Stuff White People Hate: #1 Traffic

White people hate traffic.

In fact, they hate it so much that they obsess about it. Especially in California, where you must talk about what route you will take to your destination (i.e. Driver: “Let’s take the 405.” Passenger: “That’ll be too crowded, let’s take the 5.” Driver: “Cool.”).

White people pay taxes, at least in part, so that the highways and roads can be “kept up”, or “expanded” in order to “lessen traffic”. New roads, on-ramps, and traffic lights are sometimes constructed or added to ease traffic. Somehow, they never do. Maybe it’s because white people tend to love “cars”, and have approximately one per family member of driving age. My aunt Susan even has a “dog mobile”, or the car she drives the dogs around in because she doesn’t care if it gets hairy seats and slobbery windows.

White people also prepare for traffic. They go to the bathroom before they leave and they don’t drink too much coffee en route, “in case there’s traffic”. They leave early, “in case there’s traffic.”

White people also think of traffic as a competition. They think that if they plan well enough, and because they are smarter than “other” people, they can “beat traffic”. Examples of beating traffic include getting up at 5am to get on the road early, to “beat traffic”. Leaving late, usually after dark (especially when you are at the beach), to “beat the traffic”. Other people who leave during usual, or so-called “rush” hours, are “idiots” or “morons”.

If people are still caught up in traffic, despite adequate preparation and planning, they simply try harder the next time.

And white people always, always, complain when they are in traffic. Sometimes, ranting can be accompanied by hand gestures and frantic waving, or epithets such as “Jesus H. Christ” or “shit”. On rare occasions, when a sense of false confidence in traffic avoidance skills is involved, a sense of panic will descend in traffic because the white person involved fears that they will be late.

Look for entry #2 in a few days for Stuff White People Hate: Being Late.

Grown-ups don’t necessarily know what they’re doing.

It’s my birthday tomorrow, and that always makes me think more than usual about things. Like life, the meaning of it, the purpose of my own, how much time has gone by in a flash, how much time I might have left. You know, the small stuff.

When I was younger, I used to think that people over 30 really had it figured out. I also thought they were close to death, being so old and all, so I respected them. They had things like houses, and small children, and jobs. Plus, they actually got to do what they wanted, they didn’t have to be in by 10pm, and they didn’t have parents. Or, at least it seemed to me like they didn’t, because I almost never saw anyone over 30 with their parents. My dad avoided his mother like a hiker avoids poison oak. You might have to see it on a trail now and then, but overall you keep your distance and a watchful eye.

Now that I am turning 3-oh-plus-6 (god, it makes me gag to think of it), I realize that grown-ups don’t necessarily know what the hell they’re doing. In fact, the older that I get, the more older friends that I have, the more I can tell you younger people out there that NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THEY ARE DOING. Not really, anyway. We “wing it”. We “do our best”. We “get insomnia”. We “have drinking problems”. We “take Xanax”. We learn to “deal” with the panic that comes from the realization that we just don’t always know what the best choices are, what to do, or where we are going.

That’s the cold, hard truth of it. It’s just that some people are better fakers. They learned a long time ago that false confidence still looks like confidence to the rest of the world, so that’s their gig. Think of all those people who ran Enron into the ground, or Bear Stearns. They seemed like they knew what they were doing, right? Nope. Not really.

In that vein, I’d like to post a letter to my teenage self. Say, oh, at sixteen. To tell myself some stuff that I should have known 20 years ago. It would have saved me some time, I think. But, then again, I always did have to learn my lessons the “hard” way.

Dear Pretty, Young Thing, [it was the 80s after all]

I’m you. Just older. And for your sweet sixteen, before you go off to your birthday party, I’d like you to know some things about life.

First off, boys. You will be kissed. Guys will like you. You will date. A lot. You don’t have to worry about things like this. You’ll have sex before you are old and gray, you don’t need to use 2 condoms “just in case” [this is actually a bad idea and more unsafe], and you won’t know what you’re doing until you’re at least 24, so until then, just learn to “wing it”.

Don’t have sex with just anyone. Or with football players, or hockey players, or “players” period. They suck and they are immature. Be more choosy. You have oodles of time. See note one about not knowing what you’re doing anyway until 24.

Take a year off during college. Seriously. Go abroad. Work. Go to China. Volunteer. Go to France. See something. Honestly, you’ll thank me. The world doesn’t care if you graduate at 22. They care they you know something about anything other than yourself, dating, beer kegs, and navel-gazing.

Learn another language well. No, seriously. Not just for tests. See note above. And for god’s sake, don’t choose French again. You’ll never use it.

Stop reading fashion magazines. You don’t have to look like that to get a boyfriend or to be happy. Plus, you can’t look like that anyway. You are NOT FAT. Stop dieting.

Don’t listen to gossip about you. Ever. People suck, they get insecure and jealous, and they say nasty things in order to feel good about themselves. If you must, listen to harmless gossip, but be smart about it. Never repeat anything.

Study, but don’t obsess about your grades. They’ll get you into a good school, but getting into a good school is just the first step. Creativity is more valued than knowing what year the Magna Carta was signed. Trust me.

Relax. Life is hard, but you make it harder by being hard on yourself. There are things you can’t control, like the economy or how much tax you have to pay. There are things you can, like how much you freak out about losing your job or how much tax you have to pay. [Can you tell I just filled out my taxes?]

Figure out what you like. Not what other people tell you that you SHOULD like. If you like pink, wear it. Even if red is “in”. If you like science, become a scientist. Even if someone thinks you are good at “art”. If you like collecting Barbies, then do it. Keep it a secret, but do it. [After all, I'm not telling you to commit social suicide, here.]

Everyone is scared.

No one knows what they are doing.

People over 30 are just like the people they were at 16, with more responsibilities. [Watch High School Reunion on the Hallmark Channel for proof when you're older.]

Most importantly, avoid dating Brook. He’s a dick.

Love,

Your 36-year-old self

People in New England and NY, prepare to buy a lot of Off! . . .

I’m sure that this story in the Times whizzed by a lot of people, but I’m scared.

Bats, which normally hibernate in the winter in caves in New York, Vermont, New Jersey, are dying in droves. They are flying out of their caves in winter – odd enough – and then dying right there in front of the caves in the snow. Literally dropping dead.

I know, for most of us bats are terrifying. They are associated with vampires, deadly nights, and scary monsters at Halloween. But I like bats.

They’re cute, really, if you ignore the wings.

Although I know that most people picture something more like this:

It’s a bit like sharks and spiders. Humans have a knee-jerk reaction to things flying in their hair, even if it’s accidental.

Anyway, bats are dying in droves, to the point where scientists are saying that up to 90% of bats will be dead by spring. The bats that do survive might be too skinny to procreate in the spring. Bats have a fairly slow reproductive rate. One female bat only has one pup per spring.

The true downside? They have absolutely no clue what’s killing the bats. A fungus? No, probably just a side effect. A virus or bacteria? Who knows. Pesticides? Maybe they played a role in depressing the bats’ immune systems. Can we catch it? Again, no idea. They are warning people to stay away from bat caves, as people might accidentally help to spread whatever is killing the bats.

This is bad news for us. And the planet.

Bats can eat up to half their weight in bugs every single day. That’s a lot of bugs. And mosquitoes.

I think that if you live on the East Coast, you should probably stock up on bug spray and pray for a really low season of West Nile virus. Because you will be bitten – a lot. And not by bats. By bugs.

Personally, I think this is just another sign that we’ve thrown the balance off. And, unfortunately for bats, they don’t reap the benefits of IVF therapy, or antibiotics, or antivirals, or antifungals. So, we’re probably looking at the demise of countless species of bats, that we will never see in such great numbers again in our lifetimes. Probably because of something we’ve done inadvertently.

And people wonder why I don’t have kids.  I’d rather save the bats.

Ah, spring break is finally here.

Me on Spring Break in Panama City – 1992. With my cheerleader girlfriend, Kathy.

Often my friends will ask me why I have decided to remain a lifetime student. They wonder why in the world would I forego a chance to earn more money and to have nice things. If I got a real job, they hint, I might be able to do more. Like go to Hawaii or buy a house, or have a baby. You know, adult things.

And sometimes I agree with them.

My bank account waits anxiously for the beginnings of semesters, when my fellowship is deposited. Then, at the end of semesters, I cry when I see my credit card statements and compare that to the $100 left in my checking account. I limit myself to shopping only at Old Navy and H&M, because I can’t afford to pay more than $10 for a shirt on my ’salary’.

When I have two books and several articles to read per week, plus my Chinese homework, and my eyes actually ache from overuse, I wonder why I’ve chosen this path. I’m reading about things that no one in their right minds would ever sit down to learn. Or, for that matter, would ever even know existed. Like a two-volume tome written by an old missionary on life in China in 1860.

When I’m writing an essay in Chinese and it’s taking me forever, or when I’m asked to play “Rock, paper, scissors” in Chinese class and I have no idea what that is because I don’t recognize the way they say it, I think that I’ll never be good enough at this language. I cried in my Laoshi’s office the other day, trying to explain why I’m so quiet in a classroom full of background speakers (meaning that they learned Chinese growing up, but haven’t officially learned how to write, etc.).

On a Saturday and Sunday, when I think to myself: “Great! The weekend’s here. Now I can get some serious work done!” I ruefully think about the years when my weekends were actually mine, instead of just an unbroken amount of time for reading more and maybe writing some of that new field statement.

When I visit friends who have jobs, lives, cars, homes, kids – I think, wow, maybe I missed the boat.

And then, spring break comes around and I realize why I’m still in school.

Because it rocks. Hard.

I have a week to do anything I want. Closely followed by an entire summer to do whatever I want. And I’m not even French.

I won the lottery with this job. Here’s why:
I get to teach next year, which will be great. Making a difference? Check next to that career box.

I get to write and research about things I care about, and which will make some contribution to the overall knowledge of the world. Loving what you do? Yep. Most of the time.

I get to write for a living. Oh, it’s not the novels I imagined, but it’s writing nonetheless. Fulfilling career choice? Uh, yeah. I guess so.

Plus, those summers, Christmas breaks, and spring breaks off. Totally free. To write those novels. To travel to China and do more research. To wander the earth in the pursuit of knowledge.

When you put it that way, it doesn’t seem so bad, this life I’m living.

Money is nice, but having time to spend it is nicer.

Varicose veins were totally hot, in Cleopatra’s Egypt.

Cleopatra admired varicose veins. In fact, she might have even tied tight bands around her knees in an attempt to develop them. The long, snake-like blood vessels were seen as a beauty enhancer in Cleo’s Egypt. They were in vogue. They made the skin and the legs more beautiful, and one might surmise, more interesting.

Now, people spend thousands of dollars to get rid of them. Varicose veins are unsightly. Treatments include injecting foam into the vein to collapse it or surgery to strip the offending veins right out of your leg. Ouch.

or

Solano Avenue in Berkeley makes me realize how much I hate people.

Solano Avenue is in North Berkeley, away from the rat-trap of downtown, campus, and students. It’s in an affluent neighborhood, with oodles of upscale shops selling you over-expensive things that you have absolutely no need for. Like a cloisonné vase turned into a one-of-kind lamp. Or fancy wool yarn for knitting. Or stiff leather chairs in the modern style. It also has a lot of restaurants, from the cheap and cheerful, to the swank and silly.

On weekends, Solano Avenue is filled with dogs, strollers, couples holding hands, friends hanging out, homeless people begging, people milling about the Peet’s coffee shop – it’s a clap-trap of goings-on.  On a sunny day, it’s wall-to-wall pedestrians. No matter if I’m walking or driving, people on Solano Avenue make me hate people. And Berkeley.

But especially when I’m driving.

There are no crosswalks with lights (only one, and almost no one uses it), so walkers just cascade into traffic as though they were J.H. Christ himself, able to stop cars with a single wave of the hand. They sip their coffee, talk on their cell phones, chat and smile with each other, and take their sweet time getting to the other side of the street.

Overheard conversations also drive me insane. About whether or not they’ll take in the new exhibition at MOMA. Or if a drive to Napa is worth it. Or the new “Brazilian music class” they’ve joined. It’s a bit pretentious, but done in a “we’re so not like that style”. These are rich, white people who don’t know they are rich, white people. Rather, they are “middle class”, “hip” people who “care about the world”. And their large, no foam, non-fat, soy chai lattes.

Of course, I think about the irony of it all, as I buy my occasional baguette and walk down to get my latte. I try not to talk about my boat, or my next trip to Bali. But, then, I don’t have to try very hard, since I’m a graduate student and I don’t really have any money. I’m an insider-outsider who loves to use hyphens to describe things. I’m in between myself.

And, maybe, just maybe, I hate myself a little bit, too.

Cat lovers everywhere, unite!

The Voice of Authority, or, the Authoritative Voice

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday about confidence.

As it turns out, when you are unsure of yourself, it shows. When you think that you are right, even despite evidence to the contrary, people believe you. Or rather, if you have that certain ‘je ne sais quoi’, they believe in you. And once someone believes in you, it’s very hard to dissuade them. (Just look at the Bush 2 presidency for evidence of this phenomena.)

It’s all about perception, baby, and don’t you ever forget it.

If you think that I am an ‘expert’, then you will believe whatever I have to say. Especially if it’s couched in language you don’t understand, and/or about a topic that is difficult – like genetics, or philosophy. That is the only thing that can reasonably explain the popular appeal of statements like the following in academia:

Does anthropology abide in humanity and if so what type of shelter is this abode and from what is the discipline and discourse sheltered from? Can there be an anti-anthropology of humanity, a de-anthropologizing of the human, and one that might not be an anti-ethnography? This raises the question of inhumanization, by which I mean, not the maltreatment of humanity, but rather, the insulation and auto-immunization of specific norms of the human or the anthropocentric through expulsive definitions of humanity’s negations, alters, others and antagonists—all that which lacks humanity and signifies the human in their lack. I will explore the interdependency of humanization/dehumanization/nonhuman as elements of a unified power/knowledge apparatus of inhumanization—a prophylactic instituting of the human through emblematic negativity.

Or the appeal of this type of circular logic in politics:

As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don’t know
We don’t know.

—Feb. 12, 2002, Department of Defense news briefing

How can you argue with either of those statements? You can’t. You just can’t. Unless, of course, you happen to speak in a codified language that supports this type of theoretico-speak.

It is essential to use the ‘authoritative voice’ in order to become the ‘voice of authority’. I don’t know why I ever doubted it before, or didn’t see it more clearly. It’s so obvious.

My problem is that I have no confidence. Or, to use the passive voice to underscore the point, confidence is lacking in me. This will not do in my chosen field of work. Or any field of work, really. Can you imagine a doctor coming into the examination room and admitting that he didn’t absolutely know what he was doing, that he was going to ‘wing it’? You’d be out of there faster than your paper examination vest tore open.

So, from now on, I will try to use the authoritative voice. I will hopefully become the expert. And then, if I’m really, really lucky, I’ll find a great job later.

Legwarmers – A Fashion Trend that Won’t Die

Legwarmers, for those of you who weren’t born yet in 1984, were a staple of trendy fashion. They had a bit longer shelf life than other trends of the 80s, which is probably why they were recently resurrected. (see pics below)

Rule #1: They had to match your over-sized sweater.

Rule #2: They had to be layered. If you wore just one set of legwarmers, you were poor.

Rule #2 1/2: They had to be scrunched down, not pulled up to your knees. That look was for dancers, not trendy kids.

Rule #3: You had to tuck your acid-wash jeans neatly inside the warmers, and they had to cover only a bit of your Reeboks. Or Nikes. Or Balloons.

Rule #4: Even if they made you sweat to death, you had to wear them.

                              

Old skool.                                                                           New skool.