Skipping stonesIn second grade the cool kid taught us how to skip rocks across a pond. He told us to grip a flat rock lightly between the thumb and index finger, and with a forward motion and sharp flick of the wrist, release it parallel to the water’s surface. This, he said, would assure maximum range. He also showed us how to choose the best skipping rock: the smooth, polished, weather-beaten ones go the distance. They’ve been molded by time and nature for just such a journey. But don’t throw them just yet, he warned, because the shiny, jagged rocks – while more attractive to an eight-year-old boy’s mischievous eyes – are best tossed early, while still getting the hang of the game. He was careful to caution that it takes years of practice to get the technique right. But like any foolish boy, I sought the sharp, shiny rocks for pleasure, collecting them and stuffing them deep down my pockets until they tore through the cloth and jabbed into my legs. I hastily flung away the softened rocks first, hoping to get distance from the get-go. And away they went, briefly across the surface, and then *plop*, forever out of sight. The problem, I soon learned, is that if you’re careless, and toss enough of these smooth stones away, you’re left with nothing but a jagged shore. No place to sit and settle down. And then those raw, lustrous rocks begin to lose their appeal. I couldn’t keep them in my pocket – they hurt my side. I could neither hold them tight nor toss them far enough away. And so I left the lake, empty-handed and defeated. I learned a valuable lesson that day, one which I must still recall over 20 years later when it matters most. I now know that the next time I cross paths with a smooth, polished stone, I’ll pick her up and hold her close. Only those who’ve weathered their storms have the potential to go the distance. Taking the slow boat to ChinaFor a full week I have seen neither sun nor stars. During the hours one would label as "day", a thick, dense layer of grayish-white particulate matter dampens and evenly disperses the sun's rays across the sky, so that a tempered light appears to originate from everywhere and nowhere at once, leaving no shadows. It's as if the city lies on an operating table lit by dust-covered fluorescent bulbs. Awaiting what surgery, I do not know.
The sun, a meager orange disk no brighter than when drawn upon paper, can be viewed without squinting. At "night" the same dry fog widens the beams of focused city lights, completely masking the constellations. I feel guilty for already counting the days until I return to Arizona, reminding myself of a natural beauty there that's so easily overlooked. But I feel even worse whenever I encounter my colleagues here – all beaming, upbeat, cheerful people, all residents of one of the most polluted cities on Earth. One writer and I have noticed that in some cases, the more a group of people praises an ideal, the further those people tend to stand from it. Governments vilifying corruption. Politicians lauding bipartisanship. Soccer teams demanding fair play. And factories promoting green technology. I’ve had the luck and misfortune to visit and/or live in many distant cities, from clean and green to toxically suffocating. Tianjin is the only one of those cities – and I believe the only one in history – in which the World Economic Forum, an organization designed to facilitate global business, has chosen to hold a three-day symposium featuring renewable energy and green technologies. But I had intended to tell about my journey to get here and I have gotten far too sidetracked. Rewind eight days to perennially sunny California. Much to our surprise, both Erin and I survived the Napa-to-Sonoma half marathon and lived to tell about it. It was the longest I had ever exercised, both distance and time, by quite a bit. I would ask you to guess what part of my body hurt most after the run, but since you are reading this your eyes will probably just keep on scanning. But stop a minute and try. Go ahead. Guess. No, it wasn’t my feet. Not my knees (though later the ligaments revolted). Not the hips nor the lungs. It was my right shoulder joint that stung from all of the arm swinging. Weird, huh? Wine tasting from local vineyards at the finish line was unlimited. Yep, just go back and ask for more. It was probably a safe investment and entertainment venture on their part – offer bottomless glasses to dehydrated runners and see how long before they topple. We have Lisa, John, Aimee and Kerry to thank for keeping us upright both during and after the run. Great cheering squad! Kerry and I visited San Francisco the next day. Not knowing the city, we figured the subway stop for “Civic Center” would be a good place to get lunch. It was evidently a better place to get other things – brand name knock-off and marijuana vendors worked each street corner from the subway stop to our little terraced French bistro find. From the restaurant’s second floor we witnessed a man of 40-50 years drop his trousers in broad daylight on the corner of a T-intersection and fertilize the sidewalk. A few minutes later an expensively dressed man must have romped through the deposit, for he was swearing at every rushed pedestrian who passed by him there. But he was not vocally alone. I would wager that this particular neighborhood sported the highest density of talk-to-selfers in the city. Nevertheless, the people of San Francisco immediately struck me as some of the most smiley, friendly and approachable I’ve ever met. A short while later, though, I began to notice that the women were actually not as friendly as I had first noticed. Then it struck me: duh, I’m in rainbow San Francisco! So after all that fun, when Kerry left I headed north to Berkeley. This is where my trusty traveling luck first returned. With six hours ‘til my flight and nothing to do, I wandered the college campus. Most notable on the walk were fearless squirrels, wooden bridges crossing muted streams, the bell tower’s chimes – a post-modern, achromatic tune that sounded as bitter as it did tickled to be signaling the end of another summer school day – and a baby-faced student’s t-shirt, which read “Capitalists do it ruthlessly”. As I said, I’ve always been fortunate with finds while traveling. This night a theater that normally puts on a local act or cover band was holding its annual singer-songwriter competition, all acoustic. It must be challenging to judge a contest that encompasses both young students and the older characters who hang around historically influential college campuses long past their cultural significance. Memorable tunes included losing a lover by drinking too much (pop, young), educating the children because after all they are our future (reggae, old), pleading for an ex-boyfriend to come back down to Earth (showtune, young), and lamenting how “she would have loved this beach” (early jazz, old). As if reminding us that we were, in fact, at Berkeley, the emcee told the audience to “feel free to network during the intermission”. My second layover, in Chicago, began with an 8am visit to the Navy Pier. On this lucky day, the Miss Teen USA pageant had also planned an 8am visit to the Pier. So there I was, not believing that any of these girls in summer skirts and pumps could possibly still be in high school, when a tourist group of identically-clad Chinese high school students swarmed them. What a difference a dress code and milk hormones make. Despite ogling like a creepy older guy at a group of underage girls (yes, “like”), I could not find Miss Arizona. The 75-degree weather was probably too cold for her that day. I met Vinnie of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange for lunch in the tower formerly known as Sears (one of the many buyouts by overseas investors in our own-goal-scoring failure of an economy), and then found Michele and her entourage of friends at the tapas celebration for Spain’s World Cup victory. The best billboard in Chicago read: Your wife is hot. Time to get A/C repair. My flight landed around midnight the next day in Beijing. You know that feeling at baggage claim, the one everybody gets when the carousel starts to rotate, that every bag will arrive but yours? Well I was starting to feel it while still in the terminal. This was, after all, the largest terminal of any Chinese airport. So I waited about 45 minutes without seeing my bag before standing in line behind one other person at the help desk. Thirty (30!) minutes later I was told that my bag had already arrived. “I was here and I never saw it.” “It is here.” “Well when did it arrive?” “Yesterday." "Where is it?"
"It’s in the back room.”
Wonderful. I guess that wouldn’t have been so bad if the 1.5-hour drive to the hotel didn’t take 2.5 hours. I only know one person who drives 60mph on a 75mph highway, and she’s legally retired. This driver had no good excuse. I finally got to bed around 4:45am Thursday local time, thus traditionally ending my good travel fortune with an extended stretch of strained uncomfortableness. And no, MS Office and I do not accept that as a word. Ah, one more story, about the Bank of Beijing. My debit card had expired last month, so I went into the Tianjin branch to get a new one. Liberal translation that makes me sound fluent: “We can’t do that. We can only give you a new account.” “No problem.” Swipes card, types, talks to manager. “At which branch you get this card?” “Beijing.” “Then you have to go to Beijing to get a new one.” “That’s 2 hours away. You have a new one right there.” I point to it. Swipes card, types, talks to manager. “But we can’t close your account and transfer your funds to the new one.” “Can’t you open a new account at your branch?” “Yes, we can.” “So first open a new account. Then transfer the funds.” Swipes card, types, talks to manager. “Okay.” Everyone should experience passing 2.5 hours with bank tellers in developing economies at least once in a lifetime. If only to build character. So it’s 1:30am and I have to work again tomorrow, for the fifth of nine days in a row, at 9am. To sleep I go. HomeThere are two bus stations not far across the border in Nogales, Mexico, but you’ll only find ads in English for one. You see, the other does quite well on its own. And the manager tries his best to infuse his work with pride: “we repatriate Mexican citizens” he declares, and points to a map on the wall. Fronterizas bus service has an exclusive deal with our government. You can read the contract on the face of each weary passenger. “You catch ‘em, we’ll take ‘em home.” And if you don’t look carefully, you’ll miss the fine print. But it’s there, along the veins straining to keep sleepless eyes awake. It reads, “The resemblance of ‘home’ to any home in real life is purely coincidental.” For the past 5 years, Passenger 4B had been building houses and taking care of his aging father in Delaware. His long-term plan: to purchase a home of his own. When diagnosed with appendicitis – a major setback for a laborer – his company’s health insurance, to which he had been contributing, afforded him a speedy recovery. You see, at the time, and despite his continued employment there, his company was still hiring. Last year he risked a trip to the state of Veracruz to propose to, and eventually marry, his high school sweetheart, Passenger 4A. The newlyweds were stopped in Tucson from returning, chased down a back alley by bloodhounds, forced face first to the ground, and shackled at the hands and the waist. They were detained in jail, fed one hamburger a day with water, and transferred through the fence to Fronterizas bus station. No honeymoon. No marital blessing from his father. They were to be sent on a 38-hour southerly bus ride, “home”. Passenger 5C, hobbling up the steps on crutches behind them, had a freshly set cast from her ankle to her knee. There was no need to ask how that happened. Everybody there already knew. They all shook hands with Passenger 5D, who nervously glanced around his unfamiliar territory. You could see it in 5D’s faded jeans, his Ipod, dusty sneakers and Diamondbacks cap. He was an Arizona youth. Recent graduate of Arcadia high school, just 10 miles from downtown. “What’s up?” he asked, and raised a hardened chin to hide his trembling heart. The last time he was in Mexico he was 9. And to a 9-year-old, the only border in life is the door between your living room and the outside world. But now, and with a little help, he was going “home”. You’re probably wondering, “To where?” And he wondered the same, what with his parents and siblings living in central Phoenix. His answer came at a busy truck stop off the highway somewhere, somewhere, in his home state of San Luis Potosi. Because at that point, Fronterizas’ contract had been fulfilled, and the at-capacity, 40-year-old bus with windows for air conditioning lumbered on deeper into Mexico. You can ask them all what they plan to do next and they’ll all tell you the truth. If you were separated from the ones you love by a line and a law, what would you do to get back home?children at playWe are on the playground at recess, my colleagues, the children and I, engaged in a rousing hybrid of tag, and the pre-pubescent ritual of shaming any peer who dare express an interest in those three things we all secretly most desire: love, marriage and a baby carriage.In this particular crossover sport, the "it" kid must touch a member of the opposite sex, at which point the collective chants of the new chaser's romantic interest with the previous one.
The tragedy in this game, evident in each pair of frantic child's eyes, is that while they have nearly all developed some level of attraction to another member of their class, the embarrassment of any such proclamation, truthful or not, instills such a conditioned fear that each student seeks out not his or her interest, but the student nearest by, to be free from the public shame of love.
This is how we condition ourselves from such an early age that it becomes our nature to fear and run from our emotions, merely because we observe and learn that others fear and run from theirs. So we keep silent, deny rumors of that first crush, grow up, and spend the rest of our youthful years desperately fighting the fear of making our desires known.
But just as I begin to pity these children at play I see the youngest boy stop in confusion, angle his head, furrow his brow and begin, "First comes marriage, then comes carriage... wait. When is love?"
And his sincerity and innocence bring me laughing to my knees (which I pray he won't misinterpret and further blur his understanding of what's socially acceptable to say).
Now level with him, I look him in his troubled eyes and with equal sincerity I confide, "John, if I knew the answer to that question, I'd be a happy man."
Content with this uncertainty, he runs back to his game.
And I, to mine.
2009 March 10I was born in land once held beneath a tighter fist, and before that an open palm. A land once passed over by the peoples of vastly different tongues and temperaments. But the plainsdwellers fell quickly to gunpowder and steel. Their makeshift shelters trampled, they fled for quieter pastures. Now this land's first walkers rest idle, inhabiting only the spaces deemed least desirable by conquerors long ago. 2009 February 27 11:06PMA poem, inspired by a lecture on Darwin's 200th birthday, for poets who fear scientists, and vice versa. “When I heard the learn’d astronomer”
is as far as most literature goes
in exploring the boundless glories
that the scientists' world unfolds.
As far back as you can gaze
into the written word of man,
there's been a segregation
of poet and mathematician.
But even alchemists and existentialists
share a common soul,
one seeking earthly understanding
of nature's actions and her goals.
So it's only fitting that I share
what one astronomer proclaimed,
with a twinkling in his eyes,
how it is that you and I became.
He said, "Twenty million stars
in our galaxy alone
had to die for you to be here,"
to form the elements within your bones.
Because just seconds after that first light,
was born all that ever will be.
Later crushed and thrust forth by innumerable stars,
it spanned countless distant galaxies.
Five billion or so years ago
that matter settled 'round this sun,
gathering itself into a mud ball of sorts
that heated and cooled as it spun.
This new "mystical, moist night air"
accelerated diversification,
creating daisies, swordfish, ravens,
and literate civilizations.
It was around this time in which a biologist chimed,
because biologists get off to evolution.
He cried, "I am an ordered composite chemical product
of reactions unbroken for eons."
This welcome interlude
made our astronomer smile,
because as he went on to conclude
he planned to follow in that style.
He said, "Any atom in your left hand,
and any atom in your right,
were more than likely formed
during two different stars' lives."
So of the many doubted theories,
in this beauty you can trust:
you're a growing, breathing, loving, dreaming
composition of faraway stardust.
2009 January 14 7:40PM (on the rail)"It's not what you think,"
I want to say,
but I'm already getting the look.
If after what I just said,
you lower your head,
I think I have been mistook.
Shouting inanities
like "model humanitarian"
won't offend me in the least.
But you're crossing the line
when you preach your beliefs over mine,
and then mockingly call me a priest.
It's not yours to say
who deserves to be slain
when the victim poses zero threat to you.
So please don't castigate
or regret I'm your roommate
because I won't squash that roach with my shoe.
2008 October 21 1:43AMGoogle recently accepted suggestions to make the world a better place. Of the many submissions, Google will select their favorite 100. The general public will vote for a top 20, and 5 of those 20 will be chosen to share $10 million in funding. I submitted the idea below: #8. Your idea's name (maximum 50 characters): Childhood Economics – early financial education # 10. What one sentence best describes your idea? (maximum 150 characters) Educate the American public on basic personal and family finance so as to avoid falling victim to predatory lending, cyclic debt and foreclosure. # 11. Describe your idea in more depth. (maximum 300 words) During my 17 years of public education I was never once required to take, nor steered towards, a course in personal finance. As a result, I knew nothing of loans, origination fees or interest when I sought student financial aid. But my ignorance cost little in comparison to the current situation my mother, friends, and now millions of Americans face with their home mortgages and credit card balances. The average American must be taught to understand the mathematics behind their home, car, credit and payday loans, and to budget, so that they may protect themselves and provide for their financial futures. The key is to educate early. These courses and pamphlets would explain, for example:
In our credit-based society, this essential education is long overdue. # 12. What problem or issue does your idea address? (maximum 150 words) The problem: The lack of fundamental financial education for the public necessary to maintain a home and family, educate children, and provide for retirement in the 21st century. The average head of household is unfamiliar with or uncertain about the repercussions of annual percentage interest, minimum payments, adjustable rate mortgages, balloons and refinancing. These terms alone daunt most Americans, who gladly divert their attention to the promise of a new home, new car or cash loan for holiday purchases. Payday and predatory lenders have capitalized on this ignorance and apathy towards financial understanding. The result: unprecedented debt, foreclosures, bankruptcies, stock market declines and a global recession. Though many analysts blame lenders for our current economic crisis, the lenders would never have succeeded if the majority of Americans had understood the ramifications of their financial endeavors, and adjusted accordingly to meet their expected budgets. # 13. If your idea were to become a reality, who would benefit the most and how? (maximum 150 words) Financial advice has traditionally been a luxury of the wealthy. Implementation of basic financial education would immediately benefit low- and middle-income families – the vast majority of US citizens who worry for their homes, their children's college education and their retirement. The general public either does not consider financial advice a feasible expense, or has never considered the matter at all. I would venture to say that the majority of Americans do not even budget on a monthly basis. Aldous Huxley once noted that, "Today alcohol and tobacco are available, and people spend considerably more on these… than they are ready to spend on the education of their children." When confronted with such searing facts, parents realize their budget deficiencies and adjust their spending habits. Likewise, the clear portrayal of unsound or insecure financial activities would adjust the lending habits of the general public, thus stabilizing the national economy. # 14. What are the initial steps required to get this idea off the ground? (maximum 150 words) To guarantee equal opportunity of understanding to the entire public, financial education must be carried out systematically and en masse. To date, the finest medium for such a mission is the public school system. By age 15, students already instinctively budget their allowance. Applying their understanding on a family scale will not only prepare them for the future, it will help them understand their parents' purchasing decisions. The best method of family education would involve parent-student interaction: assistance with homework that involves family budgeting and purchasing calculations. Therefore, initial steps are: 1-Inform middle/high school parents and teachers of Personal Finance course benefits, via PTAs and public announcements. 2-Compose viable curriculum, with teacher assistance. 3-Secure administrative support of curriculum. 4-Submit initial course proposal – need, method, objectives, evaluation, cost/benefit analysis – to public school board curriculum committees (locally, in amenable school districts). 5-Run trial courses. # 15. Describe the optimal outcome should your idea be selected and successfully implemented. How would you measure it? (maximum 150 words)
The most recent High School Transcript Study (2004), conducted by the US Department of Education, discussed increases in credits earned in mathematics, science, English, social studies and computer-related vocational courses. Not one mention was made of courses on finance, economics, accounting or business. No national achievement scores measure financial competence; no exam assesses whether a student can handle the finances of a job, a home and a family after graduation. A course in financial education would directly assess a student's competence and progress in managing personal finances through assignments and activities. GPA, combined with a standardized exam testing critical topics for individual financial stability and independence, would provide the necessary feedback to modify curriculum, tailoring it to the needs of the student. The optimal outcome would be acknowledgement, in future DoE reports, of steadily increasing finance credits earned by young students who are empowered for the world they now enter. 2008 October 16 12:04AM
Bipartisan BabiesBedtime stories along party lines By Jamie Michael Kern When my sister and brother-in-law announced their first pregnancy, following a report on the upcoming election, it struck me that their child would grow up in a politically divided household. How would they raise their child with their individual party’s values if mother backs Democrats and father preaches Republican? A quick internet search revealed an existing niche market of children’s books with competing political overtones. I set out to order one for each expecting parent. I soon found it remarkable how the purchasing process of two such books – Why Mommy is a Democrat and Why Daddy is a Republican – reflects each titles respective party ideology. Digging into the Piggy Bank Of first note and importance: cost. Democrat mommies can read to their kids for $8 plus $2 for shipping; Republican daddies for $8.99 plus $3.99 for shipping. DEM book orders of 5 or more ship free, whereas REP book shipping increases to $7.98 at 6 copies and $11.97 at 16. That means all possible bulk or individual REP orders will exceed the costs of similar DEM orders, unless ordering 4 copies. Yet at 5 copies all DEM books ship free, so it can be considered buy 4 get 1 free. The potential message: Republican daddy thinks you should pay for what you get, while Democrat mommy wants more people to benefit from lower costs. DEM website and book cover proclaim that at least 5% sales profits will be donated to the Democratic Party or its candidates. After all, “Democrats make sure we all share our toys, just like mommy does.” Neither REP site nor book cover offers contributions, perhaps because “Republicans only hand out allowance after ALL of the chores have been finished, just like daddy does.” Mom & Dad’s Online Security Ordering online requires a minimum level of security, as well as a level of instilled confidence in the e-shopper. Littledemocrats.net links directly to a secured PayPal page authenticated by VeriSign, an online leader in secure transactions. DEM shoppers can use their bank accounts or credit cards safely through PayPal, which assures buyers by concealing account numbers from merchants, protecting against unauthorized payments, and providing a means to recoup payment for undelivered goods. “Democrats make sure we are always safe, just like Mommy does.” Republicandaddies.com hosts its own billing page authenticated by GoDaddy, a web hosting company with e-business services. The REP order form asks for credit card information but does not offer protection against revealing or sharing account information, making unauthorized payments, or non-delivery of goods. It instead offers the vague statement that my payment authorization “is to remain in full force and effect unless I provide written notification to [vendor] within an appropriate timeframe as to allow [vendor] to act on it.” REP daddy will make sure you’re responsible for your actions, and “Republicans will punish you when you have been bad, just like daddy does.” Shipments for DEM mommies “are normally mailed within one day of receiving your payment,” but a similar promise is not offered to REP daddies, who only read “Thank you very much for yoru [sic] order. Please enjoy your new book.” Both typo and lack of shipping information were pointed out to the author, who replied that they would be “fixed first thing in the morning.” Over a month later, neither correction has been made. So uncertain was the purchase of Why Daddy is a Republican through the author’s website that I chose to pay nearly three times the price for a single-print order from online publisher lulu.com. Why Mommy is a Democrat is alternately available at amazon.com. Lessons Learned Both books arrived approximately a week after purchase. Mommy, at two-thirds the paper size and about twice the paper thickness of Daddy, has 25 story pages with 13 sentences. Daddy comprises 10 sentences spanning 16 pages, including a blank one for children to illustrate their own Republican Daddy’s virtues. Most striking to the adult reader, both books begin with the same introductory line, “Some [parents] are called [party members]. Your [parent] is a [party member] because…” They also both end with the same conclusion: “And that is why [parent] is a [party member].” The concerned parent, English teacher and lawyer immediately ask which of these two books came first. Why Mommy is a Democrat holds a copyright from 2005; Why Daddy is a Republican was copyrighted in 2008. So was the latter plagiarized from the former? The teacher and lawyer remain skeptical: a work is considered original if its author had no access to similar works from which to borrow, and if there lacks a “substantial similarity” – to use legal terminology – between the two. In other words, the chance of having viewed copyrighted material combined with an apparently similar “total concept and feel” to said material are grounds enough for claiming infringement. Let the reader be the judge. The concerned parent, however, may actually welcome the repetitive text – a powerful enforcer in children’s literature. This, above all, must be considered when attempting to instill beliefs in a child. Read your children’s books before they do. Decide for yourself whether you want your young ones repeating words and themes held within. The potential messages and morals of a children’s book far outvalue its price tag, cost of shipping and political contribution combined. I am a Democrat with Libertarian sympathies, and that may have come through in this review, but it in no way alters the fact that for me, Why Mommy is a Democrat was a better buy – and a better buying experience – than Why Daddy is a Republican.
2008 January 2 2:38AMLast night I had an unusual dream. I dreamt that after a bit of interstellar space travel, I had arrived at a beautifully peaceful and pastel world inhabited by beings remarkably human. Forty or so years had already been spent on that planet, and I was walking with my kids – now adults – my grandkids and our friends down a dirt path that cut through a vast, rolling light-green meadow. The sun (or whatever name that star had) was setting behind sorbet clouds ahead of us, so that we could look upon the horizon without squinting. The dozen or so people in our party laughed and joked with one another as people walking down a path often do. I remember being near the back of the group, beside someone, arms over each other's shoulders. I was extremely content with life. Funny thing about joy and sorrow – it only takes a word, a sound or an image to jump from one to the other. A comment from the front of the group made its way back to me. I couldn't tell you what that comment was, only that it made a few people laugh, and it struck me like a blow to the stomach. For the first time in years, my thoughts flashed back to the Earth I left light years ago: family, friends, people who meant the world to me on another world. I instantly realized that as a result of my travels, all those people I loved and cared about were gone. Their entire generations on Earth, history. I had to stop. I couldn't breathe. All I could think was, "What have I done?" At that moment I woke up and found myself still on this little blue and green planet, yet I remained troubled. All those people who meant the world to me still seemed worlds away. After all the time and experiences that we've shared, all the memories, we have almost completely lost touch. Even now, when we need only push a few buttons or type an @ sign, we fail to communicate. We meet when obligations compel us to do so, and not more. I can't say how this happened or why. I just know that I'm a part of it and I want it to change. My resolution for the new year is clear – maintain the relationships that have maintained me. I hope you all feel the same, and that we can keep up somewhat regular communication. I miss you all, wherever you are, and want to know what's new in your lives. I wouldn't trade any of you for all the extraterrestrial, interspecific, surrogate friendships in the universe. To a happy, healthy and sociable new year, Jamie 2006 December 2 5:09AMI just woke up from one of the most remarkable dreams I have ever fully remembered. It began with me and my friends walking up a tropical beach, into the nearby palm grove, and on to our front porch.It had been an exhausting game of volleyball, and I was ready for a shower before lunch. I stepped into the cabin to a blinking red light on the answering machine.After tossing my keys on the desk and towel over the chair, I sat down by the nightstand and pressed ‘play’. It was grandma.She called just to say hi, and to chat up the latest.Among news of weather, friends and health, she relayed grandpa’s last outing. I wasn’t listening intently until she began his adventure, but the story caught my attention, and I began to picture it.My own imagination mingled with grandma’s description.It came to be that I saw the entire scene, and all its action, as occurring in that moment: Grandpa was walking cautiously down the left side of a wide street, lined by older financial buildings with stone facades elevated from the ground, He was leisurely followed by Uncle Allen, or perhaps it was his old friend Jack Elias, who slowly maneuvered a shortened snowboard to circle about and observe a kitten.The nearly empty sidewalk that the three traveled on was level with building entryways, and iced over.Stairways from each door descended sharply into deep, flooded roads spotted with floating chunks of ice. Though I was listening to all this on a recording, I presently found myself on the very street, breathing the crisp air, squinting from the reflection of an unobstructed sun on ice, and stuffing my hands deep into warm pockets. As grandpa reached the corner of one of these streets he paused to look both ways.He was not looking for traffic; just looking.Then he turned his head forward and jumped feet first into the street. I panicked, fearing that swimming in freezing waters would be too much.I anxiously watched the top of his head bob just below the surface as it made its way towards the center of the intersection.Then he came up for air, and I sighed in relief. He continued his slow, curved, underwater trajectory, intermittently – and less frequently than I had wished – breaching the surface to breathe.It was at this time that I found I was also walking on the left side of the road towards the same corner, and before I knew what had happened, I, too, jumped feet first into the flooded street. The initial shock of entering icy waters, or any waters, compelled me to burst to the surface.But after a moment and a gasp for air, I felt remarkably not cold.Only my fingertips, toes, neck and face felt anything reminiscent of winter.The rest of my body, wrapped in a thick, blue, down coat, remained warm.I instantly understood that grandpa felt the same. He eventually arrived at the steps of one of the solid edifices directly across the street from where he began.At this point he dipped down further, passed under the sidewalk, and emerged in a small opening in the pavement between the front door and the submerged stairway. He raised one arm and then the other out of the water and onto the sidewalk.Then, using all his might, he grunted and pulled his head, then shoulders up onto the path.I felt myself whispering, “Come on, grandpa!Come on, you can do it!” He struggled to raise his torso, and rested his weight on one elbow and the other forearm in order to lift his hips out.I cheered quietly to see him slide his legs and finally feet up onto the pavement. He was now breathing slightly heavier than before, but stood himself up with the same slow diligence with which he exited the icy waters.I could not recall a time I ever felt so relieved, or so proud. Grandpa walked a few paces to the nearest stairway, a particularly steep one that plunged deep into the water.He stopped at the top, and I was now viewing his perspective. Straight ahead lay open icy waters.Just to each side were sidewalks circumscribing aging buildings.Below, the stairway descended visibly for a few steps. Grandpa’s eyes opened wide.He inhaled a deep breath, and dove. I watched his head-first descent, from air through water and down the diagonal of the steps.At mid-street he surfaced, bobbed back to the sidewalk, slipped under, and laboriously pulled himself up through the same hole in the pavement. He returned to the head of the stairway and dove again, several times. After one of the dives, I turned to see Allen, or Jack, stooped over and petting the kitten, chuckling at my grandfather.None of them, nor anyone on the street that day, seemed greatly affected by the weather. As I watched my grandpa dive and resurface repeatedly, a curious thing occurred.His appearance, or rather my perspective of it, changed.He was still the same old man, grunting at each jump and struggling with each lift, but I began to see him through his own eyes. In this view, I heard no noise, saw no excessive effort, and felt no sign of age.The following dive I looked up to see a young man, thin and fit, in a swimsuit and full head of hair.He dove with precision and speed.He emerged from the water as a young boy, energetic, athletic, and flipped as he plunged back into the icy road. I watched this young boy dive for some time, and found myself laughing alongside my grandpa’s old friend. In the last dive I imagined, both young man and boy jumped together from the top of the stairs.The older one flipped once, and like a needle pierced the surface with hardly a splash.The younger, with the same speed and control, rolled hand over foot down each step into the depths of the freezing water. At that point, the phone message ended, and I regretted not having been home to hear the whole story in person. 2006 August 27 4:35PMYou know the expression "hit the head"? Well... four weeks ago I did just that, in the very literal second-language-learner sense of the word. I lost my head, hitting my head on the head while hitting the head. That is, I passed out, bumping my head on the toilet while in the bathroom. Luckily I was already in the hospital. A group of nurses and security guards rushed me to the emergency room, where eighteen stitches pulled the flap of scalp back into place. I wore a hair net with chin strap over the bandage for two weeks. Now only a scab and an unusual hair growth pattern remain. This experience has taught me a few things: 1- in Beijing, only with a hospital visit can you get a short work vacation
2- in the hospital, never ask a doctor or nurse a yes/no question
3- in life, never put off to tomorrow what you know you should do today
4- in family, call home frequently enough not to merit the greeting "what's
wrong?"
5- in love, we all need someone to care for, and to be cared for by.
谢谢宝贝。
2006 August 09 9:26PM501. This morning I had an issue with my meebomeebome widget on my myspace and on this page. The alliteration alone was enough to distract me from editing exam questions such as this one: I heard he _____.
A) is going abroad
B) will go abroad
C) was going abroad
D) has gone abroad
In case you were unsure, the correct answer was C. Ha. So I posted a topic on meebo's bug forum asking for assistance. Within in the hour, server tech Sandy was on this very page, slightly right of where your eyes currently focus, working through the problem live. I never received such personalized, friendly tech assistance, and definitely never for a free service. Just now I logged in at home and noticed meebo's representative Seth had mentioned the experience, and the fact that meebome had appeared in over 500 blogs since its release. Shortly after his post I began receiving hellos from around the world. Many of the visitors just wanted to check out meebome for themselves. The least I can do for meebo is tell you all SIGN UP! With meebo, for the first time I can chat with all of my online contacts, and visitors, in one simple interface. Meebo doesn't even require a download and installation (great for the office). It's clean, quick and pretty. Tech support far exceeds the last half-dozen calls I've made to banks, credit cards and airlines. In short, meebome me. 2006 July 21 11:26PMFor most of the modern world, seventy-one point four percent of the week passes in predicted procession. Sleep, eat, work, eat, work, eat, sleep. We call it 'weekday'. The Symmetrical droning away of youth, vigor, ambition and creativity. I like The DaVinci Code. Not the movie; the book. And not the author's style, story or suspense, but his research. A story that brings to light centuries of belief, doubt, curiosity and mystery appeals to the vast majority of common readers. So in selling and telling his tale, Dan Brown succeeds. Far less obvious, yet of much greater need and purpose, Brown presents the mind of Leoardo DaVinci - his science and technology, artwork and understanding - as plainly and simply one of the most perceptive and imaginative to have ever existed. DaVinci alone redefined nearly every field of knowledge in a way that thereafter could only be considered so obvious and natural as to make previous concepts, however complex, appear primitive and naïve. He renovated ancient Greek and Roman designs, removing the foolish extremities and clarifying a solid base. I once had the luck of catching an exhibit on DaVinci's inventions. On a piece of scratch paper, he devised a way to build a bridge without nails, screws, bolts, staples, tape, glue, plaster, rope, string, ties, locks, chains or any other means of connectivity. I requires no hammer, drill, wrench, saw, screwdriver or other implement. Just wooden beams; fallen tree trunks. The interlocking arrangement of beams, and nothing more, allows for the sturdy support of masses far exceeding the mass of the bridge itself. The assembly takes minutes, in a pattern an eight year old could follow. I took notes, and will gladly show you if you ask. From this man, of ignoble birth and uneventful childhood, emanated brilliance. Wikipedia lists Leonardo DaVinci as "an Italian Renaissance Polymath: an architect, anatomist, engineer, inventor, geometer, musician, and painter". You and I sit at screens or stand behind counters until the time comes to eat or sleep again. 2006 July 8 2:54PMFifty statues, they stood gazing, stone-faced and slack-jawed. Within the narrow, steel queue gate they inscribed a yet narrower oval, the circumference of which gyrated to the bloody, pummeling blows of three infuriated men. The two younger ones soon overpowered the businessman, who defended his laptop with one hand, and his life with the other. Eight unanswered fists struck his cowering body, back and face. Onlookers looked on, and nothing more. As bus #930 edged up to the bulbous cue, attention was torn between witnessing an assault and securing a seat. The latter won out among the crowd majority, which forcibly ended the battle in a stampede towards the door.
Severed from his attackers, the businessman fumbled for his cell phone, pleading for emergency assistance and intermittently shouting obscenities. The assailants fled, returning obscenities as they withdrew. When the victim finally boarded the bus, no seats remained.
2006 June 23 2:22 PMYesterday: Dinner alone at my favorite Two Dragons restaurant, patroned on that late evening solely by two loud and incoherent men. After sitting down at the furthest possible table, one offers out a grinning "Helloooou!"
I look up, nod, and return to my reading. Two minutes later he again echoes, "Helloooo!" and I again reply with a nod. When I begin eating he goes for a third attempt, which I ignore. Several minutes into the meal he seemingly forgets the first quarter hour and tosses yet another greeting across the empty restaurant.
Well my lack of reply affects his friend, boosting his ethanol-induced bravado to climax. He moseys up to my table, slides out the chair across from me, and flops himself down behind my papers and rice.
"What country are you from?" he demands in blurred Chinese.
"I'm reading my friends poems right now and am busy eating," I reply, in equally slurred English, "I don't understand."
"Uh, what country are you from?" he repeats in Chinese. "The US?"
"I'm busy eating dinner and don't want to talk now."
"Ah," he nods, and turning back to his buddy shouts, "He's American."
Looking back, I'm not sure whether that man was entirely clueless, or extremely insightful. Following interrogation, I was left alone to admire my friends delicately worded verse amidst the aggressive cries for more cheap beer and rice.
Then I went shopping.
"How much?" I ask the vendor holding four bananas and five peaches.
"In total, 8.5 RMB."
"Hmm, I only have 6. Unless you have change for a 100."
"When do you go back to your country?"
"What?"
"When do you go back to your country?" he repeats, stern-faced.
"Uh, do you have small change?" I ask, holding out my 100RMB note.
"What country are you from?"
"The US... I only have a 100."
"That's okay. Here, it's free. I'll treat you. But I'll take your place going back to your country. Alright?" And the lady behind him squints her eyes, chuckles and digs through her plastic bag for 92 in change.
2006 June 21, 2:37 PMI just received another offer yesterday, part-time copy editing for a bilingual Beijing magazine. Sweet. I'll be tired and bleary, but it's a good kind of blind. Currently finishing up the term, grading and paperwork. I'm feeling great, despite the fishbone lodged in my throat last weekend. That was kind of situational irony in itself. The fish is the only animal still a threat after death.
2006 June 11, 5:24 AMYesterday I signed a six month contract with New Oriental Education & Technology Group, China's premier English language academy and overseas exam prep company. I will be the sole native English editor for their Media Products division, responsible for publication of textbooks and other study resources.
Next on the agenda: relax. 2006 May 16, 12:13 AM
Here begins a new digital voice. I again join the countless anonymous herd of ill- or well-mannered, opinionated internet users. As of today I have successfully completed 26.13 revolutions about the unbounded sphere of flaming hydrogen that fuels all known existence. Though I know it to be constant, each trip 'round feels slightly shorter than the previous one. I've spent most of the last two orbits here in Yanjiao, China. For those of you who don't know - i.e. humankind outside Yanjiao, China - the city spreads East of Beijing at an ever increasing rate. It is near the center of this sprawl that I pass ten hours per week behind a podium teaching "Advanced Reading II". If you were to ask me what I teach, I would say Introduction to Literature. But that is not the true title, which has been simplified somewhat unnecessarily. In my abounding free time I send out letters and résumés with the speed and precision of a Spanish archer. Alas, Spain has done away with wooden weapons and I have yet to sign a new contract. This fortunately allows time for the great twenty-first century's sport of champions: Blogging. I envision this as a blog like others: my thoughts, photos, loves, hates and more. Words from the past, words for the future; words by myself and by others. We'll see if my current drive to write for the world goes beyond previous attempts. Google pages makes it easier. 100words.net does so as well. Try it. One hundred words per day for 30 days. Sounds easy. I believe I reached a dozen. |
