in the park

we

A couple Fridays ago a small group of us library geeks went to the Heights after work for cheap happy hour beers. Though I've known at least some of these people for years, or rather have known of them, this was only the second time that I had gone out with them socially. The first time, oddly enough, was that horrible Friday back in January when I was so unceremoniously dumped over the phone. This time, needless to say, was much better.

Which brings me, sort of, to what I was wanting to write about, something that occurred to me during this evening out. We were talking about traveling, and I mentioned that we'd gone to Alaska for New Years Eve a while back, and this, as always, got a big laugh and we discussed the weather in Fairbanks in January and alcoholism rates in the great AK and skewed daylight hours and then we moved on. But what struck me as odd was my use of the word "we." Clearly in this paragraph the "we" refers to me and the other library geeks. And clearly in my head the "we" of the Alaska trip refers to me and Chris. But these people with whom I was sharing this story do not know Chris at all, do not in fact even know of Chris at all. And so I was worried that this "we" had come off as strange, as pretentious even, perhaps a weird royal sort of we. I do also realize that they probably didn't even notice, and that I have been obsessing over a small thing.

But that's the thing. In my head, in my soul, how do I begin to separate myself from this shared history? I can't go around saying "we" forever, when half of this "we" so completely extricated himself from me. And yet I am finding it very difficult to extricate myself from this shared history. Neither "I" nor "we" feels entirely honest to me at this point, though I suppose it's a good thing to be aware of this feeling of disconnect, and to be slowly moving across the spectrum towards the singular and away from the plural.

Or maybe this is all just a sign that I shouldn't talk about myself so damned much.

fish, 125th street

symbols

One of the biggest fights I ever had with my father was about a ribbon. It was January of 1991, and I was fourteen years old, an enthusiastic little ninth grader sucked in by my high school's "support our troops" campaign on the eve of the first Bush's Gulf War. Some student group or another had taped little yellow ribbons to every locker in the school, with letters admonishing each and every one of us to tie bigger yellow ribbons around trees or mail boxes in our front yards. I, overwhelmed with patriotism, took this idea home with me only to find my father inexplicably outraged. He refused to even entertain the notion of desecrating our beautiful maple tree with a petty, hollow symbol, and was furious that the school would allow such propaganda to occur. I, never popular and not yet comfortable in that position, wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself, wanted to take part in something in which everyone else was taking part, and could not understand my father's rage. It was, I think, the first time I came up against this wall in my father, this solid mass of frustration and anger and disappointment. I still don't know what he actually thought about the Gulf War itself, all two weeks of it or however long it actually was. But for the first time I began to understand the importance of symbols.

My father was drafted during the Vietnam War, put in his time in the Navy on the aircraft carrier Coral Sea and, after that, at the U.S. military base in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. But he was also adamantly opposed to U.S. involvement in Southeast Asia, and helped write a letter from himself and other officers on the Coral Sea to President Nixon outlining how our government was being disingenuous about our actions there and why we should withdraw. My father loved this country, the ideas and hopes behind this country, and hated that which undermined it, the special interests, the privileged and rich men in suits. But even more, perhaps, he hated the ease with which symbolism can be used to replace genuine debate. Putting up a yellow ribbon around a tree might be a nice gesture, but it is only that, a gesture, ultimately empty of actual meaning.

In the aftermath of 9/11, everyone wanted to be patriotic, to show their love of country. The president, his handlers, and his minions have taken advantage of this, and we have let them get away with it. They wrap themselves in the American flag as armor against those who would argue against them, and call the dissenters un-American, un-Patriotic, outright traitors, and, perhaps worst of all, French. In the wake of the biggest terrorist attack on American soil, they told us to go shopping, go to the theater, eat out in restaurants, and buy little magnetic yellow ribbons to display on our gas-guzzling, Middle-East dependent Hummers and SUVs. The irony of this would make me laugh if it didn't come quite so close to making me cry.

They say the terrorists want to destroy us because of our "freedoms," and then they want to ban burning the American flag. I know I've said this before, but I'll say it again. Burning the American flag in an act of protest, of righteous rage or of reasoned disagreement, gives the flag an immense amount of power. The flag is a piece of cloth, nothing more, and the flag's image is painted on pick-up trucks, festooned across fair grounds, emblazoned on do-rags and g-strings and boxer shorts. It seems to me that burning the flag out of conviction shows it more respect than wiping fried chicken grease on a 4th of July stars and stripes paper napkin. It also doesn't happen that often, and yet the symbolism of it, of burning this flag, is so potent, so powerful, that again and again certain factions in Congress have tried to ban it, and again and again the ban has been defeated.

Also when I was in high school, my friend Ari bought me a pair of Converse sneakers that sported the American flag, with the sole purpose of burning anarchy signs in them with this really cool magnifying glass-type thing we'd found on the side of the road. Some kids in our school didn't like this very much. Like I said, I was a silly adolescent girl looking for convictions and coming up with empty symbols. But the reason I've been thinking about this stuff today is that I'm reading a novel, quite a beautiful novel actually, called The Grace that Keeps this World. One of the central characters is a Vietnam veteran, and there's a moment that rings false, that jumped out at me, in reference to his return from the war, "wearing his uniform to be spat upon and given the finger." Somehow this story of veterans being spat on after returning from the war blossomed into the zeitgeist in the '70s and has remained with us to this day. There were very few, if any, actual incidents of this occurring, and yet the story of it has profoundly affected our society. Today's obsession with "supporting our troops," the political rhetoric of being "with us or against us," of accusing war protesters of damaging our men and women on the ground, that the White House tosses around with such ease, seem in some ways to be a direct descendant of this spitting thing. But I think the American people are intelligent enough to discern the difference between protesting a war they don't believe in and spitting on an individual in uniform. And I think that the American people are capable of respecting the troops while marching on Washington to end this war. I think we are learning the differences between rhetoric and truth, and Bush's less-than-30% approval ratings (and Cheney's 9% approval ratings) reflect this shift.

quote of the day

Our dearly beloved and oh so consistent President recently sent a letter to the Speaker of the House threatening to veto any legislation that lessened restrictions on abortion, which, granted, is pretty much in line with his general views on choice. But unfortunately the way in which he chose to express these sentiments fell short of, or perhaps exceeded, his intentions. He threatened to veto any measures that "allow taxpayer dollars to be used for the destruction of human life." Then again, he did just veto the Iraq War funding bill, so perhaps he's more consistent than I give him credit for. Maybe next he'll start privately funding all executions as well.

the best officemate a girl could have

novita-love in action on a sunday afternoon

words of wisdom

"I do not know how to avoid the conclusion that a man who is capable of taking the illusions of religion so literally and is so sure of a special personal intimacy with the Almighty is unfitted for relations with ordinary children of men."

-Sigmund Freud, on Woodrow Wilson

nights out on the town

politics as usual

Three out of the eight potential Republican presidential nominees participating in last night's debate do not believe in evolution. And one of them believes that employers should have the right to fire their gay employees because, you know, it's an individual choice.

The White House asserts that Congress is attempting to wrest control of the war in Iraq from the commanders on the ground. Nancy Pelosi says no, Congress is attempting to wrest control of the war in Iraq from the White House. Bush's response: "The question is, who ought to make that decision? The Congress or the commanders? And as you know, my position is clear -- I'm the commander guy."

Last but not least, a South Korean dry-cleaning store in Washington, D.C., is being sued for $65 million over a missing pair of pants. The person bringing this ridiculous lawsuit to trial? A judge.

Go America.

my 'hood hits the bigtime

You wouldn't think that Washington Heights would ever become an alternative rock musical mecca, and yet it seems to be happening. More famously known as the home of Rev. Ike (at least to those of us in the know) and owned by the United Christian Evangelistic Association, these days the Palace is hosting such folks as the Arcade Fire, Modest Mouse, and Bjork. Strange world this is.

I recently discovered that the New York Times online offers their Times Select for free to anyone who registers with an "edu" email address. Go Times.

ruminating

It's funny, how you can miss a person so very much that it sometimes seems to taint your days and nights, and yet at the same time be in many ways happier than you have been in years, if ever. I should get rid of the you and lay claim to the I in all of this. I miss Chris enormously, even after more than a quarter of a year, and yet today, on this second day of May, the world seems brighter than it has in much longer even than that. I've been reading more, and writing more, and spending more time on my own, and oh so slowly beginning to discern more intricate knitting patterns, and spending more time with friends, and, after indulging in a digital camera last week, taking pictures of the things and the people that I love. There is a certain power in all of this, in learning to cherish the time I have alone; in relearning how to be a friend fully and entirely on my own terms and not as a couple, as only one half of a pair, half of a whole; in carrying around my very own camera and, however slowly, learning to look at this world around me and truly see beauty in it, in a street sign, in a dead tree, in the evening light on a building, in a flowering geranium, in the warm faces of people dear and close to my heart. There is a certain sense of solidity, of an internal balance, that I, in some ways, am discovering for the first time and am growing to love.

in the gloaming

bff :)