Happy Bloomsday!
June 16, 2014
To commemorate the day, here’s something I wrote a few months ago for a series on Tumblr called “…Is My Thing,”
The “…Is My Thing” series asks people to write guest posts about the book that was the starting point, or the source of their field of interest within literature.
For mine, I chose… you guessed it, Ulysses.
Hope you enjoy!
Creative Nonfiction Prompts – 1/3/2013
January 3, 2013
Think about an aspect of your life story and rewrite it, telling the tale from another angle or perspective. For example, if your family always considered you to be a difficult teenager, write about other interpretations of your behavior. Or if you’ve always been considered successful, write about the fear of failure that lurks beneath the facade. Find a way to reconstruct an aspect of your personal narrative that explores the complexity of who you are.
“She’s nice and all…but she’s really quiet.” That’s what they would write in the 5th grade slam book about me. If there were a slam book, that is. Those are the words that would float around in the theoretical slam book of life. I was in the double digits, dammit, and I didn’t even have a good slam against me. What would that say about me? Other girls had “Cool” and “Hot” and “Sporty” and other Spice Girl-alias like terms to describe them, along with a list of guys they’ve kissed during rousing parent-in-the-other-room-monitored games of spin the bottle played at family super bowl parties. I had never even been to a party before—my time instead being holed up in my room reading the Michelle Tanner novel series. I squealed with delight when I noticed that Mary Kate and/or Ashley donned a pink dress that I owned on the cover. In this particular issue, Michelle is bummed because all it said in her class’s slam book was that she was a good speller. She was in the double digits, dammit, and all her classmates could say about her was that she was a good speller?! I think I’m a good speller too, but not enough for that to be my only quality but at least it’s descriptive! “Quiet” means nothing, and that pesky “nice” is outright insulting. How dare they think that about me?! I’ll make my mark in that book of life one day, and that day begins today…
“Jamie buys all her clothes at the flea market,” Stephanie whispered behind my back. I looked down at my pea-green leggings and green striped sweater. I distinctly remember my mom purchasing those leggings in the clearance section at Kids R’ Us and the sweater I got as a gift for Christmas. My outfit was not only NOT purchased at a cheap flea market, but was much nicer than what she had on. In a Catholic school, dress down days came once in a blue moon, and you always wanted to make sure you wore your coolest, most in-style outfit you begged your mom to buy for you. Being a rather poor kid in a private school located in one of the richest towns in Westchester made that a little difficult, but I made do with what I had. Who was Stephanie to talk, anyway? Last year during the big children’s Easter mass I had on a beautiful Easter Parade-esque dress and bonnet from Lord & Taylor while she showed up in a tie-dye shirt and jeans and picked her nose for 40% of the mass. At least I knew when to dress up and how to do it in style.
“Yeah, she said all of your clothes are from there because your family’s too poor to go shopping anywhere else,” my friend Julia confirmed that what I heard was true. Anger coursed over my body. I thought of going over there and setting her straight and letting her know exactly where my outfit was from, and about the Abercrombie and Fitch shirt I purchased over the summer. (Sure, it was an irregular-sized A&F shirt from the flea market, but she didn’t have to know that.) Maybe a good portion of my clothes were from the flea market, but at least I had style. I gathered my thoughts and turned to Julia, “I should punch her in her stupid face!” I said, as I made a fist with my tiny, weak hand. Then the bell rang and break was over, and it was time to study vocabulary. The battle was soon forgotten when Stephanie would be last in line behind me during the spelling bee, rooting me on… “She kept touching me, and made me nervous. That’s why we lost,” I’d explain to my friends later when I blanked during the last round. “She didn’t win either, so whatever.”
I realized that it would be hard for people to think of me any other way than “quiet,” but it didn’t matter, and “nice” wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe “buys all her clothes at the flea market” would be my description in the slam book of life, but at least that means I’m resourceful. And if anyone complemented my style and found out where my clothing came from, I could be a fashion trailblazer for the lower middle class. At least they couldn’t have me down as “a good speller,” maybe “kind-of good,” but that would be downright silly. I could rest easy knowing that I had once again had something in common with Michelle Tanner, and this time, I may have even had something better.
Politeness Politics
September 19, 2012
I consider myself to be a very polite person. I always say “thank you” when someone holds the door for me, or picks up something I’ve dropped. I greet everyone with a friendly smile and a “hello” or a wave. I’m always sure to apologize if I ever bump into someone. Basically, I consider myself adept at following the customs of everyday niceties. There are people out there who are quite inept at these simple things, but I’ll save that for another discussion.
What I’m here today to discuss is this: what are the barriers of politeness? I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s been in situations where it’s hard to discern when your politeness has gone too far–when you’ve held your smile for just a moment too long, you’ve laughed just a little too obviously loud at a not-funny joke, or when–and this is the absolute worst of all–other people don’t actually SEE your niceness.
My whole life I’ve worked 9-5 jobs. (Ok, that’s not true, I haven’t worked 9-5 jobs my ENTIRE life, don’t allow me to trick you into thinking that, as an infant, I sat behind a desk and made Excel spreadsheets and took phone calls for presidents and treasurer. See how polite I am? Who else would have pointed that out?) Since I’ve been in the “workforce” I’ve held 9-5 jobs. (That’s better!) Most people’s blood would curdle at the mere thought of that, but I’ve managed pretty well. If anything the hard part, more than the mundane aspect of most of them, was the having to exchange niceties with people to an almost painful degree. Now, I must mention, that at my current job I’m surrounded by co-workers who are not only ridiculously nice and polite, but are also genuinely hilarious and fun to be around. So, every topic presented from this point forth is in regards to prior jobs and prior employers. (And no, this isn’t just a nicety to save face, but the actual, God’s honest truth.)
For example, at all prior jobs there was always the “funny guy,” the “comedian,” the “jokester” who was there to intervene and bring some fun and exuberance to the otherwise stuffy atmosphere–usually of some high rank, who was, more often than not, not very funny. For example, when I was younger I would occasionally accompany my mom to her job. As I got older, I’d help with different tasks here and there, filing, watering plants–you know, the important stuff. But early on I would usually sit by her desk with some pencils and highlighters and create art. My “art” during this time frame was mainly comprised of poorly drawn fictitious pop music groups that I would create. I’d mainly base them off of the Spice Girls, but with new bands like S Club 7 out, I realized that there was no limit to how many members my music groups could have! Spice Girls have five members, S Club 7 has seven (if you really wanted to count the dudes in the group, that is) but GIRLZ has eight! Every member would have a different outfit that would accentuate her individual personality, all would have fun names and nicknames, and they would all be British. And they’d have songs too, I guess, I never really got around to that aspect of it. Actually, I’d never really get around to completing most of those drawings since I’d usually only be working with about five highlighters and wouldn’t have different colors for the other members. Eventually, I grew out of the girl group phase and, having hardly any artistic skill, the time had come for me to start helping out at work with more important tasks. And so, I was upgraded from pop music artisan to data entry. Once proficiently skilled at this, I found myself part-time employed at my mom’s job dealing with scanning and even more data entry with the occasional bonus of stuffing envelopes. It didn’t bother me–it was busy work but for a sixteen year old with a new cash flow, it was a joy. Well, the work aspect of it, that is…
Something that I’ve noticed in time is that if an old Italian man thinks a joke is funny, you will hear that same joke every time you see that man for as long as possible. When I’d join my mother at work occasionally after school as a child her boss would come over to me and say “heh, I see you brought your mother to work today.” I, as a girl of about 9 or 10, found this joke pretty funny, and so, I laughed both heartily and politely. And it was because of this that I heard that same joke every time I would see this man, right up to and including when I was 16 and working there every day. I would hear it every. single. day. This was one of those moments where I really had to sit down and start thinking things over. Do I keep laughing every time he says it? Do I allow him to think it’s still funny after all these years? Do I tone down my laughter ever so much each day so he finally gets the hint and we can walk away from this without ever mentioning it again? Do I just not laugh at all anymore and stop it abruptly? Something needs to be done–but what? I eventually decided to keep laughing every time because he was the one who was in charge of my paycheck.
I’d run into this situation plenty more times in my life, and I still occasionally find myself holding a laugh or a smile for just a pinch too long (ever turn away from someone and have to re-adjust your facial muscles to stop the polite grin from expanding further so you don’t end up looking like an even more demented Cheshire Cat? It’s not as fun as it sounds, trust me.) But I’ve also run into another predicament: when people don’t see your random acts of politeness and how to handle it accordingly. Ok, I’m not saying I act nice just to get people to notice, nor is that the only reason anyone should be polite. However, there are moments when the other person seeing your kindness or generosity is that dividing line between being cool with them, and them thinking you’re a complete and total asshat. Like if you tip a bartender or barista (a substantial tip, too) right as they turn their backs so they don’t notice and you then you have to hope they won’t take it out on you the fact that they just spent five minutes making your extra-foamy latte or Harvey Wallbanger when they could have been flirting with a much more attractive patron or customer because hey, college is expensive and you try getting up at 5 am or working until 5 am before or after classes just for money to spend on books you’d need sexual release sometime, too.
So, to avoid a spitty drink further down the road (that ain’t just foam on that latte, bub) you WANT them to notice your kindness. Because a job well done deserves a tip, and only people without souls or spare change would not leave one. But now you’ve left them the last of your change and they didn’t notice. What do you do? Do you try to get their attention and let them know? Do you wait until their looking and hover your hand over their tip cup so they see? Do you George Costanza it and actually TAKE the money out just to put it back in? I don’t know, it’s up to you. I don’t really know the answer to any of these questions that I’ve posed, because I still run into these problems daily which is why I don’t like going out much.
Basically, I’m no good at social interactions, is what I’m saying. But hey–BLOG!
Though, there is one thing I DO know: if things don’t pan out in my life and current work situation, I’ll be more than willing to fake laughter for money. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again!