Are you my city

Last Wednesday I went to a yoga class, where the yoga teacher, Lila, began the class with a article she was reading. It was written by a disabled actor in hollywood. Maybe it was this one: http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/07/why-disabled-characters-are-never-played-by-disabled-actors/374822/. The main point was that able-bodied actors are often cast as disabled characters, in part because it is easier for the audience to look at them, knowing that after the performance they go about their life unhindered by the disability. And she says that she has heard a disabled friend say that this is what hurts the most, for someone disabled, when people avert their gaze when passing them, when they are unwilling to acknowledge that existence.

And so Lila asked the class to take a moment to look at each other, in this city, where people have been trained to not look at each other, to drop that guard and look at each other, softly, with kindness. Not the judging, looking up and down, critical look; nor the staring, creepy look; just acknowledging each other for their existence, their humanity.

I looked around the room with a slight smile. And it was somewhat hilarious and sad to see that we were struggling to make eye contact. Even in this room, at a gym, where socio-economically and in age we were not that different, where we were all able-bodied yoga practitioners. Many people in the room tried, but could not quite naturally fulfill Lila's request; and some didn't seem to try at all.

And I remember telling my friends from out of town, to not look at other people, especially on the subway. And I remember one of them telling me how, this city is so lonely, people don't even look at you.

It's a week or two shy of a year that I moved all my boxes into my studio apartment. I remember being excited, thinking this is where things happen, where all the things to do are, and the food(!). And there will be interesting and creative people. And there might be endless possibilities. After a year, I've been to the interesting events and tasted delicious food. But somehow I haven't really found the connection to people. My old friends who live in the area I see every once in awhile, but not at the frequency I'd like.  When we do see each other, I struggle to remember, what has happened in the past weeks or months, it's been so long, I need to update them. I wonder if it is a function of just being older, but then it seems the city wraps us in a cocoon of busyness and self-centeredness, and we cannot make time.  And then every day I see strangers, a bit worn, a bit cynical, who won't look me in the eye. I see a city with a high density of individuals, but a low level of connection.

And looking around the room at that yoga studio, I remembered why I'm not convinced that New York is my city yet. Can I really call a city where we won't even look at each other my home?

Settling In

There are many steps to settling into a new city. In the first stage, it is setting up house -- you unpack your boxes with all your things, then spend hours inside IKEA, target, home depot or the local thrift stores shopping for furniture or containers in which to put all the stuff from your boxes. In the next stage, it is becoming friends with your neighborhood-- you learn which stores carry the cheapest tofu, the best selection of produce, or your favorite shampoo; you pick out a few favorite spots to get takeout, and know how to properly estimate your travel time to any point in the city, especially that route to work, where you figure out how to avoid every second of idle waiting, by timing your walk to the station just right so that you are next to the last one to squeeze into the train car.

And then the final stage of settling in is the most difficult, making the city your home. Your tiny apartment can feel cozy and home-like, but it is not home yet. Home is where your people are, and so to finish this stage you need to establish a circle of friends.

In a city like New York this seems to be both an exciting but then also overwhelming task. 8 million people, there must be a handful for you! And these friends will be interesting/exciting/better because of so many choices and possibilities. You're friends no longer have to be all graduate students in physics-- doesn't that sound exhilarating! But then how do you find those few people in 8 million, seems like the classic needles in a haystack.

My old friends remind me it took me awhile to find them in Ithaca-- and I remind myself that it also takes time to incubate and develop and establish any connection-- that my old dear friends were accumulated through years of being in dear old Ithaca. I try my best to be okay with finding myself often alone on weekend nights not really sure who I should call. It will get better in time... I hope...

So for now, in place of people, I find activities. New York makes that easy.

On Friday night I tore myself away from catching up on episodes of Homeland, and took the train to Chelsea for Friday Night Blues. This is my third time going to a dedicated blues dance- but I'm falling for it, and the scene. It's crowded and there's no AC and you get sweaty and bump into people, but I love the energy in the room, of the young and the old, and the way everybody moves and has their own style. I must admit I am usually shy and awkward about expressing any form of sensuality, and the argentine tango closed embrace still makes me slightly uncomfortable when I dance with people I don't know. But somehow, on the blues dance floor I open up, I have confidence, and am not afraid to let my self be showy and (for some songs) sexy. I think it's the fact that blues is close to swing and there's so much room for improv and that the music is rarely subdued, it's usually the pop songs of all the past decades, swingy showtunes, jazzy ballads, rock n' roll, broadway... I enjoy dancing with all people, young and old, holding people close, enjoying the the few minutes we have interacting and dancing and playing with the music, expressing ourselves and having a conversation through body movement.  I have yet to take proper formal lessons in blues dance, but already the time flies and I have fun, and I want to dance for hours.

I didn't dance for too many hours, because I had a busy Saturday morning planned. I woke up to get out of the house like it was a regular workday-- I had a lovely blueberry scone and pumpkin spice latte on my way to the New York Common Pantry in East Harlem. The company I work for has this really nice program where if you volunteer 25-50 hours a year, they will donate money to a charity of your choice matching your efforts at $100/hour.  On top of that, they have an office that coordinates volunteer activities with community organizations which employees can sign up for.

I've often wanted to volunteer for a food-related cause. Food is so central to my existence, and I can't begin to imagine the difficulties of hunger or poor access to nutritious food. Anyways, this being my first experience, I was very impressed with the way this food pantry is run. For one, they offer fresh produce, and nice grains, beans, some diary and eggs -- things I would gladly purchase for myself if I were grocery shopping. Additionally, all the pantry clients have membership cards, which gives them a sense of ownership, and is a good way of organizing/keeping track of pantry distributions. Lastly, they have a shopping system, where based on your household size you can choose between the inventory selections of the week.

The last point surprised me-- doesn't this cause lots of additional required work? But as I was very impressed as the morning went on, their system is designed such that the orders are digitized-- you can order online or come in to access the webapp during your pickup time.  Inside the pantry, around two dozen volunteers scrambled to fill in the orders as they came in, bagging groceries, running around.

I started out the morning dividing beets and pears into 1 lb bags in preparation for the incoming orders and crowd. At 10 am, I got reassigned to a job working with clients who came in to make selections on-site. 6 of us volunteers, each armed with a tablet, sat with clients as they chose their selections through the webapp. Most of the clients were nice and friendly, even the ones who didn't speak English. I got to speak some Mandarin, and practice very broken Spanish phrases (a few of the Hispanic seniors were very amused at my efforts, but the webapp shopping list was written so that it displayed the client's preferred language and had nice colorful pictures to help both of us along).

The volunteer experience was extremely streamlined (no idleness of standing around being unproductive, no questions on what to do or how) and the impact of the pantry very apparent (most clients were very happy to be making their grocery selections). A lot of my colleagues shared my sentiments and were curious how to volunteer in following weeks, and were eager to see the pantry coordinate more sign-ups through our company.

As I took the train back to my place, I thought to myself, it is quite a nice way to spend a Saturday morning. Although looking at all those pictures of food and being around the food made me hungry and wanting for some fresh produce for myself. So I stopped by the farmer's market near my house, got myself some ingredients for a arugula and pasta + steamed asparagus lunch and then a nice thai basil tofu stir-fry for dinner. And that dictated the rest of a very charming saturday, cooking and housekeeping and blog-writing.

I've met a few friendly people at these activities, and had a few interesting conversations. Perhaps along the way I will make myself some friends. Perhaps not or perhaps elsewhere. But I'm building up the structure of my life in the city to my liking. For everything else, friendships, relationships, maybe even love, I guess that's an adventure that I will not be able to design, and can only look forward to experiencing.

Thank you for the love

This evening I was struck by a wave of feeling down.  So I went to talk to John and Matt as they played pong-ping (where every hit is a serve).  John spoke in his usual very soothing voice and told me to take up painting; and Matt made jokes like Matt usually makes jokes, cracking me up. And I felt immensely better after the seeing the pair of them. And then I talked to Alice and Alice, being the rational wonderful Alice she is, said very many right things. Right, not in the sense of being accurate, but right in the sense of being things I needed to hear. And at swing dance I saw Gretchen, who always asks me how I am, and passes on words of wisdom, and Gaby, who always greets you with such enthusiasm you can't help but smile  The next stop was trivia at Silky Jones, and sitting there reliably as always was the calm stoic Nicole who had just saved a panicked girl from the fire alarm in Uris.  And Alisa who promised to go to the Ukelele club with me some Sunday. And the rest of the trivia team who somehow, collectively, know everything in the universe, and allow me to sit idly by sipping wine listening to all they know about American culture and world history and foreign languages and plants/fruits/vegetables.

And on the way home I was reminded that every once in awhile I feel compelled to write a "thank you note" to all the wonderful people in my life for being wonderful people in my life.  Even if they might not happen to read it, I just want to go ahead and send these thoughts out to the blogosphere.

To my darling Shayna, who always has an open mind and sees the best in people no matter what, and introduces me to events of the hippie -yoga-vegan scene of Ithaca (which I often fail to attend).  And Yvonne who always remembers to get everyone together for food and gossip. The stubborn and adorable Yao for always complimenting me on my outfit and wanting to punch anybody who has upset me.  Flip for being an ear whenever I need one.  I'm grateful for the yoga practices and heart to heart's with Colwyn, one of the few friends who have been a consistent presence from my physics cohort. And Chloe, who I'm glad is back from Hong Kong, who is sharp and witty and makes me laugh without intending to.  My lovely sister, Jesse, who needs to move to New York to be with me, because I say so.  All the colleagues who smile and say hi and joke around, and sometimes try to challenge you with a physics problem (by this last bit I mean Alex). And my advisor, for being his enthusiastic self and coaching me through all the little setbacks and trials that happen in research
 
Lastly, I never have said this in such a post before, but I'm grateful for myself.  This stubborn, slightly willful, creature has recently learned some valuable lessons about taking care of herself -- not just the physical being with exercise and nourishment and rest -- but also the emotional being with honesty and respect and gentleness. And so tonight, I'm proud of me, and I'm delighted to be me.

Thank you for the love.

Our Banal Existence

My friend Yariv was sharing a piece in New York Magazine by Elizabeth Wurtzel with me today, and he was drawing parallels between the discordant aimless yet defiant depression of the author with his own life and the way he feels as of late. And as always, because I always like accusing Yariv of being narcissistic, I told him, she is extremely "not banal", but I can see in him the capability of being banal and leading a perfectly ordinary life in a perfectly ordinary way, and being depressed in an extremely ordinary way. That Elizabeth Wurtzel possesses a borderline pathological phobia of banality, whereas he does not. And of course, I laughed at him for romanticizing his grad school career as unconventional.

But I was thinking, as I was performing such banal tasks as making boiling water for noodles and washing the dishes, that there was a time when I also romanticized my own life. When I thought I was the actual center of the universe. (I am still the center of my own universe, but I now acknowledge it is only my own). I guess I was a bright child, slightly neurotic and over-sensitive, but very much full of myself, and of course I believed I could and would become President of the United States.  Imagine my disappointment in fourth grade when I realized that given the current constitution there was no way. The next logical thing was to become a famous actress of course, and perhaps a great novelist.  When that got old, for awhile I imagined that I was the main character of some secret alien experiment; the music I heard on the radio while riding in my mother's car was not an accident, but some sort of carefully chosen background score to match my current circumstance and mood.  Of course, the aliens had some mechanism of observing me from afar, much like watching a reality TV show (although reality TV hadn't come into fashion yet when I was dreaming this up).

During this time, it was not just I felt I was destined to be important and extraordinary. It was also that I felt I was special, in terms of how I felt things, how I dealt with the world, and what went on in my mind day to day.  That my life story belonged in one of those very thick phonebook novels, like Anna Karenina (although her story is quite banal too if viewed through a lens that isn't Tolstoy).  I don't remember when this feeling faded, but eventually it did. I realized amongst the great thinkers, the manic creative types, the driven ambitious types of the world, I was really in essence a couch potato type -- happy to sit in front of the computer with my sister, chewing on gummy bears and watching TV shows to pass the time. That most of my sad stories or depressions were common to the other children of my generation and class. That really romanticizing my own place in the world was only about feeling good about myself and my existence.

But often, we depend on these things to live or feel a meaning of existence. Some feeling of importance in the world, whether stature, or fame, or respect. Or just the feeling that one's own way of living, of being, of philosophizing is superior, or at least unique, with respect to that of the masses.

What are the merits of feeling superior or unique? There is the floating theory that people who actually do achieve celebrity status, politicians, heads of multinational corporations, musicians, artists, are in some ways narcissistic and self-important. Of course, there is the danger of falling flat, failing to live up to your own self-image, and feeling depressed and lacking. Of one day discovering, perhaps, reality is in any case boring and ordinary, even all those wonderful stories and thoughts in your head, even if you try really hard to be abnormal. As perhaps Elizabeth Wurtzel-- despite her determination to prove, through her writing and living, that it isn't so-- is starting to realize.

It took awhile to come to terms with, but I am quite pleased with myself to say I am now quite comfortable and at peace with my own banality. Rather meanly, I'd like to smirk a bit at Elizabeth Wurtzel and say, you know, it's not quite so bad to want a real job, and save for retirement, and care about your friends only through facebook. Even if you lead a life of extreme pitiful banality, it's not so bad if you are enjoying yourself. In the end, perhaps it doesn't make much of a difference whether you are living in an unconventional depressed way or a conventional depressed way. Both ways, you are depressed. The unconventional can tell themselves that at least they have led interesting non-banal lives; while the conventional can bask in the comfort of a safety net and a savings account. And in both cases, people will tell themselves they are better off than the other(s).  Which perhaps is the saddest and most depressing part, what we end up telling ourselves.

But mostly I think I have this figured out and I pat myself on the back for not being supremely depressed, just occasionally ordinarily depressed, and mostly having good humour through it all. And  I feel all self-important and self-righteous in my own philosophy while claiming this, writing here as though there is an audience who thinks I am important enough to read.

Missing You

It's been a year since 11/11/11. It seems so long but then it feels so close. It is a funny kind of sadness.  Different from all the other sorts of goodbyes. I could almost cry, but then I sort of also smile. Because of all the wonderful memories.

It is at random moments I think of you and miss you. Whenever I walk into the Barnes and Nobles where we used to spend our weekend afternoons reading, working, and gossiping. Whenever I pass by BTI where you worked. Whenever I see that blue couch of yours sitting in my living room- our houseguests still sleep on the pull-out mattress. Whenever somebody mentions the Catskills, or lunch at the Heights, or desserts at Madeleines. Whenever I hear one of those songs you gave me- you liked quirky songs - they are still amongst my most played songs in iTunes. Whenever I see a luffa.  

That January in Taipei, I didn't know that it was the last time that I would see you in this lifetime or I would've hugged you harder. Last October on Skype, I didn't know it was the last time we would chat or I would've not gone off to answer another phone call. I would've sent you more e-mails and letters and packages if I had known that this was the last stretch of time to remind you that you were appreciated and loved. Should have, could have, would have.

But I guess what I can remember now is to really appreciate life and friends. And how you told me while I was complaining about all those mundane things, including not having a boyfriend, how you told me that 活著就有希望, there's hope as long as you're alive. And I remember how you were so brave, how the last time we were on Skype, around a month before your death, you really sounded at peace.  Death is not the most horrible thing, you said, there are worse sufferings and pain. And I try to remember that, when I can, it puts many of my little worries and anxieties in perspective.  

You once told me you were afraid that once you were gone, people would get over it quickly. That eventually everybody would move on, that nobody would miss you for long. I'm writing this post to say I still do think of you, miss you, wish you were here. That I smile when I think of you. Even if I'm sad. But that's a good way to leave an imprint on someone's life. And I'm sure many of your friends feel that exact same way.

Judging a Book by Its Cover

The way I prefer to pick books to read is much like the way I prefer to make friends.  Naturally, through a chance encounter, or introduced by a trusted acquaintance.  Our time spent together should not be forced- trying too hard makes the relationship chore-like.  Our friendship should be genuine- not to make use of any gains this friendship may present or would it be for showing-off that I know somebody cool.  Any book that I purposely read, just because it is a "classic" or other people love it or I want to appear sophisticated while sitting in a cafe- those books usually fall flat.

As we grow up it seems that it is harder to make friends.  It also seems harder to find time for leisurely reading.  Reading without an agenda.  Socializing without viewing it as a networking event.  And in my life, in the pursuit of being scholarly, my Ph.D. studies have taken time away friend-making and book-reading alike.  It is the book-reading that has suffered the most.  Books have been replaced by PAPERS.  Science papers.

Although it is also the written word- somehow it is hard to feel cozy with a paper or find papers good bedtime reading.  Sleep inducing, yes, but not appropriate bedtime reading material.  Seldom do I feel like I would like to take a paper on vacation or to a park.  I do not reread a paper for the comfort of familiar characters, like they way I reread Harry Potter, or because the prose sings.  Mostly if I have to read a paper more than once is because I didn't understand it much the first time.

So scientists are lousy story tellers, or sometimes probably they don't have very compelling stories to tell.  But survival in academia dictates that we must publish something even without a compelling story, and the day to day life of a graduate student means I must sift through these papers in case there is a compelling or at least useful story hidden somewhere.

And so by the start of my recent vacation, I was determined to get some non-paper reading in.  In hindsight, it was fortunate my kindle recently broke.  Ever since I acquired a kindle last year, I rarely meet books the old fashioned way anymore.  Shopping the kindle bookstore is like online dating.  The selection is limited and not so enticing.  Some really good books are not available online.  The store pretends to make informed recommendations, as if they know anything about your tastes. I always come away from it slightly dissatisfied. 

At the beginning of my vacation, a Sunday in New York City, it was beautiful out, and not too hot.  I decided I wanted to read a book in the park under a tree.  Because it had been awhile since the book in a park under a tree scene has occurred in my life.   So I found myself, on the Upper West Side of New York, in a cramped used bookstore, searching for something to read.   

I usually find myself a shallow person- appearances matter.  Slightly when it comes to making friends (so all my friends- you are good looking!), more so for dating, and extremely when it comes to books.  Sometimes I will read a book just for its cover art.  And I will refuse to read a book I was planning to read if the cover is ugly.

But I know all that is nonsense.  That even though the author and editors have a say in the cover art, and that it is probably true that the choice of cover says something about their target audience or who they would like their target audience to be.  It is also probably true that great writers and editors could have very very poor taste in aesthetics.

And so I encounter this book with a rather unfortunate cover design.  It is pink.  I love pink, but this pink has a gradient, changing from white to pink at the bottom, like a powerpoint slide.  The title is pink "Women and Fiction", in some type of calligraphic font, and the three words take up half of the cover.  The rest of the space is mostly filled by an incomplete list of the (female) literary greats it includes.  And much more!  It declares on the bottom.  Something like a stock photo of a book with rose petals fallen on the open pages is sandwiched between the humongous title and the list of authors.  It is small, appearing squashed by the title above it, and intimidated by the authors below it.   It is not entirely the best cover for its contents.

   

It is a compilation of short stories.  That's why it's so ugly.  They made it for cheap and probably was not thinking about marketing it properly.  Short fiction seems perfect for the park.  It's stories by women about women by great authors I've read and have wanted to read.  Kate Chopin.  Virginia Woolf.  Edith Wharton.  Joyce Carol Oates…. Nice representation throughout the ages too.  And it's only 4 dollars.  4 dollars for anything seems like a steal in the City.

So despite its rather disturbing cover I buy it and plant myself under a tree in Central Park near a Jazz trio.  Some old guys are playing enthusiastically.  They play quite well, with their sax, bass, and keyboard.  And I feel quite luxurious as I slowly make my way through a few stories and lounge away the afternoon.  

The next day, I am at JFK enroute to see my family, and I am having trouble with the self-check-in kiosk, so I flag down an "airline representative"

"What are you reading there?" says the airline representative who sees the book poking out of my purse.  He's black, tall, fit, my age, maybe younger, being friendly.  

"Short stories."

"I'm not gonna judge you, cause at least you're not reading 50 Shades of Grey."  he teases.  "I see people reading that everywhere, and I do judge them."

Suddenly I comprehend what he's assuming the book is, and if I knew how to blush I would, but I rarely show any color in my face, so I blush internally. 

"No, no, it's not…  I mean, this is literature.  Like Edith Wharton and Virginia Woolf and famous authors like that, from all different times."  I quickly rise to my book's defense.

He's apparently never heard of Edith Wharton.  He laughs  "Literature? It looks like…"

"Here."  I interrupt and shove the book at him.  "Read a bit of it and you'll see…"

He reads a paragraph of a random page or so, and says "I'm sure at some point a guy will come in and…"  he catches himself before the verb.  

I decide the situation is mute and give up and make small talk instead.  "So have you read 50 Shades of Grey?  I guess you didn't like it?"

He says, "Oh, my ex-girlfriend used to own a copy.  I didn't read much of it.  I prefer porn- visual stuff.  But you ladies, you can imagine things.  More imagination..."

I smile and we exchange a few other sentences about the difference between sexes.  And I depart, amused, and pretend that I'm nonchalantly carrying around my pink "romance novel".  But on the plane, I catch a few people reading the discussed "50 shades", and all of a sudden, I feel very very defensive and sad for my book.  Because it is a rather nice compilation, and does not deserve to be classified in the same category a cheap romance novel with bad writing.  I defiantly read my book in an angle that the cover is extremely visible, but pretty soon I forget about the cover, and get lost enjoying Gertrude Stein and her "Picasso-like" writing style.

The Ease of Happiness

It is easy to be happy.  But I forget.  It is also easy to forget- especially when one is a giant ball of stress.  I am stressing out about basically what others think about me- about research- what I think of myself.  What am I doing with my life?  What is anyone doing with their life?  Argh.

But it was Lola who reminded me of the ease of happiness yesterday- as we were going to Greenstar to get Ice Cream, and we were talking about French croissants and yoga and simple things, that I observed, it is easy to make Lola happy.  And I felt envious- that is a nice character trait to have- I want that character trait too. 

But then I thought about it a bit, and realized that I have forgotten it is easy to make me happy too.  Good food.  Warm tea.  Music you can dance to.  Cozy conversations.  Sleeping in.  Being indoors on a rainy day.  And French croissants. 

But sometimes I try too hard.  Try too hard to be happy.  Try too hard to make friends.  Try too hard to learn how to flirt.  Try too hard to work (and get really frustrated when I get stuck).  And things don't really flow.  I've been reading "Tao-te-ching" and "The Tao of Pooh" lent to me by a dear friend.  And it is reminding me how sometimes you have to let things flow naturally.  Be yourself.  Trust in the universe.  And just let things happen- even if they don't go your way- even if you think they are bad things.  The Taoist principle 無為 (woo-way), which sort of translates as "do nothing", is not really laziness or inaction, I realize slowly to not go against the nature of yourself or of your surroundings...  or in western culture, this is called "The Pooh Way."

So - I will stop letting my stress and mess and myself get in the way of happiness.  Because there is much to be pleased with - it is summer, Ithaca is beautiful, we are young (and can still effortlessly walk, breathe, dance, laugh), and life continues to unfold in expected and unexpected ways.  (AND~ pretty soon I'll be having one of those French croissants!)