When we traveled to the World Cup in Capetown, we caught football fever. Any chance to throw on shirts, hats, scarves, flags, anything with a country’s flag on it was vigorously embraced. My two prized possessions from that trip are my South African flag vuvuzela and my Portugal scarf. Hayden’s purchase was in the Havianas store. They cleverly created flip flops (or hip flops as I call them) with the flags of all of the teams in the Cup on them. After much debate (US? Brazil?), Hayden went with South Africa flip flops, because the spirit of that country was so great. They did not have them in Capetown, but I watch the news violence in Libya and strangely picture Libyan flip flops. Unlike the pride and fever pitch of the World Cup, I believe this is my sarcastic response to whimsical and disaffected media outlets and politicians flinging their opinions back and forth as the political moment dictates. Flip flop flip flop. Such careless oscillation makes me want to capture my own feelings about what's going on.
Here’s my two cents on Libya…Back when the media, the Republicans and the granny at the corner store in Kansas were expertly talking about the need to implement a no-fly zone in Libya, I was against it. It is in part because of my pacifist view of the world. This view doesn’t come from a moralistic self-righteous place, but rather from having seen the effects of war. It’s shaped as much by Admiral Mullen’s pragmatic warnings as by George Fox’s open heart. We’ve gotten quite comfortable since the days of the first Iraq war of supporting war from the safety our living rooms. But the fear, anxiety and death of war are too awful to ever support military efforts as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been in war zones, although thankfully have not ever had to actively duck bullets. In Congo, Burundi and Uganda I was terrified at times and downright relieved when I could get the hell out of there. I have spent a lot of time with people who have experienced war; families, women and children who have experienced war. I have heard their terrible stories and have had my heart broken, because they have no escape, except perhaps to the dire conditions of refugee and IDP camps on the fringes. There is no such thing as a good war.
[Parenthetically and in case one day I should achieve some sort of fame and this little insignificant blog is found, let me say that while I feel strongly about this, I also possess the intellectual capital not to condemn those who enlist in the military. I know they do so for many many reasons. Indeed, it is those brave women and men who may agree more readily with me, because of what they have experienced.]
My lack of support for this military intervention also comes in part from the frustration of knowing that the interest in Libyan liberty is undoubtedly tied more to our strategic interests than to the protection of civilians. Several have commented that if we go into Libya, what about Yemen, Syria, Bahrain, etc. etc.? Forget about the Middle East, what about Cote D’Ivoire? Does the world know that despite losing Presidential elections and having that confirmed by the UN and other independent election monitors President Gbagbo refuses to cede power? What about poor poor Congo? While I worry about the people of Bengazi, does their proximity to oil mean their 50,000 lives are more important than the 5 million killed in Congo in the past decade of lawless vicious war in the East? Are we in Libya for human rights and freedom? No way Jose.
In any case we’re in it now. The President, whose team should be lambasted for absolutely sucking at tooting their horn, has pulled off an amazing triumph for international peace and security. He has gotten in line behind a UN Security Council resolution, the way the US ought to. He has brought the Arab League and Turkey on board. He has also delinked the US’s endgame in Libya from the actual endgame in Libya, which is interesting. We will not put troops on the ground or leave Libya only when Gaddafi leaves. Our military lead is set to retire now that the no-fly zone is in effect.
In actuality the US’s role will continue in so many ways. While conservatives hem and haw about ceding power to NATO, NATO is still de facto US controlled since we’re in command of it. My job searching has skimmed past dozens of relief and stabilization jobs in North Africa and the Middle East. We will be involved in this for some time.
Decisions about Libya continue to flip flop. The media and the right have conveniently forgotten that they supported this effort before they saw the political opportunity to criticize it. The President, albeit eloquently, deludes himself that this will be a finite, contained military action. And I wonder if we could ever convince the world to be as interested in Goma as it is in Misrata.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Monday Musings: Reboot
I’m launching my blog reboot today. I’m not really changing the content as much as I am trying to make it better organized. I think if I have some predictability I will write something that I might just get up the nerve to share with others.
From now on, I will try to write three times a week (this may be tough if I ever get employed again.) On Monday’s I want to keep it open enough to write about whatever strikes my fancy. So “Monday Musings” will include general observations not unlike what I’m already doing. On Wednesdays I will launch “Wednesday’s Political Hump.” This will be an opportunity for me to shout my opinions about politics. With all that’s going on in the Middle East and all that’s going on in Africa that’s not making headlines, not to mention poor Japan and our own dear country, I’d like to write regularly on politics. On Fridays I will continue with "Friday Food." I love to write about food and think that I can keep up with the other foodie bloggers out there.
So my first Monday musing is about trying to schedule a doctor’s appointment. Oh health insurance, you are a pain in everyone’s ass. I spent three hours this morning trying to do two things: select a primary care physician and schedule a doctor’s appointment. The first hour was used to figure out how to navigate CareFirst’s website, which while it contains pictures of lots of smiling faces to ease your worries, is not very intuitive. Selecting a username and password was bulky and perturbing. I had to type in personal information that I don’t really think is a good idea to enter online anywhere, like my mother’s maiden name. I’ll hope CareFirst doesn’t have hackers. Once I did that I was ready to select a primary care physician. To spare all of the nitty gritty, in the end and after multiple pop-up windows to nowhere I chose a doctor right around the corner. I’ll hope she knows what she’s doing.
Next was scheduling an appointment. I called the doctor’s office and was told the office was closed from 12pm to 1pm. Really? So I decided to check other doctors. One answering service told me the wait time was 30 minutes but kindly offered to call me back when I made it to the top of the queue. No thanks. So I walked the dog, came back, sat on hold for about 10 minutes and then made an appointment. For JULY 5th. Really? Three months? Sigh. Of course I’m not even sure I need the appointment, but made it anyway. Maybe some ailment will come up by then.
I know these complaints are not new. In fact my mother spends most of her days dealing with doctor’s appointments and untangling insurance claims. But for me it was a stark reminder of how difficult things can be in this country. I’m a well-educated person and I really struggled. What about everyone else? Why is this so difficult? And don’t even get me started on the luxury of having insurance. I feel lucky that by the grace of God (and because ACDI VOCA is located in DC and not Maryland) I was able to squeeze onto Hayden’s insurance. Isn’t that sad?
From now on, I will try to write three times a week (this may be tough if I ever get employed again.) On Monday’s I want to keep it open enough to write about whatever strikes my fancy. So “Monday Musings” will include general observations not unlike what I’m already doing. On Wednesdays I will launch “Wednesday’s Political Hump.” This will be an opportunity for me to shout my opinions about politics. With all that’s going on in the Middle East and all that’s going on in Africa that’s not making headlines, not to mention poor Japan and our own dear country, I’d like to write regularly on politics. On Fridays I will continue with "Friday Food." I love to write about food and think that I can keep up with the other foodie bloggers out there.
So my first Monday musing is about trying to schedule a doctor’s appointment. Oh health insurance, you are a pain in everyone’s ass. I spent three hours this morning trying to do two things: select a primary care physician and schedule a doctor’s appointment. The first hour was used to figure out how to navigate CareFirst’s website, which while it contains pictures of lots of smiling faces to ease your worries, is not very intuitive. Selecting a username and password was bulky and perturbing. I had to type in personal information that I don’t really think is a good idea to enter online anywhere, like my mother’s maiden name. I’ll hope CareFirst doesn’t have hackers. Once I did that I was ready to select a primary care physician. To spare all of the nitty gritty, in the end and after multiple pop-up windows to nowhere I chose a doctor right around the corner. I’ll hope she knows what she’s doing.
Next was scheduling an appointment. I called the doctor’s office and was told the office was closed from 12pm to 1pm. Really? So I decided to check other doctors. One answering service told me the wait time was 30 minutes but kindly offered to call me back when I made it to the top of the queue. No thanks. So I walked the dog, came back, sat on hold for about 10 minutes and then made an appointment. For JULY 5th. Really? Three months? Sigh. Of course I’m not even sure I need the appointment, but made it anyway. Maybe some ailment will come up by then.
I know these complaints are not new. In fact my mother spends most of her days dealing with doctor’s appointments and untangling insurance claims. But for me it was a stark reminder of how difficult things can be in this country. I’m a well-educated person and I really struggled. What about everyone else? Why is this so difficult? And don’t even get me started on the luxury of having insurance. I feel lucky that by the grace of God (and because ACDI VOCA is located in DC and not Maryland) I was able to squeeze onto Hayden’s insurance. Isn’t that sad?
Friday, March 25, 2011
Friday Food: Chicken
This week I twice attempted to cook chicken. Both attempts were meh. It’s humbling. I’ve been on a good cooking streak lately. I’ve been excited by my access to great ingredients at Harris Tweeter and Eastern Market: fresh turkey sausage, whole wheat pasta, spinach and of course CHEESE.
To stumble not once but twice this week got me thinking, “can I cook chicken?” The problem could be in the cut. From my first cooking forays in college, it was drilled into me by the liberal wealthy life-skills programming I received that when one went to buy chicken, the only acceptable cut was the boneless skinless chicken breast. Indeed, it was revered as the filet mignon of chicken, which was important because at Vassar one was no longer allowed to eat red meat. I imagine that the same vehement health nuts/snobs at Vassar now add “GMO-free” and “organic” to that qualification. [eye roll] But let’s face it, chicken is nowhere near as tasty as a filet mignon. I remember watching a food show and I think it was Jamie Oliver who scoffed at the chicken breast and declared the chicken thigh the tastiest. I always think about that when I’m in the chicken isle, but still can’t get up the nerve to break through the brainwash and stray from the breast.
My first attempt was a stir fry. I was excited for all of the vegetables I had: broccoli, red pepper, mushrooms, fresh ginger, water chestnuts. Also, with my new foolproof sauce method, corn starch (duh), I was feeling pretty cocky about getting all of the flavors to stick together and preventing the sauce from being absorbed completely. It all went to play and it looked good, but the first bite sent me in a panic to the kitchen to retrieve the soy sauce and hot pepper sauce bottles. I doused my dish and quickly shoveled in another bite to discover the source of the problem. The chicken. Even though I first flash fried it, removed it so that it didn’t get overcooked and returned it to the end of the stir fry, it tasted like card board. I’m sure tofu would have tasted much better.
For my second attempt (since breasts come in pairs of course), I thought ahead a bit. I marinated the chicken for a few hours in lemon and dill. This time I combined the chicken in a pasta dish which also included snow peas, mushrooms, red pepper and onion. The key fail-safe ingredient: goat’s cheese. I tossed the pasta directly into the pan with the cooked veggies and chicken. The texture was nice and creamy. I couldn’t wait to try it. I took a bite and dashed to the kitchen for some grated fresh parmesan cheese. I sprinkled liberally and again hoped a last minute condiment would revive the dish. The chicken was better, lemony and dilly, but still not great.
I think I give up on cooking chicken altogether. Or maybe I’ll try the chicken thighs…
Restaurant notes:
Enjoyed: Vinoteca on 11st street and U Street. Great eggs benedict with gruyere cheese and nice thick bread. The best part was the bottomless mimosa for $5. I think I had 5, but passed out before I could count up the glasses.
Did not enjoy: Haydee’s. Despite the great name and the huge crowd, the Mexican/Salvadoran food was terrible. Seriously, how can you make Mexican food terrible? And why were there so many people there? The worst part was the margarita on the rocks that was a neon green color. For the first time in my life I could not finish a drink. It was putrid.
To stumble not once but twice this week got me thinking, “can I cook chicken?” The problem could be in the cut. From my first cooking forays in college, it was drilled into me by the liberal wealthy life-skills programming I received that when one went to buy chicken, the only acceptable cut was the boneless skinless chicken breast. Indeed, it was revered as the filet mignon of chicken, which was important because at Vassar one was no longer allowed to eat red meat. I imagine that the same vehement health nuts/snobs at Vassar now add “GMO-free” and “organic” to that qualification. [eye roll] But let’s face it, chicken is nowhere near as tasty as a filet mignon. I remember watching a food show and I think it was Jamie Oliver who scoffed at the chicken breast and declared the chicken thigh the tastiest. I always think about that when I’m in the chicken isle, but still can’t get up the nerve to break through the brainwash and stray from the breast.
My first attempt was a stir fry. I was excited for all of the vegetables I had: broccoli, red pepper, mushrooms, fresh ginger, water chestnuts. Also, with my new foolproof sauce method, corn starch (duh), I was feeling pretty cocky about getting all of the flavors to stick together and preventing the sauce from being absorbed completely. It all went to play and it looked good, but the first bite sent me in a panic to the kitchen to retrieve the soy sauce and hot pepper sauce bottles. I doused my dish and quickly shoveled in another bite to discover the source of the problem. The chicken. Even though I first flash fried it, removed it so that it didn’t get overcooked and returned it to the end of the stir fry, it tasted like card board. I’m sure tofu would have tasted much better.
For my second attempt (since breasts come in pairs of course), I thought ahead a bit. I marinated the chicken for a few hours in lemon and dill. This time I combined the chicken in a pasta dish which also included snow peas, mushrooms, red pepper and onion. The key fail-safe ingredient: goat’s cheese. I tossed the pasta directly into the pan with the cooked veggies and chicken. The texture was nice and creamy. I couldn’t wait to try it. I took a bite and dashed to the kitchen for some grated fresh parmesan cheese. I sprinkled liberally and again hoped a last minute condiment would revive the dish. The chicken was better, lemony and dilly, but still not great.
I think I give up on cooking chicken altogether. Or maybe I’ll try the chicken thighs…
Restaurant notes:
Enjoyed: Vinoteca on 11st street and U Street. Great eggs benedict with gruyere cheese and nice thick bread. The best part was the bottomless mimosa for $5. I think I had 5, but passed out before I could count up the glasses.
Did not enjoy: Haydee’s. Despite the great name and the huge crowd, the Mexican/Salvadoran food was terrible. Seriously, how can you make Mexican food terrible? And why were there so many people there? The worst part was the margarita on the rocks that was a neon green color. For the first time in my life I could not finish a drink. It was putrid.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Cleaning out my closet
My shipment from Africa has arrived!
As suspected, my apartment suddenly seems simultaneously small and like a cheesy African craft market. Even when trying to select only 1/8 of the crafts to put on display it looks a bit silly and certainly cluttered in this little apartment. The long term solution of a bigger place has taken on more of a priority, but the fact that my dog cannot navigate safe passage to the back patio dictates that I put a short term plan in place.
This morning, after a phone interview, I started trying to squeeze things into place which inadvertently triggered a Winter-to-Spring closet transformation. I believe I speak for all women when I say that we love this. Not the chore of it, but rather the discovery of favorite skirts from seasons past and shoes! Oh to unpack my sandals; lots and lots of sandals. I haven’t seen some of my stuff for a season and some stuff has been in storage and hasn’t seen the light of day for years. Some items in storage inevitably become victim of expired fashion trends. I found an olive green baby doll dress that although dominated the fashion trends in the late eighties and had a brief resurgence in 2003 did not survive to the fashion present. Other perennials not only get dusted off, but also trigger memories of wearing them. I found my knock ‘em dead shirt dress that I loved to sashay in through the UN corridors in New York.
Randomly I found the hood/scarf thingy that I’m sure has a proper Persian name that I wore in Iran. I remember having so much trouble getting it to stay on my face so that absolutely not one iota of my considerably curly hair was visible. This was a necessity on the day we visited the holy city of Qom. On the way, we stopped at a rest stop and I went in to buy some cherry juice. When I entered these two young girls started smiling a lot and shrieking a bit and gesturing me to the back of the stall. Without asking my permission (well in English at least) they whisked off the scarf, reorganized and flung it back on my head in seconds. It was PERFECT. It felt better and it looked so good and contained my mop of curls so well that I thought perhaps I could wear this scarf thingy at home too. (Seemed like a better idea in Iran than when I did get home.)It was also one of the few moments I had in Iran to interact with ordinary Iranians, especially a young woman.
So the switch is made. My sweaters are in the sizeable pile that’s heading off to the storage unit, along with baskets and masks and other African knickknacks. I managed to create an acceptable shoe storage container from an African fishing basket. It has holes throughout that allows the shoes to breathe, and I can view them all at once so that none of them get jealous. You know how it is…
As suspected, my apartment suddenly seems simultaneously small and like a cheesy African craft market. Even when trying to select only 1/8 of the crafts to put on display it looks a bit silly and certainly cluttered in this little apartment. The long term solution of a bigger place has taken on more of a priority, but the fact that my dog cannot navigate safe passage to the back patio dictates that I put a short term plan in place.
This morning, after a phone interview, I started trying to squeeze things into place which inadvertently triggered a Winter-to-Spring closet transformation. I believe I speak for all women when I say that we love this. Not the chore of it, but rather the discovery of favorite skirts from seasons past and shoes! Oh to unpack my sandals; lots and lots of sandals. I haven’t seen some of my stuff for a season and some stuff has been in storage and hasn’t seen the light of day for years. Some items in storage inevitably become victim of expired fashion trends. I found an olive green baby doll dress that although dominated the fashion trends in the late eighties and had a brief resurgence in 2003 did not survive to the fashion present. Other perennials not only get dusted off, but also trigger memories of wearing them. I found my knock ‘em dead shirt dress that I loved to sashay in through the UN corridors in New York.
Randomly I found the hood/scarf thingy that I’m sure has a proper Persian name that I wore in Iran. I remember having so much trouble getting it to stay on my face so that absolutely not one iota of my considerably curly hair was visible. This was a necessity on the day we visited the holy city of Qom. On the way, we stopped at a rest stop and I went in to buy some cherry juice. When I entered these two young girls started smiling a lot and shrieking a bit and gesturing me to the back of the stall. Without asking my permission (well in English at least) they whisked off the scarf, reorganized and flung it back on my head in seconds. It was PERFECT. It felt better and it looked so good and contained my mop of curls so well that I thought perhaps I could wear this scarf thingy at home too. (Seemed like a better idea in Iran than when I did get home.)It was also one of the few moments I had in Iran to interact with ordinary Iranians, especially a young woman.
So the switch is made. My sweaters are in the sizeable pile that’s heading off to the storage unit, along with baskets and masks and other African knickknacks. I managed to create an acceptable shoe storage container from an African fishing basket. It has holes throughout that allows the shoes to breathe, and I can view them all at once so that none of them get jealous. You know how it is…
Monday, March 21, 2011
8th Wonder?
On Friday I saw one of the most amazing sights of my life. It was not the super moon, which came in a good strong second. It was the sight of 8.1 million New Yorkers with shit-eating grins on their faces. All of New York was in a good mood and, like the scene out of Ghostbusters, the mood was so pervasive it was as if the concrete was singing. The reason was that on Friday New York had its first glimpse of life after winter. On Friday, for one day only, it was 70 degrees and perfect.
I traveled up to New York, because a woman I met in Gulu who is producing a Hollywood film about Northern Uganda contacted me and asked me to meet her. I thought this seemed like a good idea, especially since it had been a while since I had seen my family and friends.
I spent St. Paddy’s day with my mom in NJ (my dad came eventually after properly celebrating for 5 hours in our favorite Irish pub, the Ear.) My mom made corned beef and cabbage, a perennial Irish American dinner, which I hate. I went out and bought fresh cod and made her add on fried cod, the more traditional Irish-Irish base for fish and chips. We drank Guinness and a little whiskey. Niice.
The next day I traveled in to meet Coleen, who is trying to pull financing together for a film about girls who were abducted by the LRA. In addition to a fictional Hollywood movie, she wants to start a US-based charity, which is where I come in. We first met in Gulu and she’s been asking pretty good questions about what’s already happening and what’s needed on the ground. My motivation may be linked to the promise of meeting Uma and George, but it turns out living in Gulu for 105 years provides one with heaps of knowledge about girls and soldiers…
Coleen was an hour late, because she attempted to take a taxi from midtown to the LES on the sunniest day of the year. Silly visitor from LA. It was rush hour and traffic was ensnared with taxis and spontaneous hordes of bikers and roller bladers, who seemed to come to life with the arrival of the warm air the way sea horses need just a sprinkle of water. I didn’t mind waiting for her. I was in heaven. I was in my town, sitting in a perfectly quaint Italian vinoteca on Ludlow street watching hipsters in their outrages new Spring uniforms pass by. I actually saw a young girl with her hair teased deeply ironically into the exact style of Dolly Parton’s wig in Steel Magnolias. It was happy hour so I ordered the prosecco special and a cheese plate and giggled to myself. Perhaps it was the prosecco or my delight at being home or both. I looked around and thought I saw everyone giggling to themselves. I think we were all provoked by the warm breeze teasing us with the promise of wonderful weather on the horizon.
I traveled up to New York, because a woman I met in Gulu who is producing a Hollywood film about Northern Uganda contacted me and asked me to meet her. I thought this seemed like a good idea, especially since it had been a while since I had seen my family and friends.
I spent St. Paddy’s day with my mom in NJ (my dad came eventually after properly celebrating for 5 hours in our favorite Irish pub, the Ear.) My mom made corned beef and cabbage, a perennial Irish American dinner, which I hate. I went out and bought fresh cod and made her add on fried cod, the more traditional Irish-Irish base for fish and chips. We drank Guinness and a little whiskey. Niice.
The next day I traveled in to meet Coleen, who is trying to pull financing together for a film about girls who were abducted by the LRA. In addition to a fictional Hollywood movie, she wants to start a US-based charity, which is where I come in. We first met in Gulu and she’s been asking pretty good questions about what’s already happening and what’s needed on the ground. My motivation may be linked to the promise of meeting Uma and George, but it turns out living in Gulu for 105 years provides one with heaps of knowledge about girls and soldiers…
Coleen was an hour late, because she attempted to take a taxi from midtown to the LES on the sunniest day of the year. Silly visitor from LA. It was rush hour and traffic was ensnared with taxis and spontaneous hordes of bikers and roller bladers, who seemed to come to life with the arrival of the warm air the way sea horses need just a sprinkle of water. I didn’t mind waiting for her. I was in heaven. I was in my town, sitting in a perfectly quaint Italian vinoteca on Ludlow street watching hipsters in their outrages new Spring uniforms pass by. I actually saw a young girl with her hair teased deeply ironically into the exact style of Dolly Parton’s wig in Steel Magnolias. It was happy hour so I ordered the prosecco special and a cheese plate and giggled to myself. Perhaps it was the prosecco or my delight at being home or both. I looked around and thought I saw everyone giggling to themselves. I think we were all provoked by the warm breeze teasing us with the promise of wonderful weather on the horizon.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Jessica's Race: Part II
Many issues of race in the US continue to bombard me during my re-entry period to the US. While I dwell on these tough issues, I’m also happy to write about lighter moments on the topic of race too, like this little anecdote from last week.
I was waiting for Hayden to check out DC’s H Street Corridor, an up-and-coming neighborhood with a lot of houses for sale. I like the area. It’s a mixed neighborhood: white yuppies and black families seem to co-exist without too much drama. To kill time, I went inside a CVS. Still newly returned to the US, I actually love pharmacies. I love browsing the convenience of all of the items that were so deeply coveted in Gulu. Nail polish and chocolate chip cookies and razors and Advil PM all located in one place. Above all, my favorite section in these modern day super drug stores is the hair products section. I can literally stand in the aisle for hours perusing products. The best part is that for once I can usually manage to squelch my otherwise eager buying impulses. For some reason, while I do frequently purchase hair products, I get equal satisfaction from simply scanning the selection and spotting new miracle cures for my dry curly biracial hair.
I entered the store and immediately drifted to the aisle of hair. To my delight, I discovered that the “ethnic” line of products, the section that is usually attributed about 11% of the aisle in a normal convenience store, was easily half of the aisle. It was olive oil sheens and deep conditioners galore. There were easily 50 anti-breakage formulas to choose from. My hair, after three and half years in Gulu, has been through a lot and its damage has been a constant and major source of stress in my life. I began to obsess about deep conditioners and anti-breakage potions while living there and I’m delighted to have access to these miracle products 24/7 these days.
I share my obsession with hair care products and African American hair products in particular with black people around the world. I won’t dwell on it, since there are books and documentaries on black hair (check out Chris Rock’s documentary, which addresses the obsession and investment and the art of black hair.) My obsession is unique of course. My hair, emblematic of my life, literally falls between product lines. I therefore often dabble in hair care chemistry to get the right mix between black and white hair needs.
When I entered the aisle, I did a quick scan and the enormity of the selection seeped in. My heart quickened and I skidded back and forth without really focusing on any one item. As I regained my composure, I returned to the beginning of the section and slowly and systemically examined each product in order to see all that there was on offer. So many hair care lines! It was wonderful. I picked up and examined bottles and sprays and lotions and jellies. My mind began to drift back to the topic at hand…vetting this neighborhood. How great it was to live in a mixed neighborhood, which could ease my hair woes! Perhaps this was emblematic of my overall crave to have both cultures in my life.
When Hayden walked in to find me, I exclaimed to him, “you know, living in this neighborhood would be awesome, because I would have access to all of these amazing black hair products!” He looked at me with a hesitant smile, as if to say “ok, Jess, whatever floats your boat. I know it’s probably best to just smile and nod.” He grabbed my hand and I shook out my hair which got caught up in the breeze as we walked out of the store, just like a pantene commercial.
I was waiting for Hayden to check out DC’s H Street Corridor, an up-and-coming neighborhood with a lot of houses for sale. I like the area. It’s a mixed neighborhood: white yuppies and black families seem to co-exist without too much drama. To kill time, I went inside a CVS. Still newly returned to the US, I actually love pharmacies. I love browsing the convenience of all of the items that were so deeply coveted in Gulu. Nail polish and chocolate chip cookies and razors and Advil PM all located in one place. Above all, my favorite section in these modern day super drug stores is the hair products section. I can literally stand in the aisle for hours perusing products. The best part is that for once I can usually manage to squelch my otherwise eager buying impulses. For some reason, while I do frequently purchase hair products, I get equal satisfaction from simply scanning the selection and spotting new miracle cures for my dry curly biracial hair.
I entered the store and immediately drifted to the aisle of hair. To my delight, I discovered that the “ethnic” line of products, the section that is usually attributed about 11% of the aisle in a normal convenience store, was easily half of the aisle. It was olive oil sheens and deep conditioners galore. There were easily 50 anti-breakage formulas to choose from. My hair, after three and half years in Gulu, has been through a lot and its damage has been a constant and major source of stress in my life. I began to obsess about deep conditioners and anti-breakage potions while living there and I’m delighted to have access to these miracle products 24/7 these days.
I share my obsession with hair care products and African American hair products in particular with black people around the world. I won’t dwell on it, since there are books and documentaries on black hair (check out Chris Rock’s documentary, which addresses the obsession and investment and the art of black hair.) My obsession is unique of course. My hair, emblematic of my life, literally falls between product lines. I therefore often dabble in hair care chemistry to get the right mix between black and white hair needs.
When I entered the aisle, I did a quick scan and the enormity of the selection seeped in. My heart quickened and I skidded back and forth without really focusing on any one item. As I regained my composure, I returned to the beginning of the section and slowly and systemically examined each product in order to see all that there was on offer. So many hair care lines! It was wonderful. I picked up and examined bottles and sprays and lotions and jellies. My mind began to drift back to the topic at hand…vetting this neighborhood. How great it was to live in a mixed neighborhood, which could ease my hair woes! Perhaps this was emblematic of my overall crave to have both cultures in my life.
When Hayden walked in to find me, I exclaimed to him, “you know, living in this neighborhood would be awesome, because I would have access to all of these amazing black hair products!” He looked at me with a hesitant smile, as if to say “ok, Jess, whatever floats your boat. I know it’s probably best to just smile and nod.” He grabbed my hand and I shook out my hair which got caught up in the breeze as we walked out of the store, just like a pantene commercial.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Purchayzes
Today I went shopping for two things: running shoes and a computer. Both items are momentous purchases. I realize that the former is a purchase that I’ve made only a handful of times in many years of sports and exercise. In fact, for better or for worse, I had 1 pair of Nikes all through high school and I ran track for three seasons in them. My latest pair I bought just prior to moving to Uganda and I may have bought them for style over performance (for shame!) I have noticed on my up to four dog walks a day that my hipflexers are aching and perhaps it may be time to buy the right shoe.
For this reason, I made the trek to Chinatown in DC, walked into the store, directly to the back and got to work scanning the ginormous wall of sneakers. A silly sales clerk came over and immediately started pestering me and by pester I may mean that he attempted to do his job. I got grumpy when he suggested that I name my preferred brand. I looked at him blankly and stumbled, having not bought sneakers in so long. He took this as a cue that perhaps I was new to the whole buying sneakers thing. Mistake. Daggers flew at the suggestion that I, who played varsity soccer in college, may be a novice. Was he intimating that I was out of shape? That my behind was ever-expanding? Did he just point out my grey hair?! I gave him a withering, how dare you look and he slinked away, confused, hurt. I felt a little guilty and didn’t realize that buying running shoes was so personal to me. But it is.
To add insult to injury, I finally decided on two brands I would consider, New Balance because they are made in the USA (and not China!!) and Reebok, because the CEO of Reebok is a huge supporter of human rights. This place had one pair of NB, which were ugly and not in my size. They had no Reeboks. Nail in coffin. I about-faced and the sales clerk did not give chase.
Having failed at the first half of my mission, I regrouped and marched toward Best Buy for the computer. With my former employer demanding the return of the laptop I’m currently using and my need to stay connected, I bit the bullet and for the second time in my life bought a computer. The trauma of a computer purchase is probably a little more obvious than that of the running shoe. The second I swiped my credit card I knew this thing was already out of date. And this sales clerk, while less concerned about my cranky psycho antics, was not helping. He was like, “buy a Mac” And I was like, “uh, no they’re too expensive.” And he was like, “yes but if you add up all of the viruses, graphics, blah blah blah…”
I tuned out and waited for his lips to stop moving and when they did, I said “I’ll take this HP. Thanks.” So it’s out of the box, software’s installed. It’s taken me longer than usual to type this blog, because I’m not used to the keyboard or the mouse. Errant letters or symbols or spaces keep appearing. My eyeballs are spinning in reaction to my first true, honest to goodness HD. I’m not complaining now though, since I have just spent a fortune on this thing. So I’m embracing the purchase. I’m headed to the internet, which I’ve just accessed, to try to find running shoes online. Thank god there are no sales clerks online and yes, I know there are sales clerks out there saying, thank god Jessica is shopping online.
For this reason, I made the trek to Chinatown in DC, walked into the store, directly to the back and got to work scanning the ginormous wall of sneakers. A silly sales clerk came over and immediately started pestering me and by pester I may mean that he attempted to do his job. I got grumpy when he suggested that I name my preferred brand. I looked at him blankly and stumbled, having not bought sneakers in so long. He took this as a cue that perhaps I was new to the whole buying sneakers thing. Mistake. Daggers flew at the suggestion that I, who played varsity soccer in college, may be a novice. Was he intimating that I was out of shape? That my behind was ever-expanding? Did he just point out my grey hair?! I gave him a withering, how dare you look and he slinked away, confused, hurt. I felt a little guilty and didn’t realize that buying running shoes was so personal to me. But it is.
To add insult to injury, I finally decided on two brands I would consider, New Balance because they are made in the USA (and not China!!) and Reebok, because the CEO of Reebok is a huge supporter of human rights. This place had one pair of NB, which were ugly and not in my size. They had no Reeboks. Nail in coffin. I about-faced and the sales clerk did not give chase.
Having failed at the first half of my mission, I regrouped and marched toward Best Buy for the computer. With my former employer demanding the return of the laptop I’m currently using and my need to stay connected, I bit the bullet and for the second time in my life bought a computer. The trauma of a computer purchase is probably a little more obvious than that of the running shoe. The second I swiped my credit card I knew this thing was already out of date. And this sales clerk, while less concerned about my cranky psycho antics, was not helping. He was like, “buy a Mac” And I was like, “uh, no they’re too expensive.” And he was like, “yes but if you add up all of the viruses, graphics, blah blah blah…”
I tuned out and waited for his lips to stop moving and when they did, I said “I’ll take this HP. Thanks.” So it’s out of the box, software’s installed. It’s taken me longer than usual to type this blog, because I’m not used to the keyboard or the mouse. Errant letters or symbols or spaces keep appearing. My eyeballs are spinning in reaction to my first true, honest to goodness HD. I’m not complaining now though, since I have just spent a fortune on this thing. So I’m embracing the purchase. I’m headed to the internet, which I’ve just accessed, to try to find running shoes online. Thank god there are no sales clerks online and yes, I know there are sales clerks out there saying, thank god Jessica is shopping online.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Winning
Unlike the rest of the world, I’m taking Charlie Sheen’s meltdown personally. I grew up in the era of the brat pack and he was my brat packer. This was a critically important role in a tween's life. He was a little on the fringe and stared in excellent movies like Lucas and the ultimate and shameless anti-commie I love America movie,Red Dawn. And I just love the scene in Ferris Bueller between him and Ferris’ sister Jeanne (played charmingly by Jennifer Grey). I loved it, because I saw similarities between me and Jeanne, the older studious sister whose younger brother gets all of the attention (When I was a senior in high school, people would ask me if I was Jeffrey Huber’s sister. He was a freshman at the time!!) It was nice to know she got the cute boy.
Rightly so it’s starting to feel mutually exploitative, this Sheen thing, but there’s one phrase that he keeps using and I like it. “Winning.” As in, “I just got fired from my job but got a million twitter fans in 24 hours. Winning.”
I get it. No wait a minute, I don’t get it at all. CS is completely kooky pants and I guess pretty sad. But I like the concept. I like that it captures the anxiety of looming failure or crisis, but recognizes small victories and more importantly a desire not to give up. Like a battle in a war. Like Rocky maybe, everyone’s favorite underdog; well perhaps Rocky mixed with Woody Allen.
How might one use it?
The dog didn’t get into a fight at the park today. Winning.
Found a roll of TP way under the sink just in the knick of time. Winning.
It’s raining today, but it’s almost 50 degrees. Winning.
Etc. Etc.
I had a job interview the other day. It went ok. I didn’t nail it and am trying to downplay its importance in my overall scheme to become employed. However, the day before the interview I received a call from a recruiter from another organization who wants me to come and talk to her. Winning. And the same day, I received an email about helping another organization with some part time work. Winning. So, ok, perhaps the battle for the job I interviewed for is lost (jury’s still out) but in the war for employment, I think I’m staying afloat, making progress even.
One last literal use of the word that I may have used so much in this blog that I don’t want to ever use the term again…On Thursday night I went to my cousin Patti’s house in Hyattsville, MD. I hadn’t seen her and her husband in a while. In fact, I was meeting her 5 year old and 2 year old for the first time. Patti and her husband Brandon are computer geeks. I think this is ok to say, because they have a website called twogeeksandababy.com.
Their children were fantastic; so sweet and, like their parents, really smart. The five year old challenged me to a game of “No Stress Chess.” It’s a learning version of the game where each player takes a turn picking a card that tells them how to move. Brandon and little Kai assured me I could handle it. The kid beat me in 4 moves. Not winning. I smiled the whole way home. I lost the battle of “No Stress Chess,” but I have this great family right around the corner from me in DC. Winning!!
I just realized that this is my second concept blog in a row...oy, this is starting to get a little too therapeutic.
Rightly so it’s starting to feel mutually exploitative, this Sheen thing, but there’s one phrase that he keeps using and I like it. “Winning.” As in, “I just got fired from my job but got a million twitter fans in 24 hours. Winning.”
I get it. No wait a minute, I don’t get it at all. CS is completely kooky pants and I guess pretty sad. But I like the concept. I like that it captures the anxiety of looming failure or crisis, but recognizes small victories and more importantly a desire not to give up. Like a battle in a war. Like Rocky maybe, everyone’s favorite underdog; well perhaps Rocky mixed with Woody Allen.
How might one use it?
The dog didn’t get into a fight at the park today. Winning.
Found a roll of TP way under the sink just in the knick of time. Winning.
It’s raining today, but it’s almost 50 degrees. Winning.
Etc. Etc.
I had a job interview the other day. It went ok. I didn’t nail it and am trying to downplay its importance in my overall scheme to become employed. However, the day before the interview I received a call from a recruiter from another organization who wants me to come and talk to her. Winning. And the same day, I received an email about helping another organization with some part time work. Winning. So, ok, perhaps the battle for the job I interviewed for is lost (jury’s still out) but in the war for employment, I think I’m staying afloat, making progress even.
One last literal use of the word that I may have used so much in this blog that I don’t want to ever use the term again…On Thursday night I went to my cousin Patti’s house in Hyattsville, MD. I hadn’t seen her and her husband in a while. In fact, I was meeting her 5 year old and 2 year old for the first time. Patti and her husband Brandon are computer geeks. I think this is ok to say, because they have a website called twogeeksandababy.com.
Their children were fantastic; so sweet and, like their parents, really smart. The five year old challenged me to a game of “No Stress Chess.” It’s a learning version of the game where each player takes a turn picking a card that tells them how to move. Brandon and little Kai assured me I could handle it. The kid beat me in 4 moves. Not winning. I smiled the whole way home. I lost the battle of “No Stress Chess,” but I have this great family right around the corner from me in DC. Winning!!
I just realized that this is my second concept blog in a row...oy, this is starting to get a little too therapeutic.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Anticipate
There is a favorite story in my family: when I was 5 years old my mom took me to my first ever ballet class. She just knew she could slap a cute little pink tutu on her little girl and a sugar plum fairy would emerge. Not so much. I cried the whole time and to this day I have vivid images of approaching the house where the lessons were held in downtown Hatfield, PA, walking into the room with the mirrors and the bar and absolutely hating it. Unbeknownst to my mother a few weeks later my dad took me out on a Saturday morning and signed me up for soccer. I’ve been playing ever since.
When I was ten, I made the Allstar team. It was a big deal not only because it was the Allstars but also because I was the only girl who made it on the team. I remember being chuffed and terrified. I also remember my coach, Mr. Albrecht. If you’ve played sports, you know you always remember your really good and really terrible coaches. Mr. Albrecht was a great coach and I can still see him running down the sidelines and shouting “Anticipate. You have to anticipate.” He was tall, a little bit chubby and I remember that he kinda spit it out when he was saying it. At the time, I thought that it was a pretty cool word and so I tried really hard to understand it. I had to think about where the ball is going before it got there. A fairly complex concept for a 10 year old. Very cool indeed.
I’m not entirely sure if I carried the concept of anticipation with my soccer playing throughout the years. I tried, but mostly I realized that I could run faster than everyone else and my speed was at the center of my attack. I’m fairly certain, however, that I’ve applied “anticipate” to a lot of other elements of my life. Thinking ahead and considering scenarios before they happen are definitely a part of my decision-making process. Maybe too much so, as now my anticipation can sometimes more resemble anxiety, the all too prominent emotion in my daily reality.
But I also wonder, more hopefully, if it also helped shape me into becoming an empathetic person. Empathy is not only my favorite emotion, but also my favorite technical expertise. It has helped me work in Africa, where technical skills must be mixed with compassion in order to have any meaningful impact. Patience is important there too, so obviously I wasn’t always a perfect fit for the continent. Empathy has also been my key for hosting countless brave souls from around the world in the US. This is something a lot of people think they can do, but ever since the Empowering Hands Girls went on hunger strike in New York City (not under my supervision) I realize that it takes tremendous skill and deep understanding of the perspective from which these friends have come in order to host them safely and successfully stateside.
I understood this very early on in my career. My first experience of this was in 1997 when I frequently hosted Martin O’Brien from the Committee on the Administration of Justice (CAJ), the leading human rights organization based in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He was looking for support in the US for CAJ’s work during “the talks” to negotiate the Good Friday Agreement. While the Irish American community in New York was CAJ’s obvious constituency, Martin was freaked out by them. Irish-Americans from New York can be very alien to an actual Irish person. I discovered this when I spent the previous summer waiting tables at Pasta Presto in Dublin. Once I figured out the question “so are you an Irish American?,” was thinly veiled with mockery, I relished the opportunity to say no and state that had no interest in proudly proclaiming Irish heritage. (I was just interested in finding Bono and drinking Guinness.)
I found that saying things to Martin like, “yes, I know they think they’re more Irish than you, but you have to remember that they really do think they are as Irish as you actually are. You can use it to your advantage, because for them meeting an actual Irish person and supporting the cause for Irish peace would be an extraordinary feather in their cap of Irishness.” He went with it.
I wonder if the origins of worry and empathy come from those moments on the soccer field during the Allstar game, with Mr. Albrecht shouting “anticipate” on the sidelines and me running circles around the boys and, of course, scoring the goooooooooooooallllllllllll!!!!!!!
When I was ten, I made the Allstar team. It was a big deal not only because it was the Allstars but also because I was the only girl who made it on the team. I remember being chuffed and terrified. I also remember my coach, Mr. Albrecht. If you’ve played sports, you know you always remember your really good and really terrible coaches. Mr. Albrecht was a great coach and I can still see him running down the sidelines and shouting “Anticipate. You have to anticipate.” He was tall, a little bit chubby and I remember that he kinda spit it out when he was saying it. At the time, I thought that it was a pretty cool word and so I tried really hard to understand it. I had to think about where the ball is going before it got there. A fairly complex concept for a 10 year old. Very cool indeed.
I’m not entirely sure if I carried the concept of anticipation with my soccer playing throughout the years. I tried, but mostly I realized that I could run faster than everyone else and my speed was at the center of my attack. I’m fairly certain, however, that I’ve applied “anticipate” to a lot of other elements of my life. Thinking ahead and considering scenarios before they happen are definitely a part of my decision-making process. Maybe too much so, as now my anticipation can sometimes more resemble anxiety, the all too prominent emotion in my daily reality.
But I also wonder, more hopefully, if it also helped shape me into becoming an empathetic person. Empathy is not only my favorite emotion, but also my favorite technical expertise. It has helped me work in Africa, where technical skills must be mixed with compassion in order to have any meaningful impact. Patience is important there too, so obviously I wasn’t always a perfect fit for the continent. Empathy has also been my key for hosting countless brave souls from around the world in the US. This is something a lot of people think they can do, but ever since the Empowering Hands Girls went on hunger strike in New York City (not under my supervision) I realize that it takes tremendous skill and deep understanding of the perspective from which these friends have come in order to host them safely and successfully stateside.
I understood this very early on in my career. My first experience of this was in 1997 when I frequently hosted Martin O’Brien from the Committee on the Administration of Justice (CAJ), the leading human rights organization based in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He was looking for support in the US for CAJ’s work during “the talks” to negotiate the Good Friday Agreement. While the Irish American community in New York was CAJ’s obvious constituency, Martin was freaked out by them. Irish-Americans from New York can be very alien to an actual Irish person. I discovered this when I spent the previous summer waiting tables at Pasta Presto in Dublin. Once I figured out the question “so are you an Irish American?,” was thinly veiled with mockery, I relished the opportunity to say no and state that had no interest in proudly proclaiming Irish heritage. (I was just interested in finding Bono and drinking Guinness.)
I found that saying things to Martin like, “yes, I know they think they’re more Irish than you, but you have to remember that they really do think they are as Irish as you actually are. You can use it to your advantage, because for them meeting an actual Irish person and supporting the cause for Irish peace would be an extraordinary feather in their cap of Irishness.” He went with it.
I wonder if the origins of worry and empathy come from those moments on the soccer field during the Allstar game, with Mr. Albrecht shouting “anticipate” on the sidelines and me running circles around the boys and, of course, scoring the goooooooooooooallllllllllll!!!!!!!
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