When Ethnicity Comes Back to Haunt You

I try not to actively feel sorry for myself, but this morning it became apparent to me again that being half-black and growing up in a white society has left me ignorant in the worst way.

My traumatic hair history involves being the only child in my family to receive my dad's afro-hair genes, and neither of my parents knew how to take care of my hair. My mom learned how to do relaxer perms at home, but when she was gone, my dad took me every few months to a couple different black hair salons in the area to have my hair chemically relaxed.

I hated this experience. I hated not understanding what my hairdressers were saying to me in their thick black accents. I hated being surrounded by scary foam heads with wigs on them and bushels of fake black hair hanging from the walls for braiding. I hated coming home and having my hair greased and plastered to my scalp. I didn't know how to take care of it, and none of my friends or family could sympathize. I was embarrassed to swim at school with my classmates because I wouldn't be able to fix my hair afterwards before the next class. I couldn't just wash my hair and blowdry it and be on my way--ever. I know everyone hates their hair, but I really, really hated mine.

When I moved to Utah for school, I ended up growing my hair out completely, and it was so unruly, just out of control. I let it go because 1) I was trying to embrace my natural beauty and not worry so much about looking white or Asian, 2) I'd almost always cried when seeing my hair after having it relaxed growing up, and 3) I did not know a single black person at BYU when I moved there who could direct me to anyone who might know how to do my hair.

As you can see, I could hide things in my hair, lose things in my hair, stick in glow sticks like antennae, etc.)

Before I got married, I decided it was time to get my hair relaxed again, and I was so happy when I did. I went on a search in Utah to find a good black hairdresser, and have tried to do the same here in Portland. After relaxing my virgin hair, it immediately became so much more manageable. And after years of trying to grow out my brittle hair, I could finally make it look pretty good. This is the longest my hair has ever been, and now I want it back.

The Horror Story!!!

Yesterday I went to get my hair relaxed at a black hair salon. It's the second salon I've tried since I moved here. I do hate the initial results of having my hair plastered to my head, but I also don't know how to manage the unruly fro when it starts growing out. So whatever it takes to make it more manageable is worth it to me, even if I feel butt ugly when I get home. Whenever we move, I go on a search to find someplace I can go where this will hopefully cost less than $100.00.

To tame wild black hair takes some pretty strong chemicals, and I know this. I've had mild burns before, but in my ignorance, I went to the salon having washed my hair less than 24 hours before. This meant, apparently, that my scalp and hair were dry and there weren't any natural oils to protect my scalp.

My head was on fire, which is normal, I thought, so when my hairdresser asked if my scalp was burning, I said, "A little," nervously, and she left me to let the chemical set before washing it out. When she finally rinsed it, she used her fingernails to scratch at my scalp and it was so painful. Then she blow-dried it with a sharp comb on the end of the dryer. The heat plus the razor edges of the comb dragging across my scalp was killing me.

"Beauty is pain," I kept telling myself, trying to be strong and not say anything. I've been through this same experience before, and every time I'd go to a black hairdresser growing up, I would silently submit myself to the experience and try not to complain or say anything about the pain. I'd try not to say anything at all because I was very awkward with black people anyway.

I left the salon with my head just aching, and when I went to bed at night, it was still on fire. It felt like the worst sunburn you can imagine, where even the warmth of your body is too much heat.

When I woke up this morning, I was horrified to run my fingers through my hair and feel . . . this hardness, scaliness--my hair was in twisted clumps, plastered to my head at the roots. This was no minor chemical burn; there was some sort of discharge from my scalp that felt like someone had poured glue all over my head and it had dried into my hair.

At first I thought my hair was caked with blood and started freaking out. I didn't know what to do . . . I panicked, worried my hair was going to fall out. I called the salon and tried not to cry when I went in, saying I didn't know what happened or what to do and I wanted my money back.

When I went in, the hairdresser defended herself, saying she asked me if it was burning and I said only "a little." She said it felt like I'd recently washed my hair before coming and asked why I didn't say anything about the burning if it was that bad. I said I didn't have this done very often. I didn't know I was supposed to wait four days or more after washing. She should have said something too, right?

I asked to see what product she used. I asked to speak to the manager. They said chemical burns happen sometimes when you're dealing with a strong relaxer, and they wouldn't give me my money back. And I didn't know how to stand up for myself.

They said my hair wouldn't fall out, and offered to wash it and deep condition it to "fix" it to remedy the situation. I winced with pain as she shampooed my hair, massaging the dried clumps of hair apart. There's a chance, while my head heals, that I'll wake up tomorrow morning and the same thing will have happened again.

That's what I get for $70.00, being half-black and ignorant.

So if you're an adopted African girl in a white family, call me and we'll go out for lunch. I feel your pain, and I feel it on my head.

Book 3: Home: A Memoir of My Early Years by Julie Andrews

My Rating: 4.5 Stars*

I picked up this memoir by Julie Andrews in a bookstore a few months ago and read a few odd pages, but I wasn’t convinced I would enjoy it and put it back on the shelf. The memoirs I have liked are full of the rawest of life’s experiences, and I couldn’t image Julie Andrews having a life with enough “drama” in it—that is, outside of stage drama. I pictured Mary Poppins writing her life story with just too many niceties to keep me convinced, finding it hard to imagine the author’s life being much more than a spoon full of sugar.

I was very wrong. Julie Andrews has a very, very interesting life.

But I have one strong recommendation: please don’t read this book. Listen to it.

What drew me back to this title was finding it on a shelf in the audio book section of the library. However, for years I’ve shied away from audio books for several reasons:

1. I feel like it’s cheating.

2. I feel like it’s cheating because if I space out while I’m listening, I can’t just reread the sentence like I could with a book.

3. I like to characterize the dialogue and people in the book with my own head’s little voices.

4. I dislike monotonous narrators.

5. If listening while driving, I may become more reckless (this is true).

6. The only other time I can remember listening to books on tape were on two long car rides with acquaintances on the eight to thirteen hour drive (depending on the weather) from Provo to Colorado Springs. Those car ride audio books were barely more entertaining than singing “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” for several hours straight.

I have now had my first great experience with a book on tape, and here is why:

1. I loved hearing a memoir as a piece of nonfiction read by the author. In a piece of fiction, I want more creative control over how I experience the story and imagine the characters; but, when reading a memoir with the intention of learning more about the life of a specific individual, I can think of nothing that could enhance and personalize the experience more than hearing the author’s real voice. And of all the voices in the world, Julie Andrews has one of the most soothing, sing-songy, and charming voices for narration.

2. Julie Andrews is first and foremost a performer, specifically an actress and singer. She is an eloquent writer, but writing hasn’t been her award-winning profession. *I admit had I read the book, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much. I can be too critical of writing as far as rhetoric goes, and it wouldn’t have felt the same anyway. I believe she is a better actress than a writer, so to hear her act out her own script made it come alive. She could actually sing lines from songs, shout lines that needed shouting, and characterize individuals with their funny mannerisms and accents. There were even snippets of songs from the Broadway musicals she told about, which added so much, bringing the story even closer to reality, making me feel like I was there, sitting in on the performances she talked about.

3. I used to read books on tape at BYU for students who were blind or otherwise needed their textbooks recorded for listening. Every time I sat down, I thought, I should do this in a British accent (and I think I have a decent British accent), because it would make the experience much more enjoyable for everyone. Regretfully, I never had the guts. But there is something about Julie Andrew’s accent that made this listening experience “grand.”

4. Listening to this story involved my senses in a way that made me feel completely transported, like I spent a week in England. Sam went out of town while I listened to most of this book, and when he came back, I couldn’t remember if I’d been out of town too—something was different about the weekend, and it turns out it was because I was off in the British countryside the whole time.

5. One thing that makes me feel guilty about reading books is the fact that activating my mind usually means deactivating my body: lying down, sitting still, and idling to hold a book open. Listening to the book gave me the ability to multitask, which I love to do. I listened while piecing a quilt, sweeping the floors, driving back and forth to rehearsals in Washington, cleaning the kitchen, and finally sorting the pile of junk mail on the counter. I got a lot done. Unlike what happens when I pop in a movie while crafting or what have you, I could use my eyes without constantly bobbing my head up and down between the screen and task at hand. Listening for an hour isn’t as restrictive as sitting/lying down to read for an hour.

6. Unlike I expected to do, I actually found myself rewinding all the time, going back a few seconds or starting a track over if I found myself drifting away and missing details. While I thought I couldn’t “reread” a paragraph with a book on tape, I actually could with no problem at all.

7. With the book on tape, I was able to get through a fairly long book without being daunted by the thickness of the pages ahead of me. The book was quantified in hours and minutes, so I knew if I sat down for an hour to sew, I would get through that much more of the book. I could never feel the weight of the book in print—I don’t even know how many pages it was, but all I know is East of Eden is 600 pages and that in itself is wearing down my enjoyment of it.

Thoughts on the Book Itself (i.e. The Book Review)

I was so uplifted by Home. While Julie went through more trials than I ever expected, I was so in awe of her constant graciousness and thought of how often I overly dramatize my own hard times as if there were no good to be found anywhere. "Gracious" is the word I associate with Julie Andrews (and with British royalty, which she is in my mind--but it could be The Princess Diaries confusing my impression of her). Even as she told of negative experiences with individuals whom any other author would villainize and have at them on paper, somehow she could speak of others weaknesses (including her own) with empathy—in a way that made you love and feel for the people she spoke of.

The story begins with her family background and ancestry and goes on to tell the story of her life from birth to her move to California to film Mary Poppins. I know, you would think the bulk of her story would be about her experience with Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music, right? That’s what I expected.

Instead of the story of stardom, or even her fascinating journey to stardom, this is a story true to its title: this is a story of her home, and more importantly, her family. Julie Andrews defines what her home was and what it would become. She was like a diamond in the rough, blossoming out of broken family and against great odds with needed encouragement and a lot of hard work. She definitely put in the 10,000 hours of hard work that are the rule of success, but her family was part of that picture all along.

She moves up and up from the schoolgirl accompanying her parents act to radio broadcasts to Vaudeville to television to musical theater to Broadway to blockbuster films—that’s where she leaves off, with the move to Hollywood, which would become her new home.

Following her progress from little girl from the English countryside to sought-after singing phenomenon, I was amazed by her humility through it all. There she was, so young and brushing elbows with the greatest names in the entertainment business, but all along, she saw each door of opportunity opening as a miracle for which she was truly grateful. She accepted defeat or loss like a true lady, never taking things too personally, always able to forgive, always able to laugh it off, always keeping her heart in the right place and free of guile. Her attitude about life is this inspiring combination of honesty, generosity, gratitude, humility, kindness, and love—Christian virtues that may be the parents of English hospitality and grace.

This memoir is likely the first volume of what I hope will be a complete collection of her life’s story. I’m definitely looking forward to the next installment, if she isn’t well on her way to finishing it already.

So, if you haven’t been to England recently, find this audio book and have your teacups ready. You’re in for a great trip.

Janet's Old Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe

My sister is an excellent baker and food photographer. She used to work at a famous bakery in Manhattan known for its cupcakes with outrageous amounts of butter in the frosting, cupcakes which were once featured on SNL.

But a secret they didn't and still don't tell anyone (not even buyers of their cookbook), is that in the actually bakery they use no flour. They have buckets and buckets of Aunt Jemima's pancake mix. (Watch they'll find this comment and sue me. Ha ha, bakery, I leave you anonymous!) But pancake mix, especially Aunt Jemima's, is already salted and leavened perfectly. "Perfectly" meaning it's made to please the masses of everyday consumers.

Anyway, this is my sister's recipe, which I hope she doesn't mind me sharing. I've used this recipe for years, even though she's long ago moved on to even more "perfect" cookie recipes. She is too far ahead of me in the world of gourmet anyway, and I don't even try to keep up.

But the keys to a perfect chocolate chip cookie, which I learned from Janet, are

1) quality butter set out to soften--not margarine or oil. And please do not microwave; it means you're not a conscientious baker (which I'm not--you'll catch me with butter in the microwave), and--

2) not to over-bake for that perfect warm chewy effect. Even slightly overbaking leads to the rock hard cookie.

So here's the recipe:
(I hope I'm remembering this right off the top of my head):

1 Cup White Flour (to calm down slightly salty pancake mix)
1 Cup Aunt Jemima's (or generic buttermilk pancake mix)
1¼ (or 1⅓?) sticks softened butter
1 Cup Sugar
1 Egg
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 bag chocolate chips

Cream butter, sugar, vanilla, and egg. Mix in flour and pancake mix. Add chocolate chips. Roll in little balls and smush a little into cookie shape. Bake 350 for 9-11 minutes.

Photo by Live♥Laugh♥Love

A Response to a Response on Chronemics and a Lesson at the ER

[This is my yammering response to Dani's comment on the chronemics post. Dani is hilarious. Jaclyn and Maria, I know we all look so awful in that picture, and that is why I made it small. Heh.]

You're right, I am teasing those who consider punctuality a religion. (Forgive me, oh punctual ones!) But I do have a lot of respect for on-time people because I am so lacking in that department. Mostly, it's taken me a long time to come to terms with my own tendencies to be late; I've become almost defensive about it so I'm not constantly crushed by guilt over little things.

When I arrive at a doctor's appointment and they're a half hour behind, I'll either be relieved or angry, depending on the relationship at stake. Like if I'm nervous about the appointment and want to think a while and get a feel for the office or keep reading the magazine on the coffee table, I say take your sweet time!

But, if, say . . . well, I dunno, I have a friend who got hit by a car in the parking lot of that hospital right then, I'd probably skip the appointment altogether and not think twice. I mean, what's at stake? A doctor who doesn't even know or even care about me as an individual, perhaps? A doctor who is also relieved I'm not showing up so he can do that urgent paperwork or call up someone who needs more urgent care? Maybe we have better things to do than see each other at all about a slight twinge in the knee. Maybe I should have stayed home or something.

My First Trip to the ER

I'm reminded of this time I went to the ER very late at night because I was having trouble breathing. Turns out I had some form of viral pneumonia. I had tears in my eyes from the fire in my lungs and hobbled into the emergency room, where I ended up waiting, I think three hours before they could see me. But being impatient wouldn't make me feel better--it would make me feel worse, and I knew that. So somehow I detached from time and entertained myself by observing, or people-watching.

There were other people ahead of me--some guy who was unconscious and drunk and beat up, a woman who was expecting and very sick and worrying about her unborn child. There were also two missionaries from the MTC who had swallowed those pills you put in water that expand into foam dinosaur figures. They were desperate to get out of the MTC and relishing the emergency room with the televisions and change of pace. I know, can you believe that? Hilarious, and disturbing--how could they swallow expanding foam animals to cure their own boredom at the ER when other people's lives were at stake?

Anyway, I just sat there for hours, talking with people and the roommates (and gnome stuffed animal--see photo above) who came with me (thanks Jaclyn and Maria) and sleeping a little, but . . . I don't remember being angry about the wait. Waiting and sitting still allowed the pain to subside, and allowed me to watch people who were suffering from greater pain (or stupidity) go on ahead of me. So although I was worried about breathing, the longer I waited, the more the pain lessened. And whatever super-strong medication I sat their waiting for, it was worth the wait either way.

As far as movies go, when I miss a movie I wanted to see, I don't mind because the movie will still be there in some form or another if I miss it. Unless I'm so emotionally in need of a movie right then that I'll be upset if we do anything but see it. I guess I take this to an extreme sometimes, where I care too little and diminish the importance of truly important things (are they important?) I don't want to worry about. I used to suffer from deep anxiety and the occassional nervous breakdown because I worried so much about little things. I remember once completely losing it because I had missed a very "important" bus to a rehearsal in Salt Lake. I had stayed a couple minutes late at work helping the person I was training to close up shop, and when I missed the bus, I completely broke down into uncontrollable hysterics.

Apathy may be a lame cure for anxiety, but it works for me most of the time. No use crying over spilled milk. But my eternal perspective may be a little too eternal sometimes.

So if a meeting starts late, I'm happy because I can keep talking to my husband or my neighbor or myself. Maybe I can sneak in bit of reading. I'm kind of a busy body this way--I like to sew and knit and read and think and write when there's a spare moment; so if someone's late, I'm usually glad because, hey, so am I! And if a car ride takes too long, I'm usually a little relieved to keep busy-bodying, people-watching, or staring at the scenery before my attention has to go elsewhere. I love car rides so much, I'm usually sad to arrive at my destination.

And as far as those who are annoyed by tardy individuals, I can appreciate that too--latecomers can be an interruption. But if people are annoyed, I figure they're not empathetic people who have never once been late to something because something more important was worth the sacrifice. Or maybe they think what they're doing is too important. But I know I'm also in the wrong if I think what I'm doing is so important I can show up late for a painstakingly prepared lecture, or miss it completely. I do feel bad. I just try not to feel so bad it overwhelms me.

In this way, I've always struggled with the idea of a heirarchy of activities, and for that same reason I struggle with prioritizing my time. Some things in my mind are just as or more important than others, including blooming versus boring. If someone doesn't want to give me their notes, then more power to them. They obviously found whatever they wrote more important than I did anyway.

The punctuals and the tardies may never understand each other, but I hope we can still be friends!

Homesick, Part 2: Loneliness and Needing

The reason why I found myself thinking of this pool incident is that I was stricken tonight by the remorse and acceptance of a certain characteristic of mine that is both a virtue and a vice: I like to be alone.

I feel like myself when I am alone, and it is painful to admit this. It’s because I can be quiet and still with my own thoughts. I am not misunderstood when I am by myself. I can sit in tranquility and pretend I am a queen, sitting still in my elegant, quiet moment of a throne. I can truly meditate, and my soul rests in the reverie. I feel the thickness, like the density of cheesecake or meringue composed of the substance of just thoughts. The silence is sweet to me—it is kind to me.

While I selfishly enjoy the times when I am allowed to see things only my way, I recognize in this love affair with loneliness the absence of many things I need. Although I fought for years to find my own independence and unique style, now I see that I need friends, family, and people in my life more than just myself. It’s why I got married to Sam, the epitome of kindness in my life. I recognized this need when I was little: I wanted a little sister, I wanted a bigger family. I wanted more love around me and more people to love. I am weak when I'm alone--I knew I needed it. In high school I didn’t want to go to college; I wanted to get married young and have lots of children, a happy family. But I went to college and it was a worthy journey, but it shook me up. [Remind me to write down this post in my head. It’s called “The Smarter You Get, the Meaner You Are.”]

As I grew up, I started doing a terrible thing as a result of my introvert/loner tendencies and the self-conscious (and selfish) mindset that I was different and “chosen” in a way: I set myself apart from others; i.e. I purposefully distanced myself from people.

The first time I distanced myself from my friends was when I agreed to skip fourth grade. And from there, I had to make new friends . . . and I was bad at it. I had to wait for people to make friends with me, not vice versa, and this has become a weak character trait of mine. Eventually, in high school, I decided I wanted to be Mormon, which would set me apart (and distance me in a new way) from many of my friends and family. This decision took me to BYU. I left behind my friends in Colorado, wanting to completely leave behind the old me and start a new life.

But then, with each year at BYU I did the same thing: I left behind my friends in search of a new life in a new year. And as a result, there are very few people who I feel truly know me, having lived with me for enough years to see more than a glimpse of my journey to self-discovery.

This is what made me homesick today for the first time. After individual encounters over the past two months with my three blood family members: Dad, Jack, and Janet, I realized that those three people are the ones who truly know me best because they have lived with me since I was born. We may be very, very different in many ways (me as Mormon being one of them), but as each of them recently observed and addressed my needs in seemingly small but profound ways, today I felt a deep sense of gratitude for those few people in the world who truly know me and see me as I am in a way that only comes with time. I am a daughter and a little sister, and sometimes I like to be just that.

Here, in Lake Oswego, I’m the new kid again, and I don’t know how to make new friends. I sit here just waiting for new friends to find me, and then I gripe about my loneliness. At BYU, after my junior year, I moved seven times within one year. I didn’t do it on purpose—circumstances necessitated the moves (maggots on the ceiling of that one basement apartment, for example). But behind those moves were sentiments of anger, misunderstanding, restlessness, and a search for happiness and acceptance. And with each move, I felt more and more lonely, leaving friends and acquaintances behind left and right. On to a new ward, a new scene, a new crowd, a new start, and a new me.

Or so I thought. But after seven moves (and four more recently in my married life), I learned that I simply cannot move away from myself.

I keep following myself around. And when I’m sick of myself, there is nowhere to go but inward.

Today I called my sister. We don’t talk very often. We’re very different, leading very different lifestyles, but she asked me questions and gave me advice and direction that no one but my family members has been able to give me so precisely--because no one else has lived with me and seen the ins and outs of my behavior for over fifteen years. (Sam, my dear husband, has definitely gotten to know me well in the past two years, and I am excited to continue discovering the depth of our relationship and understanding of each other after fifteen, twenty, and fifty years. I love that we are still newlyweds in the sense that we still have so much to learn about each other. I hope it is always this way—that we can continue seeing more in each other and enjoying that continual discovery over the years.)

I am also excited to develop my newer friendships into lifelong relationships—the kind that mean empathy and home. It’s what we all need so desperately in this otherwise empty world.

So as much effort as I made packing up and moving out at seventeen never to look back or return to the family and friends of my youth—

--I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and I need you, even just the memory of you. I’m blind to think I don’t because you are the only ones who know who I am, and who I was all along.

Homesick, Part 1: The Pool & Chronemics

In high school, if one were tardy to gym class too many times, the punishment was to swim laps in the pool during “Excel,” the 20 minute break between classes in the morning. During Excel, most everyone sat in the halls against the lockers in their clicks. Sometimes there were errands to run or that last-minute homework assignment to scribble out before the next period. Usually, this was time for gossip.

I had not been tardy and I had not been punished, but one day, I did not sit down with any friends during Excel, but I walked through the crowded senior hall and through the double doors beyond the lines of maroon lockers leading to the pool. There was something I wanted to do.

By senior year, I finally had enough confidence to be myself, to be 100% (or maybe 95%) myself. I wish this were true now. Then, I felt genuinely loved as a unique, “interesting,” and outspoken individual who quietly walked to the beat of my own drum and could still be respected, even admired by my friends and peers. That year I had a lot going for me because I finally had the guts to go for my dreams. I was president of the National Honor Society, which was more difficult and demanding than expected; I decided to set aside my self-consciousness and preconceived notions about the drama kids and try out for the Shakespeare play, in which I had a great role in The Tempest; I tried out for All State Orchestra for the first time and won first chair; I received other geeky band and music awards that I wasn't embarrassed about; I made friends with people I’d never been friends with before; I changed my hair; I was asked on dates for the first time; I didn't mind dressing up in odd festive outfits on holidays "just for jollies," as my bass teacher would say.

On this particular day I had put my swimsuit in my backpack, and during Excel, I took off my clothes, put on the blue and black suit I’d had since middle school, and stepped across the cold tile of the poolside. The water was perfectly still with not one ripple in it. There was no one there.

I jumped in.

I am a terrible swimmer; I cant’s swim in a straight line, I hold my nose when I make the leap, I keep my head above water, and I have terrible form. I hate swimming because it messes up my fro-ish hair (see former entry Black People Don’t Swim), and I rarely go swimming of my own free will.

But to be alone, to swim alone, in a quiet pool, away from the hoards of jabbering people crowding the hallway—this seemed like heaven. I was just so happy to have an entire pool to myself.

The bell rang, and everyone went to class, but I took my time. I enjoyed that last moment of warmth after your body has acclimated to the chill of the water. I took my time drying off, dressing, and pinning my curly hair up.

I walked to art class and was late.

This is the time in my life when I developed a disregard for rigid schedules, meaningless minutes, and slaps on the hand for tardiness. I resent living by a clock. I am rarely upset when I’m late to something and almost try to be later when someone else’s anxiety is building up because they think the world will end if we are “late”--whatever that means. I don’t think I’m late. I just think it’s a coincidence that a group of people can choose to arrive in one place in the world at one particular time, and maybe they happen to be in that one place before me. I am amazed that bodies of people can congregate within seconds of each other and stare down anyone beyond the minute mark with absolute contempt.

No one can tell a flower when to bloom. I just made that phrase up, and I think I’ll keep it.

For example, in the moment you arrive at class at 7:59am with one minute to spare, I can bet you a hundred dollars that the homeless man asleep on a bench in Central Park at 9:59am Eastern Standard doesn’t give a damn. You can give me that one hundred dollars and I’ll give it to that man, and it won’t matter what time it is when I give it to him--he’ll appreciate it either way, unlike you not appreciating whoever arrives after you do.

This attitude or cultural mindset is one characteristic identified by anthropologist types as polychronicity (versus monochronicity; i.e. anal-about-time-ness).

I hate to quote Wikipedia, but I love this description in the article “Chronemics” and use it to justify my perpetual tardiness: “These [polychronic] cultures are much less focused on the preciseness of accounting for each and every moment. As Raymond Cohen notes, polychronic cultures are deeply steeped in tradition rather than in tasks—a clear difference from their monochronic counterparts [such as in the United States or the UK. Think White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland]. Cohen notes that 'Traditional societies have all the time in the world. The arbitrary divisions of the clock face have little saliency in cultures grounded in the cycle of the seasons, the invariant pattern of rural life, and the calendar of religious festivities' (Cohen, 1997, p. 34).

"Instead, their culture is more focused on relationships, rather than watching the clock. They have no problem being 'late' for an event if they are with family or friends, because the relationship is what really matters [italics added]. As a result, polychronic cultures have a much less formal perception of time. They are not ruled by precise calendars and schedules. Rather, 'cultures that use the polychronic time system often schedule multiple appointments simultaneously so keeping on schedule is an impossibility.'"

My former roommate Angel, valedictorian of the Anthropology students, might I add, noticed that I seem to be polychronic (and proud of it!) after studying chronemics in a class. I really struggled at BYU because of this; I was surrounded by individuals who associated punctuality with the worth of one's soul: tardiness is the devil, it is laziness, it is idleness, it is sin.

Towards the end of my student career, I admit to sleeping through classes, coming and going to lectures and events on my own schedule, even sleeping through a midterm and my own presentation--I was even embarrassed by that. All I can say is thank heavens for the empathetic professors in the world. But my perception of time, in this minute-by-minute society (which has roots in the Industrial Revolution, might I add), is part of the reason why 9 to 5 work, especially office work, is . . . well . . . repulsive to me.*

P.S. This is not what I planned to talk about when I began this entry.

*Future employers who don't want to hire me on this point and friends/family who work 9 to 5 in swivel chairs and may or may not be offended, please disregard this statement.

The Value of a Memory?

Sometimes I feel like a little lost sheep.

I am trying to think of a good memory of my mother. Memories plural, perhaps. I recall eating leftover Hamburger Helper drenched in Tobasco sauce very late one night with Vlasic dill pickles--midnight snack, she said. I have fonder memories of those flavors than I ever thought or hoped I would.

Large bubbles with hangers.
Cold squid legs, anchovies, lettuce wraps, rice, hot pepper paste, yellow pickled turnip.
Ice cream sandwiches under the pavilion at Frontier Elementary.
Sewing my first stuffed animal, handing it to her with the needle hanging off. "I didn't leave enough thread to tie a knot."
She tied it for me.
I could name it Muji Gegom, she said. Korean for "Rainbow Bear."
The name stuck.

What is the value of a memory? What do they matter?

I am considering traveling to visit my grandma soon to make recordings of her life stories, something to keep as a record of her. I worry that one day she won't be there and it will be my fault there is no record. I feel like the only one trying to keep some kind of record, and I don't even make an effort very often. I learned at Church and at school about family history. I thought I would start it, and now it looms.

It's as if we're all going to dissolve, and part of me surrenders to the knowledge that it's bound to happen, but another part me yearns for an eternal, ageless life on earth. A third part of me borders on apathy: try not to care, try to stop worrying, try to keep the chin up, onward and upward, Yukon ho, one step in front of the other, build me up Buttercup.

So take a break.
But stop being lazy.
Get some rest.
Get off your arse.
"Everyone just needs a little time to sleep."
Early to bed, early to rise.
You've always pushed yourself so hard.
Just do something.
Worry less about what you do, but who you are.
Faith without works is dead.
After all we can do, after all that you do.
Enjoy it while you have the time.

Do you see the paradox? The back and forth?

Memories. I have death records, marriage certificates, old photographs, divorce papers, name changes, funeral programs, pieces of the family tree in a fat binder. These are from her, from Grandma. They are overwhelming, and they are only from one person. She is the one relative beyond my immediate family that I've had regular contact with throughout my life, and my one strong connection to a heritage that seems so foreign to me:

Pearl killing chickens for the gumbo
biscuits in a tin lunch pail
boarding school
Louisiana pecan trees
the hiding place under the porch of the homestead
the grain mill
the handmade casket company
Dundee's bluegrass band
becoming a taxi driver
the evictions
to be a black woman with platinum blonde hair
military dances
leg makeup running in the rain
"They called me 'Tip.'"
running away with the sound of a shotgun blasting in the air
yells resounding to come back

Why does this seem important to me?
And if it is, is it urgent?

Book 2: Dear John

I've been working my way through East of Eden, which is not the lightest or easiest read. It's such an intricate story with such heavy details that it overwhelms me. I didn't read very much last year, which may be why this book written during Steinbeck's mature years as an author is so mentally taxing. I tend to believe that reading is not so much like riding a bike in that you have to get your reading chops back--get your brain back into a sharp, comprehensive reading shape.

So to take a little break from all those mysterious, violent escapades and warm up my reading muscles, I thought I'd take on something just the opposite of Mr. Steinbeck: Nicholas Sparks.

Nicholas Sparks is known for formulaic, sentimental books such as A Walk to Remember and The Notebook, both of which were made into hit chick flicks. Dear John is the latest movie (is it out yet?) based on a Nicholas Sparks novel.

I read this book for two reasons:
1) I handed out a survey in my Sunday School class of fifteen-year-olds, asking them about their favorite books/movies/foods/etc. I decided to read their favorite books as part of my effort to get to know them better, to identify with them, and include some fun books in my reading this year.

2) When I went to get my hair cut last week, this book was laying on the vanity counter by the curling irons, combs, etc. Maria, the woman cutting my hair, said a client had left the book behind earlier in the day. I picked it up to read the beginning and was thinking, wow, this is so much easier on my brain than East of Eden.

I started reading this yesterday afternoon and finished at 3:00am. So it is possible to read a book in one day, although it's rare occasion that I will. I've only done that before with Harry Potter 5, Catcher in the Rye, and Ayn Rand's Anthem, as far as I can remember. And maybe a few other adolescent lit books.

Anyway, here are my thoughts on . . .

Dear John, by Nicholas Sparks
I saw the movie preview twice before watching New Moon in theaters [yes] twice. It looks sappy, but I love myself a good chick flick, so I'm not ashamed to admit I want to see it. That's how I heard about the book.

As far as reading "worthwhile" literature goes, here's what I've been thinking: if I'm going to read as much as I'd like to this year, I should make those reading hours count by reading classic, meaningful literature, intellectually stimulating literature, and literature that is pertinent to my needs and situation in life. The latter qualification is the curveball: sometimes my need in life is to relax, or find hope in the simplicity of a love story, or relive the fantasies of a child. Sometimes my need in life is not to weigh myself down and over-analyze adulterous or murderous relationships in acclaimed classics such as East of Eden. My heart is not made of stone (although I worry that sometimes it is), my brain is not wholly made up of practical or intellectual haughtiness, and I am a woman with emotional needs.

I am also a writer, and this is the realization I had while reading Dear John: even this book is worth studying from the vantage point of a writer in that Nicholas Sparks has accomplished something I haven't: he's actually written and published a book. Several even. Ha! How brilliant is that? He has tapped into something that everyday readers gobble up. Predictable and sappy or not, people LOVE this stuff, and he packages it just right for the audience he targets.

As I read, I found myself thinking more about the rhythm and beat of the story, the exfoliation of details in the plot, the relationship between characters, and the pace of conversations between those characters; i.e. I focused on syntax and rhetoric more than basic plot.

As far as plot goes, this book is very formulaic; in fact, it has elements and even details in Nicholas Spark's previous stories: a terminal illness, a conflicted relationship between father and son, a single parent, a Christian virgin-girl who acts as a type of savior, a rebellious boy in need of saving. I laughed out loud when the girl in the story order's sweet tea on their first date, and the boy says something like, "Make that two," which is a line straight out of A Walk to Remember. I was like, what? Can we say deja vu?

I did enjoy the story though. Sure, it was so-so, it was predictable, it was simple, a little shallow, but entertaining nonetheless. I read this on Sam's Kindle, which also made it an easy read as I didn't have to exert any effort to hold the pages open against the force of the spine. I just pushed a little button to turn the page and could sit as still as a church mouse (or maybe a dead mouse).

One element that frustrated me at first but came to appreciate was how Nicholas Sparks drew up the female character. I don't appreciate female characters written by men who are basically men with boobs or idealistic versions of women that don't exist: immaculate, perfect girl on a pedestal who is effortlessly good at sports (in this case, surfing), someone who accepts and even has male conversational habits and humor, a natural beauty who doesn't bother with such vain habits as regularly wearing makeup and perfume, a girl who is also effortlessly thin and will even suggest going out for cheeseburgers instead of salad because the cheeseburger won't effect her god-like metabolism . . .

Speaking of unrealistic female characters, I attended a reading recently where an outdoorsy man read a short story with a heroine that fit this description perfectly--and I just had to raise my eyebrows as he drew up a picture of this poster-perfect girl: she was totally unreal, she was exactly how I imagine men imagining their ideal woman. Totally unbelievable.

But in Dear John, I was actually impressed by this man's version of a realistic female character. At first she had no weaknesses and fit that stereotypical "man's woman" description. But as the story developed, she became more human, someone I could identify with in some ways. She was emotional and catty, she needed her friends, she needed to talk things out even when guys don't want to talk about "feelings," she was sentimental, wore makeup on their date, needed security, cried a little too much, and the like. I'm impressed by Nicholas Spark's ability as a male author to write for a female audience. Tricky. It's like J.K. Rowling's great success in writing from the P.O.V. of a male character. That's hard to do. I've tried writing from a man's perspective, and it's really challenging.

So all in all, I enjoyed the book and want to see the movie. As far as the story goes, I don't mind sentimental stories about love--I actually like them a lot; I've always been one to rejoice in the simplicity and hope that comes from a common, loving relationship. It's what I hope to perpetuate in my life: a simple love story that lasts forever.

I give it 3.5 stars overall and 4.5 as a relaxing, entertaining, and Liz-worthy read.

52 Books in 52 Weeks - Book 1: The Pearl of Great Price

I've been inspired by a couple of bloggy friends who made a goal last year to read 52 books in 52 weeks. (Check out my former visiting teachee's complete 2009 books, and this list on scattered apples.)

As I made a massive list of goals for this year, I tossed this reading goal in there, along with all sorts of other well-intentioned to-dos that have already fallen by the wayside (daily practicing, exercise, writing, sewing, fruit consumption, no sleeping in, etc.). But this is the only goal I feel serious about taking on, and so far it's going well.

I'd like to report on the final list at the end of the year, but I thought I could post my thoughts about my reads as I go along. That is, if you don't mind.



Book 1: The Pearl of Great Price
I have some lofty goals this year as far as daily scripture study goes as I accepted a calling in my ward to teach Sunday School this year. (FYI, I am Mormon.) Unlike other teaching callings at church, teaching the youth (I scored with the 15-year-old group) entails teaching every week, not rotating monthly or bi-weekly with other teachers. So it's just me and a group of between 10 and 15 teenagers, depending on how many younger girls come who may or may not have crushes on boys in my class. Wink.

This year we're studying the Old Testament. I feel good to say that when I was in high school, while I wasn't permitted to attend church weekly or keep a Book of Mormon, I read the entire Bible cover to cover. But the Old Testament is a serious doozy, so I haven't attempted it since, but this will be a good year to do it again.

So last week I read the Pearl of Great Price (included in our study of the Old Testament) which is a compilation of Joseph Smith's translation (JST) of the Old Testament, including the following books:

Moses - An extract of Genesis JST, with more insight into the creation of the world, the journey of Adam and Eve and their posterity, Cain and Abel and the move "east of Eden," Enoch's establishment of the city of Zion, etc. Moses ends just before the Great Flood. This was fascinating to me, especially as I'm currently reading Steinbeck's East of Eden, which expands on themes and relationships from this account.

Abraham - A translation from Egyptian papyri with writings of the patriarch Abraham, including explanations of three facsimiles (one here below), including more about the creation, the foreordination of Christ and the prophets before the earth was, etc.



Joseph Smith - Matthew - An excerpt from the translation of the New Testament with Christ's discourses on the destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Coming.

Joseph Smith - History - An account I treasure, this is an extract from Joseph Smith's detailed account of the First Vision. Joseph Smith was 14 when he longed to know which Church was true. This is how old I was when I finished reading the Book of Mormon for the first time in my search for true religion, so I feel a connection with Joseph Smith and his journey to find the same truth. This history goes into detail about Joseph meeting Christ and God the Father first hand, his meetings with the Angel Moroni, and his discovery of the gold plates that he would translate into the Book of Mormon. This is a fascinating account that prompts a lot of introspection.

The Articles of Faith - This includes 13 verses outlining the basic beliefs of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The one that always sticks out to me is verse 11: "We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may."

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I'm now almost through the book of Genesis. Despite the fact that the Old Testament is more than 1,000 pages long, I will try to count it as only one book of the 52.

Interview No. 1

I had a job interview a few days ago. I saw an ad for a writing position at a company that makes the industrial machines that make labels. So I spent a day putting together a new writing portfolio with a cover letter, my resume, a filled-in application, writing samples, magazine articles, and personal essays in clear plastic sheets in a presentation binder. I had my hair cut. I drove straight to the business address, walked in, handed my portfolio to the secretary, and she took it. She disappeared for a minute and came back and asked if I had some time, someone would like to meet with me.

When I walked in, I immediately felt like I had entered the office of Dunder Mifflin. Not that there were people yelling ridiculous commentary across the floor or playing Call of Duty or anything. But what hadn’t become clear to me until I arrived was that this was not a typical paper or office supply company, but specifically a sticker company. I would be leaving with a packet of sample sticker labels made by heavy-duty label printers, stickers such as NITROGEN and NITRIC ACID and a large label with instructions on how to use a blow torch.

I can dig it.

I wasn’t dressed for an interview—I wore jeans. Not that I didn’t put on makeup or try to look clean and nice. I wore my oxford heels. I wore a necklace, some Tenderheart lipstick. Unexpectedly, I ended up talking with the senior HR representative for an hour and taking a few tests to examine my comprehension, spelling, and computer knowledge. He said he was immediately impressed when he saw my portfolio. He wanted to meet with me.

It went very well. He said a writer will look at another writer’s work with either derision or awe. He said he was definitely not looking at my work with derision.

I don’t know if I’ll get the job, but I’m waiting to hear back perhaps this week about a second interview. If I don’t hear back, then that will be that.

So, in response to my survey, all of my questions haven’t been answered in any concrete form in my mind, but I have decided that I need to work somewhere other than home. Working from home is okay, but I need to be out, I need to be a part of my community, I need to be more active with the skills I have.

I was talking with Sam about past experiences I’ve had with jobs that were less than ideal, and I realized that a big reason I wasn’t feeling very fulfilled (or even good) in certain positions was because I felt that, despite the honest work I was doing, I was working for institutions that upheld principles I felt made the world a worse place. I don’t want to do that. I want to have a choice.

I don’t know what will become of this, but I hope something good. Eventually. Whichever way. Somehow. I trust that I’ll be taken care of, and not in the mafia sense.

Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.

365 Songs in 365 Days by Emily Price

I don't usually advertise on Misgnomers, but I'm loving my experience with my friend Emily Price's musical project. She is writing 365 songs in 365 days, posting a new original song every day. So for a new melody every day, here's where you can find it!

emilyhopeprice.wordpress.com

I played in orchestra with Emily, we were roommates on tour to St. George once. We didn't hang out much, but I loved to see her sing and rock out on her cello at house concerts in SLC. Her version of Bob Dylan's "Most of the Time" made me cry. I love her music.

Thank You

I've received several really encouraging, thoughtful, and substantial responses to the survey posted in the last entry, and so, if I may thank you, I would like to thank you. Thank you!

So as often as I feel like the internet is the enemy of the common man, like the pernicious lazy-drug that pulls people away from face-to-face, real, human, good-for-you interaction, I have to say that in a new town where I lack the same support system of friends that I did in days of old, it is so good to receive a letter, an e-mail, a phone call, and a gesture of good tidings from people I care about and miss terribly.

So thank you. I'll write back. That's one of my New Years resolutions.

On another note, today I had a job interview, and this may factor into the upcoming response to my own survey after more meditation time.

And [post script] I also wanted to mention that after posting [post script--get it?] the illustration of the girl in the clouds in the last post, I was so honored as to receive a message from the illustrator herself. This has never happened before. And after a couple e-mails back and forth, I now have a new online pal. Thanks, Kate for your thoughts on the last post!

A Survey: To Do or Lay Down and Die

©Kathleen Rietz. Used with permission.

I am often hesitant to write and share my true feelings about how things are going or what I’ve been up to. In my mind, my imaginings seem so real that reality is hard to grasp, and so I haven’t known what to share that may or may not be the truth about whatever is present in my present.

Since we moved here I’ve had so much and so little on my mind all at once that I took a big step back into myself and wasn’t communicating very well with anyone. I’ve been sorting out a lot of thoughts and goals, reassessing my motivations from day to day, and feeling overwhelmed by both the blankness and the forest of unrecognizable figures moving around on the fuzzy screen of my future. What is it that I am supposed to do? What is my future?

Being so paralyzed by fear of this unknown future, I spent most of December sleeping and sleeping, hiding away from the world and not knowing what to do during the day. I filled out job applications and then didn’t turn them in. I checked out books from the library and didn’t read them. I bought the 2010 Scholarship Guide and applied to none of the listings. I made goals for each day and didn’t accomplish them. I had opportunities to make money and make art, and I didn’t take them.

I wasn’t sure what to do.


And so l post this vague survey: If you were to somehow strike a balance between the following possibilities (not listed by level of importance in the grand scheme), how would you piece them together?

(Feel free to e-mail responses to lizzylambson@gmail.com.)

1. Devotion to the Arts: Creative Works, Writing, Painting, Crafts, and Music. If you enjoy these pursuits, how much time/effort are you willing to devote to develop or create them?

2. Paid Work: Time Devoted to the “Man” (or simply the pursuit of a paycheck); Willingness to Work in a Corporate/Retail/Work-from-Home Environment. If you had the choice to work (for money) full-time, part-time, or not at all, which would you choose and why?

3. Unpaid Work (or, again, the Arts): How willing would you be to sacrifice monetary gain to pursue your passion by working (without a fancy job title) for little to no pay? Or, in terms of dollars and cents, how much money would you be willing to sacrifice (daily/monthly/annually) to do what you really love to do?

4. Family: How willing are you to sacrifice some/most/all of your interests (time/energy/money/hobbies/passions/habits/future/career/body) to bring a small person into the world? Is this important to you? Why or why not?

5. Education: How willing are you to sacrifice some/most/all of your resources (time/energy/money/hobbies/passions/habits/future/career/body) to pursue higher education (such as an MFA in Creative Writing that may or may not benefit you in the long run and may just be an excuse to find something to do while you have nothing “better” to do)?

6. Religion: How willing are you to sacrifice your entire will to follow divine direction? What does this mean to you?

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I haven’t necessarily come to any concrete conclusion as to how I grasp the above-listed possibilities and values, but I will say that I have learned that doing nothing (or to lay down and die), is not the best approach to managing one’s present or future.

Thus, I am back to work. The at-home office is open again. It's back to writing web copy, and I am in contact with five new clients. Some want their work done now, some want it done later, but at any rate, there is work to be done and I am doing it as it comes. I may not be writing the next Great American Novel, but at least I am creating, at least I am learning and writing now about power tools, parking garages, interior design, and the like.

I learned a while ago that a “job” doesn’t necessarily mean “work,” and “working” doesn’t necessarily mean you have an official job title. When people ask me about my employment, sometimes I say I’m a musician, sometimes a writer, sometimes a wife, sometimes a crafter, sometimes a seamstress, sometimes an artist, sometimes nothing.

But to do is better than not to do, regardless of what you’re doing. Doing is better than sleeping, and I’m ready to face that now, as much as I love to sleep. Work, in all its sweat-of-thy-brow glory, is mysteriously good for the soul.

___________

P.S. The vacation was wonderful. In December I went to Colorado, Vegas, California, and Utah. I’ll have to post some photos. Thank you, family and friends, for such a rejuvenating holiday. Come visit soon!

P.P.S. The sleeping girl in the sky is by illustrator Kathleen Rietz in The ABCs of Yoga for Kids. Visit kathleenrietz.com to see more cute illustrations in her portfolio.