not let myself get so sad that I get depressed. Unfortunately I have ignored the warning signs that it is happening anyway, perhaps because I am trying so hard to ignore it. I can't sleep, I'm snappy and irritable, I'm smoking again. Every time I take the folic acid tablets the doctor gave me I well up, so I've stopped taking them. I'm eating like a pig but still losing weight. I think I finally have to acknowledge that I am not quite OK yet. The biggest problem with that is having to admit it to other people.
So here is a start. People, I am not quite OK yet. I may need a little more time, and a little more help, before I feel 100% again. I do not have a stiff upper lip, I am a soft-hearted, bleary-eyed sap. I cry, feel things, and think too much. It's how I cope, it's how I need to cope. I'm off to brace the people in my life for a reality check (and to re-read Alan Carr's Easy Way to Quit Smoking).
Tuesday 22 April 2008
The Revolution is Coming , Courtesy of John Cusak
From the first moment I saw him standing with a boom box over his head playing "In Your Eyes" as lovable dork Lloyd Dobbler, I have loved John Cusak. And now, after a string of bad romantic comedies which made me question my loyalty, he has made me love him again. In a recent interview on the ever-excellent blog Crooks and Liars, John quoted my favourite of Arundhati Roy's essays - Confronting Empire.
Our strategy should be not only to confront empire, but to lay siege to it. To deprive it of oxygen. To shame it. To mock it. With our art, our music, our literature, our stubbornness, our joy, our brilliance, our sheer relentlessness– and our ability to tell our own stories. Stories that are different from the ones we’re being brainwashed to believe. The corporate revolution will collapse if we refuse to buy what they’re selling– their ideas, their version of history, their wars, their weapons, their notion of inevitability. Remember this: We be many and they be few. They need us more than we need them. Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.
It is a phenomenal statement from what was for me a literally life-changing collection of essays. Before reading these essays, I was afraid of revolutionary language. I associated revolution, socialism and anti-capitalism with violence and extremism. I was skeptical of this kind of change, believed I had no place in it. But Roy speaks of the peaceful revolution in every day action. She points to the perpetrators of oppression not with threats, but with the truth. And she does it all with the eloquence of a romantic poet.
I don't have time to write a 'proper' blog today (I have some constructive criticism to see to), but I will take this moment to strongly encourage you to do three things:
1. Read War Talk
2. Join the revolution
3. And definitely watch Say Anything
Monday 21 April 2008
I hope Ikea sinks into the sea - But I'll need to get my taps first
All I wanted was a double-basin, Belfast-style sink. Husband thought it was excessive, Mother-in-law said it didn't exist, Sister-in-law thought I should go with something a bit more trendy. But I had my heart set on a Belfast sink, and I just knew there was one out there for me.
Then I found this one.
It was perfect - perfect shape, perfect style, and most importantly I could afford it. Max and I had been trying to get most of our stuff through reclamation yards or from local suppliers, but big porcelain sinks are just too hard to come by and too far out of our price range. So I gritted my teeth and went to Ikea. I know, I know. I have been trying to avoid these places. You wouldn't catch me anywhere near Asda (aka Wal-Mart), I steer clear of Tesco where I can help it, and I'm in the local green grocer so often he is starting to throw in free veg. It was just a little slip. I was punished for it.
Because I am super-cheap (and living on the just above the minimum wage while trying to pay a mortgage that we could barely afford when I made good money), I decided to try to purchase said sink at Ikea's 21st birthday sale. At a store famous for never having sales, 21% off was quite a discount. I should not have been surprised that the whole of Ireland, North and South, would think this was a good deal as well.
Did I mention that I don't do well with crowds?
I don't. I especially do not do well with crowds of people wielding large flat-bed trolleys containing over sized cardboard boxes, dragging 3-7 screaming children through a store larger than several football fields, and trying to throw me out of their way in case I was trying to pick up those 5p throw cushions before they got to them. But gosh-darnit, for £25 off my sink I will suffer such atrocities!
I fought my way through to the kitchen department, meeting ogre #1. He directed me (with exasperation) to location 36 in aisle 10 to collect my sink. No, I could not have the taps as well. They were not in stock. No, I could not order them, he was very busy - there was a sale on you know! I begged ogre #1's forgiveness for asking a question/trying to purchase products and proceeded to the collection point. It took me almost an hour to get there as Ikea is a shrine to consumerism and takes you through the longest possible route to the check-out, ensuring you will pick up at least 6 or 7 completely useless items because they are just such a great deal. At the entrance to aisle 10 I was greeted by ogre #2. Ogre #2 came running at me full speed with her hand out, palm facing me in a stop signal, and lunged forward in an awkward knee bend. "This aisle is closed," she decreed, and stood with her hand still motioning for me to halt. I giggled a little at the sight of her posturing, a farewell gesture from my rapidly deteriorating sense of humour.
Before long ogre #2 was joined by #s 3,4,5 and 6. They stood at all possible entrances to the aisle, quickly chastising dazed and confused shoppers as they tried to get their items and leave the seventh circle of Hell sometime before dinner. I quietly asked ogre #4 if they knew how much longer it would be. No response. Perhaps ogre #5 would know? No response. I spoke to the shopper next to me, wondering if I had lost my voice or had fallen asleep and started dreaming about trying to speak but having no sound come out. Shopper could hear me just fine, and we killed a few moments discussing why a store which had achieved world-domination the way Ikea was apparently unable to restock shelves at more appropriate times of the day. Finally, after almost 20 minutes (for those of you who have lost track, I have been at Ikea for about 2 hours at this point) I was permitted to collect my sink. I checked the box against my sheet - same item name, same location number. With confidence I loaded the box, which was more than half my body weight, onto the trolley and marched triumphantly towards the checkout.
Thirty minutes passed and I kept myself entertained by playing with the bizarre garden accessories lined up to create makeshift queues. With the finish line in sight, I decided to be extra efficient and ensure the bar-code was facing the cashier. Turning the box around I saw the picture - it was the wrong sink. Right name, right location, wrong sink. I turned and saw the lines behind me. They were at least twice as long as when I had started. I decided that perhaps some nice staff member would be able to help me with my crisis...
Enter ogre #7.
me: "I'm sorry, but the item I requested was in the wrong place and I really can't lift the item I want on my own. Could you possib..."
ogre #7: "You're just going to have to get a member staff to help you, we're very busy."
Me= confused, as thought the person wearing an Ikea shirt and name badge was, in fact, a member of staff.
Enter ogre #8.
me: "Excuse me, I just need help lifting the sin..."
ogre #8: "I can't help you. We're very busy today."
And then #9.
me: "can you hel..."
#9: "...(walking away shaking head)"
The ogres were all very busy - and yet I could see them everywhere, in little swarms of yellow, talking to each other in impenetrable circles. I imagined them all laughing with each other about that dumb Yank who tried to lift up a 100lb sink and almost broke her back and toe. I tried to explain my plight to ogre # 10 (behind a desk), and she informed me that if I had "just smiled a bit more maybe one of the customers would have helped me." Eventually I managed to find a non-ogre in yellow who smiled a lot. He was happy to lift the sink on to the trolley, but not before dropping it twice.
When I got home 3.5 hours later, exhausted and emotionally drained, I discovered that not only was the sink broken (almost in half!) but they had neglected to give me the 21% discount. A nice young woman on the phone apologised profusely and told me that if I returned it on Monday they could exchange the sink and apply the discount.
I got up early today and loaded up the 47kg sink into my tiny little car. I drove it all the way out to the opposite side of town for the second time in two days. I lifted it out of the car and pushed it the 0.5 miles from the car park to the returns desk. They fought hard not to exchange the sink, implying I had dropped it after leaving the store. It took only one look at my reddening face for the sales girl to change her mind about that. They also refused to give me the 21% discount, saying it was my own fault for not noticing. I asked to speak to a supervisor. Chief ogre took 15 minutes to come over to me and then repeated exactly what the sales person had said. I told her I had not braved the melee that was their 21% off sale for any other reason than getting 21% off and I was not leaving without my £25. Chief ogre decided after a further 15 minutes that she did not fancy clearing up the mess that my exploding head would create and put the £25 back on to my debit card.
And now I have to go back for the bloody taps! This had better be the finest sink in Belfast. I am going to have to watch double doses of the news tonight to give myself some perspective.
Then I found this one.
It was perfect - perfect shape, perfect style, and most importantly I could afford it. Max and I had been trying to get most of our stuff through reclamation yards or from local suppliers, but big porcelain sinks are just too hard to come by and too far out of our price range. So I gritted my teeth and went to Ikea. I know, I know. I have been trying to avoid these places. You wouldn't catch me anywhere near Asda (aka Wal-Mart), I steer clear of Tesco where I can help it, and I'm in the local green grocer so often he is starting to throw in free veg. It was just a little slip. I was punished for it.
Because I am super-cheap (and living on the just above the minimum wage while trying to pay a mortgage that we could barely afford when I made good money), I decided to try to purchase said sink at Ikea's 21st birthday sale. At a store famous for never having sales, 21% off was quite a discount. I should not have been surprised that the whole of Ireland, North and South, would think this was a good deal as well.
Did I mention that I don't do well with crowds?
I don't. I especially do not do well with crowds of people wielding large flat-bed trolleys containing over sized cardboard boxes, dragging 3-7 screaming children through a store larger than several football fields, and trying to throw me out of their way in case I was trying to pick up those 5p throw cushions before they got to them. But gosh-darnit, for £25 off my sink I will suffer such atrocities!
I fought my way through to the kitchen department, meeting ogre #1. He directed me (with exasperation) to location 36 in aisle 10 to collect my sink. No, I could not have the taps as well. They were not in stock. No, I could not order them, he was very busy - there was a sale on you know! I begged ogre #1's forgiveness for asking a question/trying to purchase products and proceeded to the collection point. It took me almost an hour to get there as Ikea is a shrine to consumerism and takes you through the longest possible route to the check-out, ensuring you will pick up at least 6 or 7 completely useless items because they are just such a great deal. At the entrance to aisle 10 I was greeted by ogre #2. Ogre #2 came running at me full speed with her hand out, palm facing me in a stop signal, and lunged forward in an awkward knee bend. "This aisle is closed," she decreed, and stood with her hand still motioning for me to halt. I giggled a little at the sight of her posturing, a farewell gesture from my rapidly deteriorating sense of humour.
Before long ogre #2 was joined by #s 3,4,5 and 6. They stood at all possible entrances to the aisle, quickly chastising dazed and confused shoppers as they tried to get their items and leave the seventh circle of Hell sometime before dinner. I quietly asked ogre #4 if they knew how much longer it would be. No response. Perhaps ogre #5 would know? No response. I spoke to the shopper next to me, wondering if I had lost my voice or had fallen asleep and started dreaming about trying to speak but having no sound come out. Shopper could hear me just fine, and we killed a few moments discussing why a store which had achieved world-domination the way Ikea was apparently unable to restock shelves at more appropriate times of the day. Finally, after almost 20 minutes (for those of you who have lost track, I have been at Ikea for about 2 hours at this point) I was permitted to collect my sink. I checked the box against my sheet - same item name, same location number. With confidence I loaded the box, which was more than half my body weight, onto the trolley and marched triumphantly towards the checkout.
Thirty minutes passed and I kept myself entertained by playing with the bizarre garden accessories lined up to create makeshift queues. With the finish line in sight, I decided to be extra efficient and ensure the bar-code was facing the cashier. Turning the box around I saw the picture - it was the wrong sink. Right name, right location, wrong sink. I turned and saw the lines behind me. They were at least twice as long as when I had started. I decided that perhaps some nice staff member would be able to help me with my crisis...
Enter ogre #7.
me: "I'm sorry, but the item I requested was in the wrong place and I really can't lift the item I want on my own. Could you possib..."
ogre #7: "You're just going to have to get a member staff to help you, we're very busy."
Me= confused, as thought the person wearing an Ikea shirt and name badge was, in fact, a member of staff.
Enter ogre #8.
me: "Excuse me, I just need help lifting the sin..."
ogre #8: "I can't help you. We're very busy today."
And then #9.
me: "can you hel..."
#9: "...(walking away shaking head)"
The ogres were all very busy - and yet I could see them everywhere, in little swarms of yellow, talking to each other in impenetrable circles. I imagined them all laughing with each other about that dumb Yank who tried to lift up a 100lb sink and almost broke her back and toe. I tried to explain my plight to ogre # 10 (behind a desk), and she informed me that if I had "just smiled a bit more maybe one of the customers would have helped me." Eventually I managed to find a non-ogre in yellow who smiled a lot. He was happy to lift the sink on to the trolley, but not before dropping it twice.
When I got home 3.5 hours later, exhausted and emotionally drained, I discovered that not only was the sink broken (almost in half!) but they had neglected to give me the 21% discount. A nice young woman on the phone apologised profusely and told me that if I returned it on Monday they could exchange the sink and apply the discount.
I got up early today and loaded up the 47kg sink into my tiny little car. I drove it all the way out to the opposite side of town for the second time in two days. I lifted it out of the car and pushed it the 0.5 miles from the car park to the returns desk. They fought hard not to exchange the sink, implying I had dropped it after leaving the store. It took only one look at my reddening face for the sales girl to change her mind about that. They also refused to give me the 21% discount, saying it was my own fault for not noticing. I asked to speak to a supervisor. Chief ogre took 15 minutes to come over to me and then repeated exactly what the sales person had said. I told her I had not braved the melee that was their 21% off sale for any other reason than getting 21% off and I was not leaving without my £25. Chief ogre decided after a further 15 minutes that she did not fancy clearing up the mess that my exploding head would create and put the £25 back on to my debit card.
And now I have to go back for the bloody taps! This had better be the finest sink in Belfast. I am going to have to watch double doses of the news tonight to give myself some perspective.
Thursday 17 April 2008
Constructive(?) Criticism
You can always count on a bit of academic ranting on "feedback day."
I have just received yet another of my early drafts, covered in red ink and questions I can't answer. "What does this mean?!" The red ink shouts across the page; "WHY?" demands the crimson pen. "I don't fucking know!" I respond as I throw the draft into the recycling bin, quickly realise that I need those notes and go hoking through said bin to retrieve the document. Meanwhile, the friendly note at the top of the page is taunting me softly.
"Hi [my name]. Thanks for getting this to me. Here are a few notes, mainly non-substantive. I won't go into too much detail, I'll discuss the thematic issues with you next week. I think we're starting to get somewhere!"
I feel like giving him a taste of his own medicine, answering his note with some vague, rhetorical questions of my own: "Exactly WHERE do you think we are getting?" or "Can you unpack the word thematic? It is problematic for me," or finally "A FEW NOTES! A FEW NOTES! SERIOUSLY?!" The random questions which do nothing but point out something he dislikes and do not in any way direct me towards where to go next are good, but my favourite is when he makes snide comments like: Perhaps it would be an idea to limit your use of capital letters to proper nouns- that is, names of people and places. To which I would like to respond "Ooooh, is that what proper nouns are? Goodness gracious, I am so glad that after almost a decade in higher education someone pointed that out to me. Thank you, oh wise sage."
I should point out here that this man who I am mercilessly mocking is perhaps the nicest person I have ever met. He is wildly intelligent, well-respected and extensively published. He makes himself available to me on a pretty regular basis, and most of my peers would be grateful for the sheer volume of comments with which he provides me. It's just that I don't understand what he means. And I get the distinct impression that he isn't always necessarily sure either... Couple this with my other supervisor's often contradictory remarks, and throw in my crippling self-doubt regarding all things academic, and the result is one very confused little PhD student.
The way I see it, there are several main issues I have with receiving critiques from my supervisors.
1. They seem to be focused more on grammar than content.
The fact of the matter is I don't really need a supervisor for grammar correction. One of my closest friends from home is the editorial assistant to the president of Harvard - I will just send him my drafts if I am worried about punctuation and sentence fragments. Yes, these things are important, but they are secondary at this early stage. I need to know if my theoretical framework makes sense, if the scope of my project is too wide, if it is apparent that I am talking a bit pile of shite and have no idea what I am doing, etc.
Comma placement just seems a bit trivial at this point.
2. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing.
One supervisor tells me to focus on organisational structure, case studies and policy; the other agrees with my desire to take a 'bottom-up' perspective.
One supervisor thinks my writing style is 'preachy' and 'overstated;' the other thinks this is an important part of my voice.
One supervisor thinks I am miles ahead of where I need to be; one is beginning to panic that without early data collection I am floundering.
However, get them both together in the same room and BAM! Total love-in! They can't stop agreeing with each other.
Don't ask me which side they are taking this week.
3. My lead supervisor is Old School - very Old School (there I go with those pesky capital letters again).
I want to do research that looks at people's experiences, which empowers participants and includes them in the development of the project. I want to work under the assumption that they are the experts and that the only way I will get the data I need is by letting them have a modicum of control. This, my friends, is far too ethereal a concept for my lead supervisor. He is a positivist. Research should be pure, scientific, objective. It is a view that is well respected in some scientific communities. It has its strengths. It is not me (You can imagine what color the draft of my methodological chapter is at this point - ten points if you guessed red).
4. And finally - I know what's wrong, but now what?
I know what parts of my work my supervisors think are weak. I know what they don't like and what they think doesn't work. This has been made fairly clear via the red ink. But exactly what about it is wrong? Am I on the right track? Should I throw it away and start again? Should I just turn off my computer, hand over the keys to my office and go find a graduate job at PriceWaterhouse Coopers while I still have a chance for a normal life? Obviously if I put it in there, I thought it was correct. If it is not, I am going to need a little direction.
Throw me a bone, people.
There is a slight chance that part of the problem is my inability to accept criticism [insert gasp of shock and disbelief here]. I know everybody hates to be corrected, but it really does make me insane. Tell me I have done something wrong and I become bitchy, defensive and defiant. It also propels what is already an un-healthy dose of self-loathing/doubt into overdrive. I am finding it tough enough to convince myself that I am at all capable of joining the 5% of the population psychotic enough to undertake a doctoral thesis; you could tell me that I used the wrong font size right now and I would probably be tempted to throw in the towel. I'm also just completely unaccustomed the vast amount of criticism I am getting. I blame my high school teachers and undergraduate lecturers. The only red writing they put on my essays was large, approving check marks at the ends of paragraphs or the occasional "Yes!" in the margins. They tricked me - lulled me into a false sense of security. Against the charges of poor grammar and badly developed arguments, my defense is a claim of entrapment.
"Poor [my name]," you must be thinking now. "Poor, poor, [my name] who gets paid to sit in a nice office next to a window and read and write about things she finds truly interesting. Poor, poor, poor, girl!" I hear you cry, "Being mentored by one of the national leaders in her field who gives her lots of time and attention, not to mention advice and support for her future career." By God, you're right! I've got it pretty tough here in my ivory tower! I wish I hadn't cut off my lovely long hair so I could toss it down for a bit of rescuing. The final act of an academic damsel in distress. Alas, I guess I will just have to settle for a cup of coffee.
I have just received yet another of my early drafts, covered in red ink and questions I can't answer. "What does this mean?!" The red ink shouts across the page; "WHY?" demands the crimson pen. "I don't fucking know!" I respond as I throw the draft into the recycling bin, quickly realise that I need those notes and go hoking through said bin to retrieve the document. Meanwhile, the friendly note at the top of the page is taunting me softly.
"Hi [my name]. Thanks for getting this to me. Here are a few notes, mainly non-substantive. I won't go into too much detail, I'll discuss the thematic issues with you next week. I think we're starting to get somewhere!"
I feel like giving him a taste of his own medicine, answering his note with some vague, rhetorical questions of my own: "Exactly WHERE do you think we are getting?" or "Can you unpack the word thematic? It is problematic for me," or finally "A FEW NOTES! A FEW NOTES! SERIOUSLY?!" The random questions which do nothing but point out something he dislikes and do not in any way direct me towards where to go next are good, but my favourite is when he makes snide comments like: Perhaps it would be an idea to limit your use of capital letters to proper nouns- that is, names of people and places. To which I would like to respond "Ooooh, is that what proper nouns are? Goodness gracious, I am so glad that after almost a decade in higher education someone pointed that out to me. Thank you, oh wise sage."
I should point out here that this man who I am mercilessly mocking is perhaps the nicest person I have ever met. He is wildly intelligent, well-respected and extensively published. He makes himself available to me on a pretty regular basis, and most of my peers would be grateful for the sheer volume of comments with which he provides me. It's just that I don't understand what he means. And I get the distinct impression that he isn't always necessarily sure either... Couple this with my other supervisor's often contradictory remarks, and throw in my crippling self-doubt regarding all things academic, and the result is one very confused little PhD student.
The way I see it, there are several main issues I have with receiving critiques from my supervisors.
1. They seem to be focused more on grammar than content.
The fact of the matter is I don't really need a supervisor for grammar correction. One of my closest friends from home is the editorial assistant to the president of Harvard - I will just send him my drafts if I am worried about punctuation and sentence fragments. Yes, these things are important, but they are secondary at this early stage. I need to know if my theoretical framework makes sense, if the scope of my project is too wide, if it is apparent that I am talking a bit pile of shite and have no idea what I am doing, etc.
Comma placement just seems a bit trivial at this point.
2. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing.
One supervisor tells me to focus on organisational structure, case studies and policy; the other agrees with my desire to take a 'bottom-up' perspective.
One supervisor thinks my writing style is 'preachy' and 'overstated;' the other thinks this is an important part of my voice.
One supervisor thinks I am miles ahead of where I need to be; one is beginning to panic that without early data collection I am floundering.
However, get them both together in the same room and BAM! Total love-in! They can't stop agreeing with each other.
Don't ask me which side they are taking this week.
3. My lead supervisor is Old School - very Old School (there I go with those pesky capital letters again).
I want to do research that looks at people's experiences, which empowers participants and includes them in the development of the project. I want to work under the assumption that they are the experts and that the only way I will get the data I need is by letting them have a modicum of control. This, my friends, is far too ethereal a concept for my lead supervisor. He is a positivist. Research should be pure, scientific, objective. It is a view that is well respected in some scientific communities. It has its strengths. It is not me (You can imagine what color the draft of my methodological chapter is at this point - ten points if you guessed red).
4. And finally - I know what's wrong, but now what?
I know what parts of my work my supervisors think are weak. I know what they don't like and what they think doesn't work. This has been made fairly clear via the red ink. But exactly what about it is wrong? Am I on the right track? Should I throw it away and start again? Should I just turn off my computer, hand over the keys to my office and go find a graduate job at PriceWaterhouse Coopers while I still have a chance for a normal life? Obviously if I put it in there, I thought it was correct. If it is not, I am going to need a little direction.
Throw me a bone, people.
There is a slight chance that part of the problem is my inability to accept criticism [insert gasp of shock and disbelief here]. I know everybody hates to be corrected, but it really does make me insane. Tell me I have done something wrong and I become bitchy, defensive and defiant. It also propels what is already an un-healthy dose of self-loathing/doubt into overdrive. I am finding it tough enough to convince myself that I am at all capable of joining the 5% of the population psychotic enough to undertake a doctoral thesis; you could tell me that I used the wrong font size right now and I would probably be tempted to throw in the towel. I'm also just completely unaccustomed the vast amount of criticism I am getting. I blame my high school teachers and undergraduate lecturers. The only red writing they put on my essays was large, approving check marks at the ends of paragraphs or the occasional "Yes!" in the margins. They tricked me - lulled me into a false sense of security. Against the charges of poor grammar and badly developed arguments, my defense is a claim of entrapment.
"Poor [my name]," you must be thinking now. "Poor, poor, [my name] who gets paid to sit in a nice office next to a window and read and write about things she finds truly interesting. Poor, poor, poor, girl!" I hear you cry, "Being mentored by one of the national leaders in her field who gives her lots of time and attention, not to mention advice and support for her future career." By God, you're right! I've got it pretty tough here in my ivory tower! I wish I hadn't cut off my lovely long hair so I could toss it down for a bit of rescuing. The final act of an academic damsel in distress. Alas, I guess I will just have to settle for a cup of coffee.
Wednesday 16 April 2008
Celebration of a Life
I am leaving little room in my life for sadness these days. Bad timing, then, for the anniversary of my grandmother's death. I can't quite understand the tradition of remembering a person on the anniversary of their death instead of the anniversary of their birth, especially someone like my Gram. She was so full of joy and gratitude all the time, her life was about focusing on the good and the great and relishing the challenges of the bad. So in honour of her, the woman for whom I have named this blog (for those who thought it was some sort of philosophical idea, I am literally the granddaughter of a woman called Fate), I am going to revel in the happy memories I have of her.
Gram loved everyone. I don't mean in the sense that some sorority girls, who kiss everyone hello and always cheerfully say "love ya" at the end of a phone conversation, love everyone. She really loved people. She always put everyone else's needs before her own, always looked after everyone else's interests. Gram could always see the other side to the story. She took empathy to levels unseen by most - I witnessed her on more than one occasion utter her favourite phrase "God love them" while watching footage of criminals being taken into custody. And she meant it, she felt everyone's pain and genuinely believed everyone was worthy of compassion and kindness. What was most remarkable about her compassion was that it didn't seem to be born out of some lefty-guilt, Christian obligation or sense of moral righteousness. It was just her. Kindness seemed to be her base instinct, simply the essence of who she was.
Knowing where she came from made Gram's nature even harder to explain. She was never one to be dealt an easy hand. Put up for adoption at birth, she was born out of wedlock to a married woman and her teen-aged lover. Because her father was a minor and both her parents Irish nationals, she was never permitted to know anything more about them. She was adopted by a moderately wealthy, childless American couple from Cape Cod. Her parents had a biological son shortly after, and Gram was regarded as little more than an overreaction to perceived infertility. When she was thirteen, she discovered she was adopted when her mother proclaimed "No wonder your real parents didn't want you." Her first husband abandoned her to set up home with his mistress and she was left to raise three young children on her own. After she married the man I would know as my grandfather, she suffered several miscarriages and a still birth, years of unemployment, poverty, and severe alcoholism. She was excommunicated from the church she loved and rejected by her in-laws as a 'ruined' woman. Her face bore the lines of these tribulations, but she would have never uttered a word of complaint to anyone.
Gram's heart was soft, but her back was broad.
The Gram I knew gave away nothing of the life described above. She was short and round, rosy-cheeked, with freckles and soft red hair. She was almost always smiling, and not just with her mouth but with her whole face. She worked as a volunteer at food pantries and charity shops. She was the matriarch of the local AA groups (she travelled to most groups within a 20 mile radius and attended a meeting almost every day). Her house was always full of motherless children, lost souls looking for someone to love them. She was seemingly inexhaustible in her affection and attention, finding time and space for anyone who asked her for it. For as long as I can remember, she had one or all of her children/grandchildren living in her home.
Gram may have loved everyone, but I always liked to think that she and I had something special. I was sure we were kindred spirits - soul mates. I have written before about my disconnection from my family, my feelings of otherness. With Gram that never existed. She understood me before I even knew there was something to understand. We both devoured books, often staying up all night because we just couldn't stop reading. I loved to look at her shelves and see what titles we shared and which ones I could borrow. She watched the news and read the paper, uncommon activities in my family, and in general conversations she challenged my ideas of politics and citizenship. She loved the opera and classical music, and she closed her eyes when she was moved by a crescendo. I would never pretend to be the kind of person Gram was, but she has helped me to love the person that I am. All of the things that made me weird to the rest of my family made me special to her.
Everything she did was a reinforcement of her love and support. When I was struggling to pay for college, Gram sent me checks and pretended she didn't know what I was talking about when I tried to pay her back. She called me "sweetie-pie" and "punkin," and kissed me gently on the forehead when she said hello. When I told her I cried sometimes because the world was so unfair, she cried with me and asked me what I was going to do to change it. She told me that my heart was too big for most people to understand, but that she understood it. When I left home to move to Ireland, she gave Max her father's cuff-links to welcome him into our family. She whispered to me later that she was glad she got to meet the man I would love forever. I didn't realise then that was going to be the last time I saw her. Maybe she did.
At her funeral, an event that filled a church hall +overflow, the officiant called for those who felt moved to stand up and share their feelings about Gram. The service went on for what seemed like hours. People I had never seen before stood up and told the same stories. Gram was the best friend they have ever had. Gram came over in the middle of the night just because they needed to talk. Gram taught them the meaning of kindness. Gram was like the mother/sister/grandmother they never had. Gram stopped them from drinking. Gram saved their life. Gram was the best thing that ever happened to them... At first I was almost angry. She was mine! I didn't even know these people and I had to share my grief with them. How could she be all of those things to other people when she had been all of those things to me? When I stopped kicking my feet and pounding my fists I was able to see those statements for what they really were - a testament to the woman I had known and loved so well. Proof that I had not seen some skewed vision of the grandmother I had put on a pedestal, but of the woman who really existed.
I didn't make it home in time to say goodbye to Gram. She died two hours before I boarded the plane to come back to her. My sister was holding her hand when she went. The week before I spoke to her on the phone and she told me that if she died, she didn't want me "wasting my precious life flying around the world to watch her get put into the ground." She told me to go out to the ocean and say goodbye, and that she would see me again - "not too soon," she hoped. I ignored her - probably for the first time in my life. It has been four years since Gram died. I am glad to say my memories of her are as strong as the they have ever been. This post does little to express what she has meant to me, but I am sure she would think it was enough.
I think today I'll take a trip to the beach...
Gram loved everyone. I don't mean in the sense that some sorority girls, who kiss everyone hello and always cheerfully say "love ya" at the end of a phone conversation, love everyone. She really loved people. She always put everyone else's needs before her own, always looked after everyone else's interests. Gram could always see the other side to the story. She took empathy to levels unseen by most - I witnessed her on more than one occasion utter her favourite phrase "God love them" while watching footage of criminals being taken into custody. And she meant it, she felt everyone's pain and genuinely believed everyone was worthy of compassion and kindness. What was most remarkable about her compassion was that it didn't seem to be born out of some lefty-guilt, Christian obligation or sense of moral righteousness. It was just her. Kindness seemed to be her base instinct, simply the essence of who she was.
Knowing where she came from made Gram's nature even harder to explain. She was never one to be dealt an easy hand. Put up for adoption at birth, she was born out of wedlock to a married woman and her teen-aged lover. Because her father was a minor and both her parents Irish nationals, she was never permitted to know anything more about them. She was adopted by a moderately wealthy, childless American couple from Cape Cod. Her parents had a biological son shortly after, and Gram was regarded as little more than an overreaction to perceived infertility. When she was thirteen, she discovered she was adopted when her mother proclaimed "No wonder your real parents didn't want you." Her first husband abandoned her to set up home with his mistress and she was left to raise three young children on her own. After she married the man I would know as my grandfather, she suffered several miscarriages and a still birth, years of unemployment, poverty, and severe alcoholism. She was excommunicated from the church she loved and rejected by her in-laws as a 'ruined' woman. Her face bore the lines of these tribulations, but she would have never uttered a word of complaint to anyone.
Gram's heart was soft, but her back was broad.
The Gram I knew gave away nothing of the life described above. She was short and round, rosy-cheeked, with freckles and soft red hair. She was almost always smiling, and not just with her mouth but with her whole face. She worked as a volunteer at food pantries and charity shops. She was the matriarch of the local AA groups (she travelled to most groups within a 20 mile radius and attended a meeting almost every day). Her house was always full of motherless children, lost souls looking for someone to love them. She was seemingly inexhaustible in her affection and attention, finding time and space for anyone who asked her for it. For as long as I can remember, she had one or all of her children/grandchildren living in her home.
Gram may have loved everyone, but I always liked to think that she and I had something special. I was sure we were kindred spirits - soul mates. I have written before about my disconnection from my family, my feelings of otherness. With Gram that never existed. She understood me before I even knew there was something to understand. We both devoured books, often staying up all night because we just couldn't stop reading. I loved to look at her shelves and see what titles we shared and which ones I could borrow. She watched the news and read the paper, uncommon activities in my family, and in general conversations she challenged my ideas of politics and citizenship. She loved the opera and classical music, and she closed her eyes when she was moved by a crescendo. I would never pretend to be the kind of person Gram was, but she has helped me to love the person that I am. All of the things that made me weird to the rest of my family made me special to her.
Everything she did was a reinforcement of her love and support. When I was struggling to pay for college, Gram sent me checks and pretended she didn't know what I was talking about when I tried to pay her back. She called me "sweetie-pie" and "punkin," and kissed me gently on the forehead when she said hello. When I told her I cried sometimes because the world was so unfair, she cried with me and asked me what I was going to do to change it. She told me that my heart was too big for most people to understand, but that she understood it. When I left home to move to Ireland, she gave Max her father's cuff-links to welcome him into our family. She whispered to me later that she was glad she got to meet the man I would love forever. I didn't realise then that was going to be the last time I saw her. Maybe she did.
At her funeral, an event that filled a church hall +overflow, the officiant called for those who felt moved to stand up and share their feelings about Gram. The service went on for what seemed like hours. People I had never seen before stood up and told the same stories. Gram was the best friend they have ever had. Gram came over in the middle of the night just because they needed to talk. Gram taught them the meaning of kindness. Gram was like the mother/sister/grandmother they never had. Gram stopped them from drinking. Gram saved their life. Gram was the best thing that ever happened to them... At first I was almost angry. She was mine! I didn't even know these people and I had to share my grief with them. How could she be all of those things to other people when she had been all of those things to me? When I stopped kicking my feet and pounding my fists I was able to see those statements for what they really were - a testament to the woman I had known and loved so well. Proof that I had not seen some skewed vision of the grandmother I had put on a pedestal, but of the woman who really existed.
I didn't make it home in time to say goodbye to Gram. She died two hours before I boarded the plane to come back to her. My sister was holding her hand when she went. The week before I spoke to her on the phone and she told me that if she died, she didn't want me "wasting my precious life flying around the world to watch her get put into the ground." She told me to go out to the ocean and say goodbye, and that she would see me again - "not too soon," she hoped. I ignored her - probably for the first time in my life. It has been four years since Gram died. I am glad to say my memories of her are as strong as the they have ever been. This post does little to express what she has meant to me, but I am sure she would think it was enough.
I think today I'll take a trip to the beach...
Tuesday 15 April 2008
Reflections on a Sunny Afternoon
I am feeling a lot more like myself today. This is most likely down to a delicious afternoon yesterday which reminded me why I love Belfast and my life in general.
After a day spent staring at the computer in my office, willing some sort of draft to magically appear on the screen so I wouldn't have to think of anything intelligent to write, I decided that staying at work until traditional closing time was unnecessary (and completely pointless). It was a beautiful afternoon - one of those really sunny days that dupes you into thinking could wear a breezy skirt and flip-flops if you are just staring out the window, but greets with a soothing chill that makes the air seem clean and crisp when you finally step outside. After my weekend of falling in love with Dublin (a constantly recurring event), I was not in the frame of mind to sit in watching BBC1 and listening to the daily trials and tribulations of my in-laws workplaces.
Max and I had determined to finally go to the beginners' meditation session at the Buddhist centre after weeks of flaking out at the last minute. The Buddhist centre is in the Cathedral Quarter, my favourite part of the city. It is a little area full of side streets and back alleys where vibrant pubs and coffee shops hide in amidst abandoned buildings and back entrances to office blocks. Max thinks it is an exaggeration to even call the area a "quarter" given its size and limited number of venues, but I love it all the same. We made several unsuccessful attempts to get into the Zen centre, but the doors were locked and it seemed that no one was home. Max decided that this was the result of the teacher being intimidated by Max's natural Zen ability, and we resigned ourselves to wandering around the city until we could find something suitable to replace our original plans.
I love the number of daylight hours you get in Spring here. It stays bright until almost 9:30pm some days, making it easy to enjoy post-dinner outdoor activities to your heart's content. In the city centre, everything closes by 6 or 7pm and the entire area becomes a ghost town. I used to hate that, craving the convenience culture to which I had become so accustomed after 23 years of living in the US. But now I love wandering around the empty city in the evening, feeling like you have the streets to yourself. Max and I dandered around aimlessly, him pointing out street signs in a feeble attempt to get me to learn Belfast by street name instead of landmarks so I would be more competent at giving directions, me rambling about the events of the weekend.
Arriving at Botanic Avenue, the student strong-hold of Belfast, the throngs of people bustling about shocked us back to reality. We ended up at our favourite coffee shop, a little non-profit place run by a liberal non-denominational church, and tucked in to two slices of cake each the size of my face.
I love going out for coffee with Max. It is a completely indulgent pastime on my part, given that it usually involves me pontificating about various "meaning of life" themed topics while he listens. There is something about sitting across the table from someone that turns Max into the most attentive listener the world has ever seen. He appears to hang on my every word, furrowing his brow as if to show me that he is deep in thought. Occasionally he will brush my hair away from my face or set his hand on top of mine, bringing me back from whatever academic or philosophical ramble I had let myself get carried away with. I used to worry that he just tuned out during these talks, bored with my prattling on. Now I know that it is just one of the things that makes us good together; my need to talk everything through until I am out of breath complimenting his need to sit back and absorb everything going on around him and mull it over quietly.
But this time Max did a lot more talking. He is excited about the progress happening in our house and getting closer to the moving in date. He imagined out loud the floor to ceiling bookshelves we would have, the bizarre mix of antique and modern furniture we have acquired over the last few years, the cast iron wood stove we bought to heat the kitchen filling the room with the smell of turf. He told me about the articles he has been reading on organic vegetable gardens and we decided to finally put our names down for an allotment near our house so we could grow fresh lettuce and peppers and green beans. We laughed as we imagined our house full of my family as they all fought over who would sleep where, especially after Max told them ghost stories about his favourite room in the house so he could maintain his privacy. We just talked about our life. A good life. The kind of life I always hoped I would have and that is right here in front of me now.
The more I write the less I feel I have a point. What felt like such an incredible day looks rather simple and dull in print. I guess all I was trying to convey is that I realised something important. It's so easy to feel sorry for myself, to crawl inside some hole of self-doubt and think about the things I have never had, the things I have lost, the person I thought I was supposed to be. But when I actually think about everything here in front of me - a city I am starting to love, friends who make me laugh even when I am miserable, a partner who is attentive and supportive (I could go on, I really could) - it just becomes too ridiculous to be unhappy.
After a day spent staring at the computer in my office, willing some sort of draft to magically appear on the screen so I wouldn't have to think of anything intelligent to write, I decided that staying at work until traditional closing time was unnecessary (and completely pointless). It was a beautiful afternoon - one of those really sunny days that dupes you into thinking could wear a breezy skirt and flip-flops if you are just staring out the window, but greets with a soothing chill that makes the air seem clean and crisp when you finally step outside. After my weekend of falling in love with Dublin (a constantly recurring event), I was not in the frame of mind to sit in watching BBC1 and listening to the daily trials and tribulations of my in-laws workplaces.
Max and I had determined to finally go to the beginners' meditation session at the Buddhist centre after weeks of flaking out at the last minute. The Buddhist centre is in the Cathedral Quarter, my favourite part of the city. It is a little area full of side streets and back alleys where vibrant pubs and coffee shops hide in amidst abandoned buildings and back entrances to office blocks. Max thinks it is an exaggeration to even call the area a "quarter" given its size and limited number of venues, but I love it all the same. We made several unsuccessful attempts to get into the Zen centre, but the doors were locked and it seemed that no one was home. Max decided that this was the result of the teacher being intimidated by Max's natural Zen ability, and we resigned ourselves to wandering around the city until we could find something suitable to replace our original plans.
I love the number of daylight hours you get in Spring here. It stays bright until almost 9:30pm some days, making it easy to enjoy post-dinner outdoor activities to your heart's content. In the city centre, everything closes by 6 or 7pm and the entire area becomes a ghost town. I used to hate that, craving the convenience culture to which I had become so accustomed after 23 years of living in the US. But now I love wandering around the empty city in the evening, feeling like you have the streets to yourself. Max and I dandered around aimlessly, him pointing out street signs in a feeble attempt to get me to learn Belfast by street name instead of landmarks so I would be more competent at giving directions, me rambling about the events of the weekend.
Arriving at Botanic Avenue, the student strong-hold of Belfast, the throngs of people bustling about shocked us back to reality. We ended up at our favourite coffee shop, a little non-profit place run by a liberal non-denominational church, and tucked in to two slices of cake each the size of my face.
I love going out for coffee with Max. It is a completely indulgent pastime on my part, given that it usually involves me pontificating about various "meaning of life" themed topics while he listens. There is something about sitting across the table from someone that turns Max into the most attentive listener the world has ever seen. He appears to hang on my every word, furrowing his brow as if to show me that he is deep in thought. Occasionally he will brush my hair away from my face or set his hand on top of mine, bringing me back from whatever academic or philosophical ramble I had let myself get carried away with. I used to worry that he just tuned out during these talks, bored with my prattling on. Now I know that it is just one of the things that makes us good together; my need to talk everything through until I am out of breath complimenting his need to sit back and absorb everything going on around him and mull it over quietly.
But this time Max did a lot more talking. He is excited about the progress happening in our house and getting closer to the moving in date. He imagined out loud the floor to ceiling bookshelves we would have, the bizarre mix of antique and modern furniture we have acquired over the last few years, the cast iron wood stove we bought to heat the kitchen filling the room with the smell of turf. He told me about the articles he has been reading on organic vegetable gardens and we decided to finally put our names down for an allotment near our house so we could grow fresh lettuce and peppers and green beans. We laughed as we imagined our house full of my family as they all fought over who would sleep where, especially after Max told them ghost stories about his favourite room in the house so he could maintain his privacy. We just talked about our life. A good life. The kind of life I always hoped I would have and that is right here in front of me now.
The more I write the less I feel I have a point. What felt like such an incredible day looks rather simple and dull in print. I guess all I was trying to convey is that I realised something important. It's so easy to feel sorry for myself, to crawl inside some hole of self-doubt and think about the things I have never had, the things I have lost, the person I thought I was supposed to be. But when I actually think about everything here in front of me - a city I am starting to love, friends who make me laugh even when I am miserable, a partner who is attentive and supportive (I could go on, I really could) - it just becomes too ridiculous to be unhappy.
Monday 14 April 2008
Aftermath
I've been feeling a bit better the last few days. I went to the hospital on Saturday to confirm what I already knew. I thought I would feel worse, but it was almost a relief - at least I had a definitive answer. Days of bed rest had left me with too much time to think, and I was tired of the false hope being given by somewhat disinterested health professionals. I just needed someone to look me in the eye and tell me it was over.
Distraction has helped, a trip to Dublin with friends for a gathering on grassroots organising has left me with a bit of perspective and a new focus. The social aspect of the evenings were an added bonus. Pints of cider mixed with roll-up cigarettes and angry girl punk bands have had an profoundly medicinal effect on my sadness. There is nothing like mildly self-destructive behaviour to make a girl feel better.
It was nice to be around people who were not walking on eggshells around me, waiting for me to fall apart. There is something about being teased or punched in the arm when you're experiencing despair that is such a relief. It makes you feel human again, having someone do something to you which they would never do to someone who they knew was sad. Back to normality. My sister said that if she were me she would make a list of all the things I had worried I would miss out on when I found out I was pregnant and then go and do them. Good advice, I think, except I couldn't really think of anything I was dreading giving up (except coffee, but I think I needed to do that anyway). So I acted like a teenager for the weekend. I wandered around a city with a tin of beer and sang bad 80s tunes at the top of my lungs while walking arm and arm with friends. I stayed up until daylight arguing about nothing and laughing at less than nothing. I slept in my clothes and did the walk of shame through Dublin. I took the train home and we talked all they way to Belfast about our plans for the social centre and the world. It was a good weekend.
So there it is. Life is back to normal. Just like that.
Normality carries with it its own problems. There are moments that I feel bad for trying to move on, like I should grieve a bit longer to show my respect to the life I had inside of me that is no more. My desire to try again feels like a betrayal, as if I am simplifying loss of a baby into something as trivial as replacing a dead hamster with a new one. Even the fact that I deleted the blogs associated with my pregnancy and its end leaves me with a sense of dismissal - as though I have decided that part of my life did not exist, that joy last week never happened.
I console myself with the mantra "there is no right way to do this," and just keep moving. This morning I cried in the car while listening to this song. The opening lines sum up all of the things I feel into a neat little ball.
Some days aren't yours at all, they come and go as if they're someone else's days. They go and leave you behind someone else's face - and it's harsher than yours, colder than yours
The happiest and saddest days of my life so far occurred within three days of each other, less than one week ago. Why is it starting to feel like they never happened?
Distraction has helped, a trip to Dublin with friends for a gathering on grassroots organising has left me with a bit of perspective and a new focus. The social aspect of the evenings were an added bonus. Pints of cider mixed with roll-up cigarettes and angry girl punk bands have had an profoundly medicinal effect on my sadness. There is nothing like mildly self-destructive behaviour to make a girl feel better.
It was nice to be around people who were not walking on eggshells around me, waiting for me to fall apart. There is something about being teased or punched in the arm when you're experiencing despair that is such a relief. It makes you feel human again, having someone do something to you which they would never do to someone who they knew was sad. Back to normality. My sister said that if she were me she would make a list of all the things I had worried I would miss out on when I found out I was pregnant and then go and do them. Good advice, I think, except I couldn't really think of anything I was dreading giving up (except coffee, but I think I needed to do that anyway). So I acted like a teenager for the weekend. I wandered around a city with a tin of beer and sang bad 80s tunes at the top of my lungs while walking arm and arm with friends. I stayed up until daylight arguing about nothing and laughing at less than nothing. I slept in my clothes and did the walk of shame through Dublin. I took the train home and we talked all they way to Belfast about our plans for the social centre and the world. It was a good weekend.
So there it is. Life is back to normal. Just like that.
Normality carries with it its own problems. There are moments that I feel bad for trying to move on, like I should grieve a bit longer to show my respect to the life I had inside of me that is no more. My desire to try again feels like a betrayal, as if I am simplifying loss of a baby into something as trivial as replacing a dead hamster with a new one. Even the fact that I deleted the blogs associated with my pregnancy and its end leaves me with a sense of dismissal - as though I have decided that part of my life did not exist, that joy last week never happened.
I console myself with the mantra "there is no right way to do this," and just keep moving. This morning I cried in the car while listening to this song. The opening lines sum up all of the things I feel into a neat little ball.
Some days aren't yours at all, they come and go as if they're someone else's days. They go and leave you behind someone else's face - and it's harsher than yours, colder than yours
The happiest and saddest days of my life so far occurred within three days of each other, less than one week ago. Why is it starting to feel like they never happened?
Wednesday 2 April 2008
The Woman with a Plan
In my pre-PhD life I worked as an unqualified social worker. I was based in homeless hostels for people with alcohol addiction and mental health concerns, family assessment centres, and a domestic violence refuge. I loved my job 90% of the time. I loved meeting people I probably would have never met otherwise. I loved feeling like I was earning every penny of my wages. I loved being able to do something that changed every day. And I especially loved that it gave me a sense of control over the feeling of helplessness I get when I think about how much bad there is in the world.
Working in those places gave me perspective, purpose. When I had residents ( NOTE* apparently this is a non-PC term, however I had several residents tell me that they thought the "appropriate" term Service User made them sound like customers in a brothel. I am going with them on this one) tell me how much I had helped them, I almost always responded that they didn't realise how much they helped me. And I meant it. You can learn so much from listening to someone talk about their life, how they cope with what they are given, what they think/don't think when they act. Not only that, but when someone trusts you with their life - usually at one of their most vulnerable points - if you are smart you recognise it as an incredible gift. I imagine that many people think those of us who do such work are selfless. Some are. Personally, I think I got a lot more than I gave.
But work like that has its shelf life. After almost 10 years of taking on everyone else's pain, the cumulative burden became a little heavy. I envied my colleagues who were able to leave work right on time and shut the door on the hostel and everyone in it. I would stay behind for hours, go in on my days off, and phone back and check on people from home. If I was dealing with a particularly difficult situation (pretty much once per week) I couldn't stop thinking about it. I lost a lot of sleep.
There was anxiety as well. Not just the anxiety you get from being responsible for people's recovery/safety/resettlement, but the anxiety that comes from seeing incident after incident happen before your eyes. In my final year of work in a homeless hostel, I intervened in: more overdoses than I can remember; one attempted hanging; two attempts at slit wrists and countless threats of self-harm. I saw a resident (with whom I had been working for nearly two years) have a psychotic break and lock me and herself in the kitchen on Christmas Day. She wielded a knife and threatened to kill several people in the hostel. The same woman later began to hear voices telling her to kill me - which led to her being thrown out of the hostel and onto the street. I still don't know what has happened to her. Four of our ex-residents died within six months of each other - two of which were violent and sudden deaths. The final straw for me was when a resident who had been asked to leave for assaulting one of the staff broke into the hostel and threw a switch blade at the door of the office where I was standing, and then returned to wait outside the hostel with another knife for hours. No one was hurt, but I was fairly broken.
By the end of that year, I could hardly hear a door slam without jumping. I started to see residents as potential threats instead of people who had been given a rotten start in life and were trying to survive. I knew it was time to go, and I was extraordinarily lucky to have an escape plan. I love what I do now, and the thought of going back to over night shifts, drunken brawls and suicide attempts holds little appeal. I thought doing research into social problems that could eventually contribute to policy change would make me feel involved in the bigger picture, but there is no guarantee I will be able to change anything at all. Working in an office all day leaves me wanting. Worse still it leaves me feeling as though I am not doing what I always swore I would - take action.
I have been trying so hard to think about how best to use the time I have to make some positive impact. First I joined Amnesty International. It was a good concept, but in Belfast consists mainly of middle-aged and middle-class women talking a lot about what the ills of the world are and writing the occasional letter. I got the impression it was a bit like going to church on Sunday is for some- you do it because it is the good Christian thing to do and not because you feel compelled to be there. I am grateful for their efforts, every letter is making a change, but it wasn't for me. Next I tried to get involved with campaign to raise awareness about homelessness. Unfortunately that group was so worried about losing their government funding they were unwilling to challenge any of the problems - therefore making their activism somewhat inactive. My only alternatives were the Socialist Workers Party or the Anarchists. No harm to either, but they both tend to be a bit exclusive and extreme for my taste.
I was motivated and under stimulated. All dressed up and nowhere to go.
I hate when people complain about something and do nothing to fix it. But day after day I felt I was becoming one of those people. I needed a plan. The result is my current project - the development of a social activism network in the city that will hold databases of interested parties, raise awareness about issues through information sessions, and try to "cross-pollinate" the existing groups to improve numbers and organisation. I am really excited. My head is buzzing all the time with new ideas. Our eventual goal is to gain access to a space in the city centre which can act as a non-profit cafe, hold English classes for immigrants, have public meetings to keep people informed, and generally be a base camp for social change. Max is excited too, and really should be given credit for me organising anything at all. Once again he saves the day with the simplest of phrases: "if there is nothing out there that lives up to what you want, why don't you just create what you want and invite everyone else to your party?"
I love my husband.
We have just held our first planning session and networking and organising is already underway. It turns out there are a lot of people out there who wanted the same thing. They just didn't have a cool punk of a husband to tell them what to do. Updates to follow.
Working in those places gave me perspective, purpose. When I had residents ( NOTE* apparently this is a non-PC term, however I had several residents tell me that they thought the "appropriate" term Service User made them sound like customers in a brothel. I am going with them on this one) tell me how much I had helped them, I almost always responded that they didn't realise how much they helped me. And I meant it. You can learn so much from listening to someone talk about their life, how they cope with what they are given, what they think/don't think when they act. Not only that, but when someone trusts you with their life - usually at one of their most vulnerable points - if you are smart you recognise it as an incredible gift. I imagine that many people think those of us who do such work are selfless. Some are. Personally, I think I got a lot more than I gave.
But work like that has its shelf life. After almost 10 years of taking on everyone else's pain, the cumulative burden became a little heavy. I envied my colleagues who were able to leave work right on time and shut the door on the hostel and everyone in it. I would stay behind for hours, go in on my days off, and phone back and check on people from home. If I was dealing with a particularly difficult situation (pretty much once per week) I couldn't stop thinking about it. I lost a lot of sleep.
There was anxiety as well. Not just the anxiety you get from being responsible for people's recovery/safety/resettlement, but the anxiety that comes from seeing incident after incident happen before your eyes. In my final year of work in a homeless hostel, I intervened in: more overdoses than I can remember; one attempted hanging; two attempts at slit wrists and countless threats of self-harm. I saw a resident (with whom I had been working for nearly two years) have a psychotic break and lock me and herself in the kitchen on Christmas Day. She wielded a knife and threatened to kill several people in the hostel. The same woman later began to hear voices telling her to kill me - which led to her being thrown out of the hostel and onto the street. I still don't know what has happened to her. Four of our ex-residents died within six months of each other - two of which were violent and sudden deaths. The final straw for me was when a resident who had been asked to leave for assaulting one of the staff broke into the hostel and threw a switch blade at the door of the office where I was standing, and then returned to wait outside the hostel with another knife for hours. No one was hurt, but I was fairly broken.
By the end of that year, I could hardly hear a door slam without jumping. I started to see residents as potential threats instead of people who had been given a rotten start in life and were trying to survive. I knew it was time to go, and I was extraordinarily lucky to have an escape plan. I love what I do now, and the thought of going back to over night shifts, drunken brawls and suicide attempts holds little appeal. I thought doing research into social problems that could eventually contribute to policy change would make me feel involved in the bigger picture, but there is no guarantee I will be able to change anything at all. Working in an office all day leaves me wanting. Worse still it leaves me feeling as though I am not doing what I always swore I would - take action.
I have been trying so hard to think about how best to use the time I have to make some positive impact. First I joined Amnesty International. It was a good concept, but in Belfast consists mainly of middle-aged and middle-class women talking a lot about what the ills of the world are and writing the occasional letter. I got the impression it was a bit like going to church on Sunday is for some- you do it because it is the good Christian thing to do and not because you feel compelled to be there. I am grateful for their efforts, every letter is making a change, but it wasn't for me. Next I tried to get involved with campaign to raise awareness about homelessness. Unfortunately that group was so worried about losing their government funding they were unwilling to challenge any of the problems - therefore making their activism somewhat inactive. My only alternatives were the Socialist Workers Party or the Anarchists. No harm to either, but they both tend to be a bit exclusive and extreme for my taste.
I was motivated and under stimulated. All dressed up and nowhere to go.
I hate when people complain about something and do nothing to fix it. But day after day I felt I was becoming one of those people. I needed a plan. The result is my current project - the development of a social activism network in the city that will hold databases of interested parties, raise awareness about issues through information sessions, and try to "cross-pollinate" the existing groups to improve numbers and organisation. I am really excited. My head is buzzing all the time with new ideas. Our eventual goal is to gain access to a space in the city centre which can act as a non-profit cafe, hold English classes for immigrants, have public meetings to keep people informed, and generally be a base camp for social change. Max is excited too, and really should be given credit for me organising anything at all. Once again he saves the day with the simplest of phrases: "if there is nothing out there that lives up to what you want, why don't you just create what you want and invite everyone else to your party?"
I love my husband.
We have just held our first planning session and networking and organising is already underway. It turns out there are a lot of people out there who wanted the same thing. They just didn't have a cool punk of a husband to tell them what to do. Updates to follow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
