Finding a job is hard. I've been looking for a new one for over three years, so I can say this with absolute certainty. I can't say that this three year odyssey has been fruitless, because I've learned more than I ever thought I wanted to know about the job search process. More than that though, the constant reconstruction of cover letters and objectives, the re-organizing of bullet points on my resume has given me enormous insight into my own skills, interests, and adaptability. I'm grateful for all of these things, but if I'm being honest here, I have to say that I would not have put myself through this if I'd had a choice. This mid-recession job market has been like a sadistic drill sergeant forcing me to realize I can do more pull-ups than I thought I could.
To summarize the process, I can say it involved a lot of reading: craigslist, Monster, CareerBuilder, individual websites for companies I was interested in, books on career advice (What Color is Your Parachute?), numerous online guides to resume writing, sample cover letters, salary comparisons, Yahoo news articles comparing various U.S. job markets, etcetera, etcetera! Then a lot of applying what I read to apply for jobs: sitting down and asking myself the eternal questions: What do I want to do? What am I good at? Why do I want this job? In some ways, the early stages of the job search are like interviewing yourself for a job, and often you come to the conclusion that you don't want to work certain places, or you aren't qualified for certain positions, but the longer you work at it, you come to be acutely aware of what jobs would work for you, and what you could work for.
I never imagined that I'd write so many cover letters. And it's an awkward thing to do, especially if you do it too many times. And by awkward, I mean excruciating. Sitting down over and over to describe your strengths, to figure out what is best about yourself, what other people will find interesting or valuable, and why those things are relevant, can start to feel extremely neurotic after one or two dozen drafts. I've watched my own drafts go from being succinct and professional to verbose and desperate to cheeky and irreverent. None of them have gotten a response in over two years. Not a single call. Not a single email or interview request. No matter what job or what form of introduction I choose. I am writing into a vacuum. So I've become even more playful, just to make the effort more entertaining for myself. Because at this point, I've come to the conclusion that I don't want to work for anyone who expects anything other than what I have to offer (and part of that is my humor!). I don't want to work for someone who requires me to jump through hoops and put up a false front to impress them. Of course, I might not feel this way if there were any chance that a false front, or any front for that matter, might get a response.
In short, I'm burned out, I'm tired, I'm confused, I'm frustrated, I do not understand what I have to do in order to find a job (or even be considered for one), but somehow it's making me more confident in myself and my worth, not less. I'm less willing to bend over backward, and in fact more particular about how I want to be treated by a potential employer. My demands are getting more imperative as the desperation increases. My backbone is getting stronger, and I find it absolutely mystifying. You'd think that after all this rejection and disappointment I'd feel broken and sad and defeated, but I feel stronger and sassier, and more convinced of my own value. I guess this comes from having to state my value over and over, but jesus m hot damn f christ, it's a bizarre and blessed side effect. Will this new attitude get me any closer to a job? If experience is any indication, probably not. But at least it doesn't feel so bad anymore. This is the color of my masochism: a sort of dusty iridescent shimmer.
Showing posts with label nonfiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nonfiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Monday, February 15, 2010
Say What? #3 - let's see if I can keep this up
One of the main reasons that I hesitate to write stories is that when I go back and read them, I find something awkward, embarrassing, or unnaturally exposed in my presentation of the story. I’ve tried to get around this by ignoring it, avoiding writing altogether, or sticking to subjects that seem immune to this type of discomfort. Recently, in a fit of blind self-confidence, I thought it would be worthwhile to look at one of these mortifying examples of flailing effort to see what exactly is causing this sense of humiliation.
What I found in the story in question was that I don’t have a graceful way of handling characters’ inner lives: their motivations, emotions, and impressions. In this area more than any other, I feel like I reveal my own prejudices, conceits, and ignorance… all the things I’d like to pretend don’t exist. It’s in these passages that I think I tell the reader more about myself than about my characters, and that, frankly undermines my whole purpose in writing fiction. So it seems necessary to find a new way of working with this type of material. If you leave it out, you run the risk of flattening your stories into skeletal plot outlines. If you overdo it, or do it clumsily, you wind up with an overwrought character portrait(of the artist).
And this brings me to my question of the day: does this happen to you? And how do you work it out? I think that everyone runs into some point of vulnerability (often many, many points of vulnerability) in their efforts to create. How do you address them in general, and how do you work out specific sticky points? Talk to Meg, or Carly, or Illy!
x-ing and o-ing ~i
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Say What? #2 - a manifesto
People who know me (or have spent any time in my vicinity) likely know that I hate, and vehemently renounce critique workshops. I think they hinder creativity and encourage people to be mean and bland and the same. Of course I’m generalizing, and there are exceptions, like the San Mateo writing class I’ve been involved with for the last few years, a group of writers who genuinely celebrate and revel in the work they share with each other. But groups like this are rare, and most writers suffer at some point the shaming and destructive advice of a bitter writing community. Whatever. We don’t have to play with those kids, or even spend time with them, but it is hard to find a kind, encouraging community of writers to work with (without having to pay lots of $).
As writers, we benefit immensely from sharing ideas and the anatomy of our solutions to common and unique problems. In its best forms, the practice of exchanging tools helps us generate new ideas and bring slumbering projects to fruition. Since I’ve found so few examples of this type of community, I’m devoting a section of this blog to contribute some more space where my writer friends (and I) can find fellowship (and help) when needed.
Please, please participate as often and as much as you like.
As writers, we benefit immensely from sharing ideas and the anatomy of our solutions to common and unique problems. In its best forms, the practice of exchanging tools helps us generate new ideas and bring slumbering projects to fruition. Since I’ve found so few examples of this type of community, I’m devoting a section of this blog to contribute some more space where my writer friends (and I) can find fellowship (and help) when needed.
Please, please participate as often and as much as you like.
Say What? #1 - a series of questions on writing
Back in college, I mastered the art of writing a 15 page paper in a matter of hours. For the duration of my undergrad education, I did what most kids do and waited until the absolute last possible minute to sit down and bang out every essay, no matter how complicated the topic or how much research it required. While this approach has its obvious drawbacks, it did make it easy to maintain a consistent voice throughout each project.
Now the game is different. Without answering to deadlines or teachers or formal writing groups, I can labor over a project for months at a time, and by the end (or halfway through) I notice that the voice is completely different from what I started with.
Yesterday, I opened up a story that’s been sitting on the shelf since last summer because I didn’t know how to end it. I finally had an idea of how to wrap things up, and when I tried to tack the ending on, I realized that it, and the bulk of the story didn’t fit with the opening paragraph at all. The easy solution seems to be scrapping the first paragraph and replacing it with something that fits better. But there’s a certain sorrow in letting something like that go. I remember vividly a time when that paragraph was all I had, and I was proud of the phrasing, the imagery, the life it was setting up for the reader. Now it feels strange to hack it off like a gangrenous toe.
I wonder how other writers work this out. Do they bite down on a leather strap between their teeth and hack, hack, hack? Or do they find more graceful ways of blending the diseased limb into the fabric of the story? I’d like to hear what works for others. If you have ideas or suggestions, or if you want to open a discussion of your own writing challenges (or victories!), post a comment here, or drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you!
x to the o to the i
Now the game is different. Without answering to deadlines or teachers or formal writing groups, I can labor over a project for months at a time, and by the end (or halfway through) I notice that the voice is completely different from what I started with.
Yesterday, I opened up a story that’s been sitting on the shelf since last summer because I didn’t know how to end it. I finally had an idea of how to wrap things up, and when I tried to tack the ending on, I realized that it, and the bulk of the story didn’t fit with the opening paragraph at all. The easy solution seems to be scrapping the first paragraph and replacing it with something that fits better. But there’s a certain sorrow in letting something like that go. I remember vividly a time when that paragraph was all I had, and I was proud of the phrasing, the imagery, the life it was setting up for the reader. Now it feels strange to hack it off like a gangrenous toe.
I wonder how other writers work this out. Do they bite down on a leather strap between their teeth and hack, hack, hack? Or do they find more graceful ways of blending the diseased limb into the fabric of the story? I’d like to hear what works for others. If you have ideas or suggestions, or if you want to open a discussion of your own writing challenges (or victories!), post a comment here, or drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you!
x to the o to the i
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Oye, pendejo!
Dear Sir on 24th & Treat St., SF:
"Ya estuvo" means quit trying to stab people. The silly knife fight is over. None of your friends feel like identifying your corpse, or testifying against you in a murder trial, so put down the muthafuckin swithblade. Ya estuvo, homie, ya estuvo.
"Ya estuvo" means quit trying to stab people. The silly knife fight is over. None of your friends feel like identifying your corpse, or testifying against you in a murder trial, so put down the muthafuckin swithblade. Ya estuvo, homie, ya estuvo.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Thin, Cobalt Blue Line
Maybe it was the Heineken I drank in the terminal before boarding my usual BUR to OAK flight. Maybe it was the late, hazy hour. Something drew my attention out the window of the Southwest commuter plane, to the cobalt blue runway lights that looked so familiar and in an instant conjured a long lost memory, and closed a loop of associations. I laughed a little to myself, realizing that the backside of Burbank was Sun Valley. The backside of the suburbs was the ghetto. The backside of 2009, for the moment, was 1992.
Claudia and Letty, the older sisters of two of my friends clamored into the room where Lisa, Tonie and I were still sleeping at noon on a Friday. We were ditching and had no intentions of making it to school. The older girls, both 19, woke us up to say we had to come to a costume party.
“It’s Halloween! We got matching masks for all of us. Aren’t they cute?” Letty pulled simple black satin eye-masks with feathers out of her aqua plastic swap meet bag.
Lisa sat up and said, “Uhhh…no. We’re not going to anymore cholo parties. Everytime we go with you there ends up being drama.”
“But these aren’t cholos! They’re techno guys!”
“What’s that?”
“They’re just chill. They’re not from nowhere. They’re completely different.”
Claudia added, “They don’t bang, they don’t claim no neighborhood. They just chill and have parties, and they all dance.”
“Aaaayyyy! You guys have to come! We need more girls. We can’t go just the two of us!” Letty was not giving up.
“Fine, but if there’s cholos there, we’re leaving.”
“I promise they’re not from nowhere.”
We got up and made our own trip to the swap meet for some Mary Kay and Merci Gelle. In those days, we spent a lot of time getting ready. After the shower, the hair had to be scrunched with mousse and left to dry before you could do your bangs. The bangs involved curling irons, hot rollers, round and vented brushes, and lots of Aquanet. I was still learning, so I pretty much copied whatever I saw, down to the Light Ivory foundation, and I was not a Light Ivory girl. We all shared makeup, Light Ivory Coverstick, great for undereye circles, zits, and hickeys. Everything else was brown: blush, shadow, lipstick. This was the mark of fashionable girls, girls who weren’t cholas. Cholas were forever wearing hard black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, but we knew better. Brown makeup was softer, more natural, and it separated us from the gang bangers we were outgrowing.
When we got to Tonie’s house that night, Letty and Claudia instructed us that when you went to techno parties, you could either wear baggy pants with suspenders and cute little tops, or short shorts with cute little tops. Since I didn’t have baggy pants, they cut my jeans into Daisy Dukes, lent me a pair of cowboy boots and a tube top, and I was ready to go. None of us had cars or knew how to drive, so we made some phone calls looking for a ride, but there were no takers, so we headed out to the party on foot.
It seemed like we walked for hours through different residential and insdustrial neighborhoods, finally ending in a warehouse district. We followed the sound of heavy bass to where the promoters had broken into an abandoned warehouse. Once we knew where the party was, Letty and Claudia decided we needed to get some drinks before going inside. We found a liquor store and the girls got some guy to buy us each a 40 of Mickey’s. While we drank, Claudia told us how she’d kicked it with Everlast from House of Pain after a concert a few weeks earlier. They’d spent the night drinking Mickey’s and she was convinced it was the best malt liquor around.
It was two weeks before my 14th birthday, so the girls dedicated their first 40s to me and Letty, who would be turning 20 the following week. Once the beer was gone we paid our $5 and went into the party. I realized walking in that I didn’t know how to dance yet. I’d never been to a dance party before and certainly wasn’t prepared to show off up on a go-go box, but there I found myself, thick little thighs and nalgas hanging out of my Dukes, stomping along to some deep house song I’d never heard. In those days, you could always count on one of the DJs playing Tainted Love, and we danced to that too. Our love of KROQ was a symbol of us not being ghetto. Sure we listened to HipHop and House on Power106, but we also knew our Cure, Smiths, and Berlin.
Sweating, buzzed, feeling more grown up and having more fun than I ever anticipated, I still had to pee like crazy. 40 ounces of malt liquor goes through a 13 year old bladder like malt liquor through a seive, and I quickly learned that party girls don’t need no stinking bathrooms. No, we were worldly, rebel women who could pee in the bushes just like the boys. We were squatting behind a white, tagged up delivery truck when we first heard the popping sounds. We paused in our peeing, “Are those fireworks?”
“Maybe it’s coming from inside.”
And louder, closer, guns started blasting everywhere. We didn’t stop to drip-dry, just pulled up our tiny little shorts and ran, and ran, and ran, fiercely clinging to each other’s shirts and hands so we wouldn’t get separated in the crowd.
We stopped at a fence. Nowhere else to run. Behind the fence a field of cobalt blue runway lights stretched as far as we could see. “Where are we?”
Tonie sat on the curb, crying. “Where’s my brother? You guys have to find Eddie. He can’t be back there. Oh my god, what if he got shot?”
“He didn’t, he was inside, I’m sure he ran like everybody else. We’ll look for him once the crowd dies down.”
“Oh my god, what if the cops got him? Look, see who they’re arresting. Is that Danny Lugo? Eddie was with him.”
We prayed, we worried. I already had a reputation for predictions because one night I’d had a bad feeling about going out and the party we’d gone to had gotten raided by the cops. So everyone looked to me to see if I thought Eddie would be ok. “He’s fine. Nothing happened to him. We should just stay here for a while, then look for him if he doesn’t find us. Do you guys know where we are? What airport is this?”
“I don’t know. How far did we walk? Maybe we’re in San Fernando or Sylmar.”
“How are we gonna get home?”
“We’ll have to get a ride.”
“From who?”
“We’ll just have to get one. Don’t worry, I’ll get us home.” Letty always knew what to do.
“O.K.”
And she did. We waited for a long time. A cop came along and asked what we were doing. We didn’t run, figuring we had a good excuse. Tonie explained that we’d gotten separated from her brother and were waiting for him to find us. “You need to get going. It’s past curfew. I’m not gonna call your parents, but you need to go ahead on home now.”
So Letty got us a ride. She flagged down some guys in an Oldsmobile and sweet talked them. Asked if they’d give 5 cute girls a ride home. When he asked what he’d get in return, she said he’d get the honor of giving 5 cute girls a ride home. He laughed, said we’d have to pile on laps (the car was already full). So we sat on his friends’ laps and got home, where Eddie was waiting for us and watching a re-run of S.T.U.D.S. on channel 9. We ran to the fridge, heated tortillas on the stove and spread them with peanut butter and jelly, ate and fell asleep like little angels with our make-up on.
On the plane, looking out, I realized how close we’d been to home that night, how close the good neighborhoods are to the bad ones, and what a thin line there is between the little raver girl who found safety in those runway lights, and the woman who was flying over them.
Claudia and Letty, the older sisters of two of my friends clamored into the room where Lisa, Tonie and I were still sleeping at noon on a Friday. We were ditching and had no intentions of making it to school. The older girls, both 19, woke us up to say we had to come to a costume party.
“It’s Halloween! We got matching masks for all of us. Aren’t they cute?” Letty pulled simple black satin eye-masks with feathers out of her aqua plastic swap meet bag.
Lisa sat up and said, “Uhhh…no. We’re not going to anymore cholo parties. Everytime we go with you there ends up being drama.”
“But these aren’t cholos! They’re techno guys!”
“What’s that?”
“They’re just chill. They’re not from nowhere. They’re completely different.”
Claudia added, “They don’t bang, they don’t claim no neighborhood. They just chill and have parties, and they all dance.”
“Aaaayyyy! You guys have to come! We need more girls. We can’t go just the two of us!” Letty was not giving up.
“Fine, but if there’s cholos there, we’re leaving.”
“I promise they’re not from nowhere.”
We got up and made our own trip to the swap meet for some Mary Kay and Merci Gelle. In those days, we spent a lot of time getting ready. After the shower, the hair had to be scrunched with mousse and left to dry before you could do your bangs. The bangs involved curling irons, hot rollers, round and vented brushes, and lots of Aquanet. I was still learning, so I pretty much copied whatever I saw, down to the Light Ivory foundation, and I was not a Light Ivory girl. We all shared makeup, Light Ivory Coverstick, great for undereye circles, zits, and hickeys. Everything else was brown: blush, shadow, lipstick. This was the mark of fashionable girls, girls who weren’t cholas. Cholas were forever wearing hard black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, but we knew better. Brown makeup was softer, more natural, and it separated us from the gang bangers we were outgrowing.
When we got to Tonie’s house that night, Letty and Claudia instructed us that when you went to techno parties, you could either wear baggy pants with suspenders and cute little tops, or short shorts with cute little tops. Since I didn’t have baggy pants, they cut my jeans into Daisy Dukes, lent me a pair of cowboy boots and a tube top, and I was ready to go. None of us had cars or knew how to drive, so we made some phone calls looking for a ride, but there were no takers, so we headed out to the party on foot.
It seemed like we walked for hours through different residential and insdustrial neighborhoods, finally ending in a warehouse district. We followed the sound of heavy bass to where the promoters had broken into an abandoned warehouse. Once we knew where the party was, Letty and Claudia decided we needed to get some drinks before going inside. We found a liquor store and the girls got some guy to buy us each a 40 of Mickey’s. While we drank, Claudia told us how she’d kicked it with Everlast from House of Pain after a concert a few weeks earlier. They’d spent the night drinking Mickey’s and she was convinced it was the best malt liquor around.
It was two weeks before my 14th birthday, so the girls dedicated their first 40s to me and Letty, who would be turning 20 the following week. Once the beer was gone we paid our $5 and went into the party. I realized walking in that I didn’t know how to dance yet. I’d never been to a dance party before and certainly wasn’t prepared to show off up on a go-go box, but there I found myself, thick little thighs and nalgas hanging out of my Dukes, stomping along to some deep house song I’d never heard. In those days, you could always count on one of the DJs playing Tainted Love, and we danced to that too. Our love of KROQ was a symbol of us not being ghetto. Sure we listened to HipHop and House on Power106, but we also knew our Cure, Smiths, and Berlin.
Sweating, buzzed, feeling more grown up and having more fun than I ever anticipated, I still had to pee like crazy. 40 ounces of malt liquor goes through a 13 year old bladder like malt liquor through a seive, and I quickly learned that party girls don’t need no stinking bathrooms. No, we were worldly, rebel women who could pee in the bushes just like the boys. We were squatting behind a white, tagged up delivery truck when we first heard the popping sounds. We paused in our peeing, “Are those fireworks?”
“Maybe it’s coming from inside.”
And louder, closer, guns started blasting everywhere. We didn’t stop to drip-dry, just pulled up our tiny little shorts and ran, and ran, and ran, fiercely clinging to each other’s shirts and hands so we wouldn’t get separated in the crowd.
We stopped at a fence. Nowhere else to run. Behind the fence a field of cobalt blue runway lights stretched as far as we could see. “Where are we?”
Tonie sat on the curb, crying. “Where’s my brother? You guys have to find Eddie. He can’t be back there. Oh my god, what if he got shot?”
“He didn’t, he was inside, I’m sure he ran like everybody else. We’ll look for him once the crowd dies down.”
“Oh my god, what if the cops got him? Look, see who they’re arresting. Is that Danny Lugo? Eddie was with him.”
We prayed, we worried. I already had a reputation for predictions because one night I’d had a bad feeling about going out and the party we’d gone to had gotten raided by the cops. So everyone looked to me to see if I thought Eddie would be ok. “He’s fine. Nothing happened to him. We should just stay here for a while, then look for him if he doesn’t find us. Do you guys know where we are? What airport is this?”
“I don’t know. How far did we walk? Maybe we’re in San Fernando or Sylmar.”
“How are we gonna get home?”
“We’ll have to get a ride.”
“From who?”
“We’ll just have to get one. Don’t worry, I’ll get us home.” Letty always knew what to do.
“O.K.”
And she did. We waited for a long time. A cop came along and asked what we were doing. We didn’t run, figuring we had a good excuse. Tonie explained that we’d gotten separated from her brother and were waiting for him to find us. “You need to get going. It’s past curfew. I’m not gonna call your parents, but you need to go ahead on home now.”
So Letty got us a ride. She flagged down some guys in an Oldsmobile and sweet talked them. Asked if they’d give 5 cute girls a ride home. When he asked what he’d get in return, she said he’d get the honor of giving 5 cute girls a ride home. He laughed, said we’d have to pile on laps (the car was already full). So we sat on his friends’ laps and got home, where Eddie was waiting for us and watching a re-run of S.T.U.D.S. on channel 9. We ran to the fridge, heated tortillas on the stove and spread them with peanut butter and jelly, ate and fell asleep like little angels with our make-up on.
On the plane, looking out, I realized how close we’d been to home that night, how close the good neighborhoods are to the bad ones, and what a thin line there is between the little raver girl who found safety in those runway lights, and the woman who was flying over them.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
J-Church 1
for Eugenia & her crew
I’m on the outbound J, my second favorite train because it comes second closest to my house. I got on at Powell St. station along with a pile of others leaving the Chinese New Year Parade. The crush of bodies boarding the double-time procession of train cars heading anywhere-but-here is unusually dense and unusually overwhelming. We all feel it. We take shallow breaths, inching closer to the edge of the platform, filling one car after another.
Approaching: Outbound K, followed by 2-carNN, followed by one-car J.
The doors on the K open, no one gets off; no one can get on; the doors close. We wait, hope that the NN has room.
A woman in hospital-issue slipper socks squeezes through with the aid of a walker, mumbling, “Why do I bother? What’s the point? Why don’t you all go back to goddamn China? We don’t need your goddamn parade! It’s like I’m not even a citizen in my own country! I can’t even get on my own goddamn train because of you people. You go back to China. You go back to China, all of you! Taking away my rights as a citizen.”
The J’s doors open; those who can, get on; the doors struggle to close against the prying hands of desperate travelers. Three girls in leggings and jewel-toned tunics start to giggle. “I mean, it’s not like she owns the train!” The train pauses apologetically at the two remaining tunnel stops, opening its doors to show the standing commuters that it can’t accommodate them. As we zip away from the Van Ness station and swerve at the track split the driver announces, “Right side steps going down. Right side steps: going down.”
I glide down on my 2nd step perch and the three giggling girls stare at me with wide eyes. One gasps, “Oh my god, what jus happened?” The others giggle.
I explain, “The steps go up when you’re in the tunnel and come down when you come out so you can step down to ground level.”
“Oh my god! Can you tell we’re new?”
“Oh, well if that impresses you, wait ‘til the first time you see someone vomit on the bus!” This is met with a chorus of laughter and nodding that lets me know I’m finally home.
“No shit! Are you serious?”
Another chorus of nodding.
“Enjoy the city, ladies.”
“Thanks!”
I’m on the outbound J, my second favorite train because it comes second closest to my house. I got on at Powell St. station along with a pile of others leaving the Chinese New Year Parade. The crush of bodies boarding the double-time procession of train cars heading anywhere-but-here is unusually dense and unusually overwhelming. We all feel it. We take shallow breaths, inching closer to the edge of the platform, filling one car after another.
Approaching: Outbound K, followed by 2-carNN, followed by one-car J.
The doors on the K open, no one gets off; no one can get on; the doors close. We wait, hope that the NN has room.
A woman in hospital-issue slipper socks squeezes through with the aid of a walker, mumbling, “Why do I bother? What’s the point? Why don’t you all go back to goddamn China? We don’t need your goddamn parade! It’s like I’m not even a citizen in my own country! I can’t even get on my own goddamn train because of you people. You go back to China. You go back to China, all of you! Taking away my rights as a citizen.”
The J’s doors open; those who can, get on; the doors struggle to close against the prying hands of desperate travelers. Three girls in leggings and jewel-toned tunics start to giggle. “I mean, it’s not like she owns the train!” The train pauses apologetically at the two remaining tunnel stops, opening its doors to show the standing commuters that it can’t accommodate them. As we zip away from the Van Ness station and swerve at the track split the driver announces, “Right side steps going down. Right side steps: going down.”
I glide down on my 2nd step perch and the three giggling girls stare at me with wide eyes. One gasps, “Oh my god, what jus happened?” The others giggle.
I explain, “The steps go up when you’re in the tunnel and come down when you come out so you can step down to ground level.”
“Oh my god! Can you tell we’re new?”
“Oh, well if that impresses you, wait ‘til the first time you see someone vomit on the bus!” This is met with a chorus of laughter and nodding that lets me know I’m finally home.
“No shit! Are you serious?”
Another chorus of nodding.
“Enjoy the city, ladies.”
“Thanks!”
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Why They Can't Write Love Songs Like They Used To
I spent the whole day listening to a Sam Cooke station on Pandora. Those who are familiar with what my friend calls “musical autism” understand what it’s like to listen to the same song or artist over and over and over and over. It’s like stimming.
Today I stimmed to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Curtis Mayfield, Mary Wells. Now I’m at Café du Soleil on Waller and Fillmore, sitting at a communal table. The barista is playing “These Arms of Mine” from her iPod, and the couple next to me is talking about their relationship. (i've omitted all the parts about secret fears, etc.)
"I just find it fascinating now that we know that when I say this you think that I think this other thing"
"It really is fascinating. And then sometimes you do this other thing"
"I know. I do it all the time. It must be really frustrating"
"It's not frustrating; I just find it fascinating for us to look at it. Maybe in the future we can try doing it this other way. Or not. This is really great. It could be exhausting, but instead I feel really like you understand what I think you think when you think that I think you're thinking things"
“I'm fascinated that you’re fascinated by this. And I'm not exhausted at all. I think that that time that we made love and then we went to the restaurant. I just really feel like there's no better situation than that and I find it fascinating that you think about it the way that you do."
"What?"
"Well you said you were fascinated. Why would you think that I'd be exhausted? Why would this be exhausting and that other thing wouldn't"
“That’s a really excellent question. I think it would be great if we could think about why I would think that you’d be exhausted. It’s not that I think of you as a person who can’t handle this sort of thing. I think that I think you’re fascinating and amazing, and I really want to express that to you in a way that’s also fascinating for you.”
Now they are comparing their "What did I accomplish in 2008" lists (yes, they both took the time to write them out by hand. and yes they are reading them out loud to each other.
I can't help thinking that if it weren't for the fear of finding myself as one half of a thirty-something yuppie couple, or winding up with a junky, a musician, or a pornographer, or the exhausting saturation of psychotherapeutic memes in our common dialog, I might not mind just getting down with some dude in a shanty dorm to the soundtrack from Dirty Dancing...
But I live in this world
These arms of mine
They are lonely and feeling blue
These arms of mine
They are yearning, yearning from wanting you
And if you would let them hold you
We could spend the rest of our lives talking about how you think I think you think it makes me feel.
Today I stimmed to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Curtis Mayfield, Mary Wells. Now I’m at Café du Soleil on Waller and Fillmore, sitting at a communal table. The barista is playing “These Arms of Mine” from her iPod, and the couple next to me is talking about their relationship. (i've omitted all the parts about secret fears, etc.)
"I just find it fascinating now that we know that when I say this you think that I think this other thing"
"It really is fascinating. And then sometimes you do this other thing"
"I know. I do it all the time. It must be really frustrating"
"It's not frustrating; I just find it fascinating for us to look at it. Maybe in the future we can try doing it this other way. Or not. This is really great. It could be exhausting, but instead I feel really like you understand what I think you think when you think that I think you're thinking things"
“I'm fascinated that you’re fascinated by this. And I'm not exhausted at all. I think that that time that we made love and then we went to the restaurant. I just really feel like there's no better situation than that and I find it fascinating that you think about it the way that you do."
"What?"
"Well you said you were fascinated. Why would you think that I'd be exhausted? Why would this be exhausting and that other thing wouldn't"
“That’s a really excellent question. I think it would be great if we could think about why I would think that you’d be exhausted. It’s not that I think of you as a person who can’t handle this sort of thing. I think that I think you’re fascinating and amazing, and I really want to express that to you in a way that’s also fascinating for you.”
Now they are comparing their "What did I accomplish in 2008" lists (yes, they both took the time to write them out by hand. and yes they are reading them out loud to each other.
I can't help thinking that if it weren't for the fear of finding myself as one half of a thirty-something yuppie couple, or winding up with a junky, a musician, or a pornographer, or the exhausting saturation of psychotherapeutic memes in our common dialog, I might not mind just getting down with some dude in a shanty dorm to the soundtrack from Dirty Dancing...
But I live in this world
These arms of mine
They are lonely and feeling blue
These arms of mine
They are yearning, yearning from wanting you
And if you would let them hold you
We could spend the rest of our lives talking about how you think I think you think it makes me feel.
Friday, April 17, 2009
A History of Valleyness: Duke of Earl
I often wonder if there's much difference between growing up in the suburbs and growing up in the city. I grew up in a place that was a little of both: The Valley. Here's a slice of life from the Val.
One schoolnight in 6th grade, my friend Lisa, who was in all respects my partner in crime, invited me to my first kickback. A kickback, I quickly learned, is an informal gathering in someone's living room or back yard, or sometimes in an abandoned house. This first kickback was at our friend Tonie's apartment in an area of North Hollywood that was run by a gang called Valley Locos. Valley Locos was a lesser known neighborhood, but were cliqued up with larger gangs, so they had a fair amount of street cred at our elementary school. The boys we were hanging out with were between 12 and 15, but they had older homeboys, so we knew they were legit.
Tonie invited us over to watch Duke of Earl, a movie by Victory Outreach Church that offers a fictionalized account of gang culture on the streets and in prison, and draws special attention to the risks inherent in the lifestyle and the benefits of finding Jesus Christ to be one's personal Lord and Savior. We weren't looking for Jesus. I think we were mostly looking for fashion tips and to see which scenes were filmed in places we knew. Tonie's aunt, who kicked it with Pacoima 13, had made her a copy on VHS, and also left half a bottle of Crown Royal for us to drink while we watched. The boys, Payaso, Klever, and Shadow brought a couple of joints and it was on.
Before the boys got there, we fired up the curling iron, applied a liberal coating of Aquanet and lined our lips with Maybeline eyebrow pencil in Dark Brown. We looked hard. We looked street. We looked sexy. We were twelve. Lisa and Tonie were hoping to scam with the boys, and I was hoping to get through the night without anyone calling me a schoolgirl. I was the youngest in the group, had the most protective mother, and was, for the moment, the furthest from dropping out of school. I had also never kissed a boy, and wasn't really sure if "scamming" meant "making out" or "boning."
After saying our "what's ups", we put the tape in the VCR, passed the bottle of Crown around and sparked a J, and by the time Cisco got out of prison, we were spinning the bottle on the floor and taking turns throwing scams in the kitchen. I postponed my 7 minutes in heaven as long as I could, fearing that the boys would tell everyone at school that I didn't know how to kiss. But as Cisco stabbed Duke under the bridge downtown, Payaso put his hands on my hips, lifted me up onto the kitchen counter, and licked my clench lips. It took me a minute, but by the time the credits rolled I had figured out the whole kissing thing and was macking like a puta on prom night.
When I was a kid, I thought we were unique, bad-asses, living a fast life. I assumed the other kids in school were in their bedrooms doing homework at a desk instead of a coffee table and planning for college while we ran around being little traviesas. And I felt both guilty and proud of this. I've realized that the suburban girls were fooling around, too, maybe without the funny nicknames and big hair. But while I'm certain they had plenty of burgundy lipstick to lure their boys to the mack-down, I know they didn't have our soundtrack of killer oldies to set the mood.
Note: Don't ask my where our parents were during all this. I'm saving that info for another post. It's enough to say they weren't there.
One schoolnight in 6th grade, my friend Lisa, who was in all respects my partner in crime, invited me to my first kickback. A kickback, I quickly learned, is an informal gathering in someone's living room or back yard, or sometimes in an abandoned house. This first kickback was at our friend Tonie's apartment in an area of North Hollywood that was run by a gang called Valley Locos. Valley Locos was a lesser known neighborhood, but were cliqued up with larger gangs, so they had a fair amount of street cred at our elementary school. The boys we were hanging out with were between 12 and 15, but they had older homeboys, so we knew they were legit.
Tonie invited us over to watch Duke of Earl, a movie by Victory Outreach Church that offers a fictionalized account of gang culture on the streets and in prison, and draws special attention to the risks inherent in the lifestyle and the benefits of finding Jesus Christ to be one's personal Lord and Savior. We weren't looking for Jesus. I think we were mostly looking for fashion tips and to see which scenes were filmed in places we knew. Tonie's aunt, who kicked it with Pacoima 13, had made her a copy on VHS, and also left half a bottle of Crown Royal for us to drink while we watched. The boys, Payaso, Klever, and Shadow brought a couple of joints and it was on.
Before the boys got there, we fired up the curling iron, applied a liberal coating of Aquanet and lined our lips with Maybeline eyebrow pencil in Dark Brown. We looked hard. We looked street. We looked sexy. We were twelve. Lisa and Tonie were hoping to scam with the boys, and I was hoping to get through the night without anyone calling me a schoolgirl. I was the youngest in the group, had the most protective mother, and was, for the moment, the furthest from dropping out of school. I had also never kissed a boy, and wasn't really sure if "scamming" meant "making out" or "boning."
After saying our "what's ups", we put the tape in the VCR, passed the bottle of Crown around and sparked a J, and by the time Cisco got out of prison, we were spinning the bottle on the floor and taking turns throwing scams in the kitchen. I postponed my 7 minutes in heaven as long as I could, fearing that the boys would tell everyone at school that I didn't know how to kiss. But as Cisco stabbed Duke under the bridge downtown, Payaso put his hands on my hips, lifted me up onto the kitchen counter, and licked my clench lips. It took me a minute, but by the time the credits rolled I had figured out the whole kissing thing and was macking like a puta on prom night.
When I was a kid, I thought we were unique, bad-asses, living a fast life. I assumed the other kids in school were in their bedrooms doing homework at a desk instead of a coffee table and planning for college while we ran around being little traviesas. And I felt both guilty and proud of this. I've realized that the suburban girls were fooling around, too, maybe without the funny nicknames and big hair. But while I'm certain they had plenty of burgundy lipstick to lure their boys to the mack-down, I know they didn't have our soundtrack of killer oldies to set the mood.
Note: Don't ask my where our parents were during all this. I'm saving that info for another post. It's enough to say they weren't there.
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