General
1. Keep/bear right. This is customary in the U.S. Keep this in mind at all times.
2. Walk in as straight a trajectory as possible. There are many other people around you traveling at varying rates of speed who can't always anticipate your change of direction, and meandering is just plain annoying.
3. If you must stop, pull over to the side. Do not stop suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. Chances are there's someone directly behind you who will collide with you if you do, and even if he or she does not, making him/her change direction rapidly will disrupt the flow of traffic and likely cause a collision between said person and another innocent pedestrian.
4. Do not abruptly change direction. Glance around you before you do to make sure you don't mow anyone down.
5. When approaching someone traveling toward you in the same trajectory as yourself, again, keep/bear right. If all follow this rule there will be no head-on collisions or awkward sidewalk dances.
6. When walking with a group of people, it is not always possible to walk two, three, four, or more abreast. Shift to single file if someone else is approaching you or needs to pass, even if it means pausing your conversation momentarily. Do not make the other person step into traffic or trash to accommodate your group.
7. When conversing with another person and walking, do not use elaborate hand gestures. You will hit someone.
8. Do not swing your arms excessively. You will hit someone, and chances are it's not actually helping you walk faster. This rule also applies to umbrellas, shopping bags and other packages.
9. If you encounter another person on an otherwise empty sidewalk, give him or her space. It is not necessary to brush against the only other person in sight when passing. It's rude, creepy, and you should be rejoicing in the fact that there is actually enough space to momentarily move at will.
10. Even if you have nowhere to be, please make an attempt to keep up with the flow of traffic. Otherwise, if you have no deadline, wait until rush hour is over.
11. When entering/exiting through a doorway, do not stop as soon as you get inside/outside of the door. You are not the only one who needs to get in/out. Move to the side.
12. If you can't text message and walk normally, don't text message and walk at the same time.
13. Do not spit. If it's life-threatening (which it never will be) and you must spit, at least look around to make sure your wad is not going to hit a hapless bystander.
14. If you are pushing something large, such as a stroller, a hand truck, or a rabbit, please keep both hands on it and push in a straight line. When you take one hand off, your cart, stroller, etc. will veer to one side, either cutting someone off or getting in his or her way.
15. If you are pushing one of the aforementioned objects on wheels and you need to stop, please pull over and park it parallel to the nearest wall or stationary object. If you park it perpendicularly, you largely block the way.
16. If you are pulling a piece of luggage on wheels, keep it as close behind you as possible, or else someone will trip on it or accidentally kick it.
17. If walking with a child, please pay attention to what he or she is doing. Make sure (s)he doesn't stray or bolt into someone's legs.
Stairs/Escalators
18. Descend/ascend on the right-hand side of the stairs. This keeps traffic flowing.
19. Do not stop abruptly while ascending/descending the stairs. It is likely someone will run into you.
20. Do not sit on stairs in busy transportation hubs such as Grand Central Terminal. They are heavy foot traffic throughways, not benches.
21. Similarly, don't stand at the entrance/exit of a stairway during rush hour to take pictures or check your text messages; you block traffic. Please step to the side.
22. Never turn around on the stairs and attempt to go back up/down the same way you came unless it's 3 am and there's no one around. Everyone else will be moving in the opposite direction. Not only will you find it difficult to get to where you want to go, but everyone will curse at you. Instead, continue to the bottom/top and ascend/descend on the opposite side with the flow of traffic.
23. If you can, help people carrying strollers, carts, or other large objects up or down the stairs. It helps everyone in the end.
24. Expanding on rule #8, don't excessively swing your arms, bags, or umbrellas when climbing stairs. You'll probably hit someone in the face.
25. On escalators, stand to the right, climb to the left. If you don't feel like climbing, move over so that others can. If you are traveling with another person and you both want to stand, do not stand two abreast. Stand one in front of the other on the right hand side so other people can pass. No one else cares about your conversation.
26. If you are the first person in a crowd to get to the stairs, please take them quickly and with purpose. If you are inclined to dawdle, wait a bit till the faster climbers go by.
Walking in the Rain
27. The smaller your umbrella, the better life in the rain is for everyone. Large golf umbrellas are obnoxious both opened (they extend over the whole sidewalk and pose hazards to your fellow pedestrians' eyes) and closed (they are long). If you carry one, take extra precaution to not be a jerk.
28. When holding an umbrella over your head, be alert. Lift it above the heads of those who don't have umbrellas. If you are taller than someone approaching holding an umbrella overhead, lift your umbrella above that person's as you pass; it's much harder for the shorter person to avoid you. Avoid poking people in the eyes with umbrella spokes at all costs.
29. Just because holding an umbrella overhead partially obscures your vision, it is not an excuse to not look where you are going. Peer out frequently and remain alert to your surroundings rather than crashing into people.
30. When walking under scaffolding, close your umbrella. There simply isn't room to walk with them open, and the scaffolding overhead keeps you dry.
Scaffolding
31. Walk single file temporarily while under scaffolding. There is not enough space to walk two abreast and maintain the flow of traffic in both directions.
32. If physically able, try not to walk slower than the average pace of those around you. You create a bottleneck, because people can't pass, and those who walk faster than you will secretly want to punch you in the back of the head.
33. Again, keep right. This is particularly important under scaffolding, as others are prevented from going around you by the horizontal support bars.
34. Do not--under any circumstances--stand, loiter, or abruptly stop under scaffolding. There is very little room to get around you. If you are trying to get out of the rain, stand against the building wall (preferably behind the horizontal support bars). This allows others to continue on their respective ways.
35. Please refer to rule #30.
Subway
36. As we all learned in grammar school science class, two bodies of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Therefore, you must let people off the train before you get on.
37. When boarding the train, move as far as you can into the center of the car so that others can board the train without having to squeeze past you. Yes, it's nice to stand by the door so you can be the first person off, but it can't work out that way for you all the time.
38. If seated, look around. Are any elderly people, pregnant women, or people trying to manage children standing near you? If so, be considerate and offer one of them your seat.
39. When possible, let shorter people stand near vertical bars. It is hard for them to reach those overhead horizontal bars above the seats.
40. Parents, please fold your strollers and hold your children when the train is crowded. Strollers lead to bottlenecks when people are trying to get around them to board or exit the train.
41. This is addressed to everyone, but pertains especially to men: close your damn legs when you sit down. You're not fooling anyone--there is absolutely no need for you to sit with your knees splayed apart. You are effectively occupying two seats when you do so and are preventing others from sitting. In addition, if people are sitting next to you, they will be creeped out by your legs touching theirs unnecessaily.
42. Turn the iPod volume down. No one cares what you're listening to; in fact they're annoyed that you're essentially forcing your music choice on them. You're also contributing to your own permanent hearing damage.
43. Bikes on the train during rush hour are really annoying. I realize they're eco- and heart-friendly, but just know that pre-coffee, everyone hates you and your decision to ride a bike halfway to work in the morning.
44. If you are not positive that you can ascend stairs faster than 90% of the people on your train car, don't be the person who must stand directly next to the doors that let out closest to the stairs. Let the people who actually want to bolt up the stairs do so; it produces slightly more space for everyone.
45. Gentlemen, it should go without saying that you should not be a perv and grope or expose yourself to others. It's kind of against the law. However, it is also in poor taste to press yourself inappropriately against women, to obviously stand too close, and to blatantly look down their blouses or stare at any part of their anatomy the entire ride. How would you feel if someone did this to your mother, your sister, your daughter, your girlfriend, or your best friend?
Smoking
Smoking may be your lifestyle choice, but it is not everyone else's. If you are a smoker you should try to acknowledge this and not force your decision on others by observing the following rules of common courtesy:
46. Move out of doorways, even if it's raining, so everyone going in and out does not get a face full of your cigarette smoke.
47. If you must walk and smoke, realize that if you hold your burning cigarette casually in your arm and let it swing loosely by your side, you're probably going to burn someone, and he/she will not be pleased.
48. Also realize when you smoke and walk at the same time, your exhalation cloud will end up in the face of the person behind you. You waive the right to be surprised or offended if they pass and glare at you while muttering under their breath.
49. There are some places in front of which you should never smoke. Hospitals and preschools are some of those places.
50. Try to look out for open windows when standing on the sidewalk smoking. If you see them, move down half a block or so to keep people inside from having to breathe your secondhand.
While I tried to be thorough, I am sure that this list is in no way comprehensive. If you note any glaring omissions, please be sure to post them in the comments section so that all may be aware.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Weekend Update: Roosevelt Island
Winter tends to drive me indoors for several months at a time, longing for the feeling of sunshine on my limbs and lungfuls of fresh air. This semi-hibernation begins to make me feel like my world has contracted around me, limited to my office and my apartment, with the occasional bar thrown in for good measure. Always toward the end of January I start to feel edgy and pent up, and all I want to do is to get outside and back into that big jungle of a city in which I seem to have taken up permanent residence.
So today without my usual weekend partner in crime, I decided to go island hopping. Roosevelt Island has always intrigued me a bit, being smack in the middle of the East River, packed full of high rises, and sporting a decaying hospital at the south end. I envisioned several very narrow, twisty streets and secret jems of bookshops or bars or who knows what tucked away from the general public. The method of getting there provided yet another draw for me--I'd always wanted to ride the gondola-like tram, it being such a brightly-colored novelty in comparison to my typical subterranean shuttle.
After taking several more trains than is normally necessary due to weekend subway "improvements," I emerged blinking into the sunshine in front of Bloomingdale's on the Upper East Side. I fought the throngs of shoppers for a few blocks until I found the tram staircase and hopped onboard. It was pleasantly cozy with heating, and I scooted over near the window to take in the southern view.
The ride was delightful, offering stunning avenue and rooftop views, and in fact I could have done it all day, riding back and forth, up and down over half of the width of the East River. However, I was itching with anticipation to see what treasures Roosevelt Island had in store for me.
As it turns out, there weren't many. The place was, for a better word, strange. Immediately I found the well-maintained sidewalk that runs around the periphery of the island and began following it south, toward Renwick Ruin, which was once a smallpox hospital. The west side of the island offers stunning views of Manhattan, and breathing in the brackish air, I thought I would very much like to one day go for a run on this path. In fact, a jogger had already passed me, to my envy.
I walked briskly down past a sprawling, operational nursing home/hospital campus to arrive at a large chain-link fence topped with razor wire, marking the northernmost edge of the Renwick Ruin area. Unfortunately, the area appears to be closed to the public, and one can only catch tantalizing glimpses of the decaying buildings of the old smallpox wards. Sighing, I walked the length of the boundary fence, noticing one spot by the ground that seemed to have been wrenched upward by human hands, and which appeared large enough for me to slither through on my belly. While I consider myself a relatively adventurous individual, I decided that I was not brave enough to get arrested and jailed by myself. I made a mental note to come back with someone I could outrun, and kept walking.
Rounding the south end of the path, I then started moving northward, up the eastern side of Roosevelt Island. The view of Queens was not quite as rousing as that of Manhattan, so I stepped up the pace to get to the "heart" of Roosevelt. On the way I passed a "Hazardous Materials" area (which, it should be noted, had no barrier between it and the river, making me wonder what exactly the winds have blown into the water from time to time), and got growled at by an apparent bum, but other than that passed no one. Other than the constant white noise of wind and traffic from the FDR across the way, the place was almost unsettlingly quiet.
Th path curved in a bit and I thought I spied a good place to dive into town. I veered into the middle of the island and found myself on Main Street.
Apparently my vision of a mini maze of streets was a bit misguided. Roosevelt Island seems to have exactly one major road running down the center of most of its length. Other than that, there are the perimeter roads, but no side streets. The island simply isn't wide enough. In fact, you can see both edges of the island from any place you stand unless your view is impeded by a building. Still, I was looking forward to finding the main "hub," where many of the residents were surely out and about on such a brisk, sunny day.
Main Street is paved with the same interlocking brown bricks as the sidewalks. All the surrounding buildings are generally either brown or red-brown brick, lending the place a bizarre monochromacity. At first glance, the brick paving and the narrowness and curving angle of Main Street, combine with a glimpse of an obviously old church made me compare it to a very generic-looking, Americanized version of a European village, but soon I realized even that was being overly romantic.
The street was lined with the shops that met all an urbanite's basic needs--a mini mart, a hardware store, a nails salon, a thrift shop, one ubiquitous Chinese restaurant, and further down a new Gristedes supermarket and a tiny outdoor farmer's market. However, much to my discontent, I realized that Main Street was almost dead silent. The very few people on the sidewalks were not speaking, just walking along, heads down. I began to doubt my own sanity--was I the only one crazy enough to be taking a walk on this windy day? Surely with all the residences surrounding me, there had to be more people. But where were they?
I didn't dally too long on Main Street, and instead pressed on, determined to walk the two-mile length of the island and back. I noticed that the tall buildings around me were either glass-coated luxury high rises, or those that looked like housing projects, with nothing in between; very strange real estate planning and development indeed.
Further north I passed a large, imposing-looking gray building with a capitol-like dome on top. Approaching the sign, I could see it was called "the Octagon." This pleased me probably more than it should have, and I began to envision it as Roosevelt Island's answer to the Pentagon, wherein strategists were devising elaborate plans of defense on the chance that some force tried to seize the island for its strategic position between Manhattan and Queens. I was disappointed to see that upon closer inspection, it too was a high-end residence. Later I learned that it had once been an insane asylum, which made it slightly more interesting again.
I passed yet another hospital on the north end (if you have to get injured, try to do so on Roosevelt Island, where medical help is apparently just footsteps away) and soldiered on behind another lone jogger to the lighthouse at the northern point. I stood there for a moment, cold wind whipping tears out of my eyes imagining myself on the bow of a large ship, heading on an Arctic expedition, and then turned my back to the wind, walking again down the west side of the island back toward the tram station.
Shortly thereafter I ran into an actual replica of a bow of a boat jutting out from the sidewalk over the rocks. I walked up to the tip to observe the sturdy red tugs steadfastly pushing barges twice their size up and down the river, then noting that my imaginary boat was about to crash into Manhattan, turned my attention to another old church behind me, which looked lived in. Among the rusting bikes and grills in the yard were other more peculiar pieces, such as an old car seat sitting atop a picnic table in the yard. I guess you never know when you might need a spare car seat.
The only other things of note on the walk back to the tram were some small statues reminiscent of the ones at the subway station at 14th Street/8th Avenue (presumably by the same artist) sitting in pedestals planted in the rocks by the riverside. The title of the installation was "the Marriage of Money and Real Estate," featuring a small house in a skirt either holding hands with a coin in a hat or being dragged down into the river by a lobster with a money bag for a head.
Passing a rather expansive and cozy-looking Starbucks just before the tram, I believe I found most of the residents of the island, packed inside sipping grande lattes or cocoas and typing away at laptops; it was the largest concentration of people I'd seen there all day. But again, no one seemed to be talking.
At this point I had walked Roosevelt Island pretty much in its entirety, and not finding one place to draw me in and make me stay awhile, I decided it was time to move on. I regained admission to the tram with a swipe of my MetroCard and several minutes later was again sailing through the air and over half the river, peeking in nearby windows and deserted rooftop gardens, back to the loud, densely populated New York with which I am by now intimately familiar.
I know that in the past when I expressed interest in Roosevelt Island, my friends gave a small snort and said "Why? There's nothing there." Unfortunately I can offer no gripping experienced to refute this claim, and in reality I think Roosevelt Island's history may be much more fascinating than a visit. For example, according to the RI Historical Society, the lighthouse I mentioned, which overlooks the forebodingly named Hellsgate section of the East River, was built in 1874, and its construction was preceded by "long 'negotiations' with John McCarthy, an asylum inmate who'd built his own clay fort there to defend us against British invasion. Until the 1960s McCarthy's crudely carved plaque remained (stating):
This is the work
Was done by
John McCarthy
Who built the light
House from the bottom to the top
Let all ye who pass by
Pray for his soul when he dies."
I suppose my initial assessment of the Octagon may not have been as far off-base as I thought.
So today without my usual weekend partner in crime, I decided to go island hopping. Roosevelt Island has always intrigued me a bit, being smack in the middle of the East River, packed full of high rises, and sporting a decaying hospital at the south end. I envisioned several very narrow, twisty streets and secret jems of bookshops or bars or who knows what tucked away from the general public. The method of getting there provided yet another draw for me--I'd always wanted to ride the gondola-like tram, it being such a brightly-colored novelty in comparison to my typical subterranean shuttle.
After taking several more trains than is normally necessary due to weekend subway "improvements," I emerged blinking into the sunshine in front of Bloomingdale's on the Upper East Side. I fought the throngs of shoppers for a few blocks until I found the tram staircase and hopped onboard. It was pleasantly cozy with heating, and I scooted over near the window to take in the southern view.
The ride was delightful, offering stunning avenue and rooftop views, and in fact I could have done it all day, riding back and forth, up and down over half of the width of the East River. However, I was itching with anticipation to see what treasures Roosevelt Island had in store for me.
As it turns out, there weren't many. The place was, for a better word, strange. Immediately I found the well-maintained sidewalk that runs around the periphery of the island and began following it south, toward Renwick Ruin, which was once a smallpox hospital. The west side of the island offers stunning views of Manhattan, and breathing in the brackish air, I thought I would very much like to one day go for a run on this path. In fact, a jogger had already passed me, to my envy.
I walked briskly down past a sprawling, operational nursing home/hospital campus to arrive at a large chain-link fence topped with razor wire, marking the northernmost edge of the Renwick Ruin area. Unfortunately, the area appears to be closed to the public, and one can only catch tantalizing glimpses of the decaying buildings of the old smallpox wards. Sighing, I walked the length of the boundary fence, noticing one spot by the ground that seemed to have been wrenched upward by human hands, and which appeared large enough for me to slither through on my belly. While I consider myself a relatively adventurous individual, I decided that I was not brave enough to get arrested and jailed by myself. I made a mental note to come back with someone I could outrun, and kept walking.
Rounding the south end of the path, I then started moving northward, up the eastern side of Roosevelt Island. The view of Queens was not quite as rousing as that of Manhattan, so I stepped up the pace to get to the "heart" of Roosevelt. On the way I passed a "Hazardous Materials" area (which, it should be noted, had no barrier between it and the river, making me wonder what exactly the winds have blown into the water from time to time), and got growled at by an apparent bum, but other than that passed no one. Other than the constant white noise of wind and traffic from the FDR across the way, the place was almost unsettlingly quiet.
Th path curved in a bit and I thought I spied a good place to dive into town. I veered into the middle of the island and found myself on Main Street.
Apparently my vision of a mini maze of streets was a bit misguided. Roosevelt Island seems to have exactly one major road running down the center of most of its length. Other than that, there are the perimeter roads, but no side streets. The island simply isn't wide enough. In fact, you can see both edges of the island from any place you stand unless your view is impeded by a building. Still, I was looking forward to finding the main "hub," where many of the residents were surely out and about on such a brisk, sunny day.
Main Street is paved with the same interlocking brown bricks as the sidewalks. All the surrounding buildings are generally either brown or red-brown brick, lending the place a bizarre monochromacity. At first glance, the brick paving and the narrowness and curving angle of Main Street, combine with a glimpse of an obviously old church made me compare it to a very generic-looking, Americanized version of a European village, but soon I realized even that was being overly romantic.
The street was lined with the shops that met all an urbanite's basic needs--a mini mart, a hardware store, a nails salon, a thrift shop, one ubiquitous Chinese restaurant, and further down a new Gristedes supermarket and a tiny outdoor farmer's market. However, much to my discontent, I realized that Main Street was almost dead silent. The very few people on the sidewalks were not speaking, just walking along, heads down. I began to doubt my own sanity--was I the only one crazy enough to be taking a walk on this windy day? Surely with all the residences surrounding me, there had to be more people. But where were they?
I didn't dally too long on Main Street, and instead pressed on, determined to walk the two-mile length of the island and back. I noticed that the tall buildings around me were either glass-coated luxury high rises, or those that looked like housing projects, with nothing in between; very strange real estate planning and development indeed.
Further north I passed a large, imposing-looking gray building with a capitol-like dome on top. Approaching the sign, I could see it was called "the Octagon." This pleased me probably more than it should have, and I began to envision it as Roosevelt Island's answer to the Pentagon, wherein strategists were devising elaborate plans of defense on the chance that some force tried to seize the island for its strategic position between Manhattan and Queens. I was disappointed to see that upon closer inspection, it too was a high-end residence. Later I learned that it had once been an insane asylum, which made it slightly more interesting again.
I passed yet another hospital on the north end (if you have to get injured, try to do so on Roosevelt Island, where medical help is apparently just footsteps away) and soldiered on behind another lone jogger to the lighthouse at the northern point. I stood there for a moment, cold wind whipping tears out of my eyes imagining myself on the bow of a large ship, heading on an Arctic expedition, and then turned my back to the wind, walking again down the west side of the island back toward the tram station.
Shortly thereafter I ran into an actual replica of a bow of a boat jutting out from the sidewalk over the rocks. I walked up to the tip to observe the sturdy red tugs steadfastly pushing barges twice their size up and down the river, then noting that my imaginary boat was about to crash into Manhattan, turned my attention to another old church behind me, which looked lived in. Among the rusting bikes and grills in the yard were other more peculiar pieces, such as an old car seat sitting atop a picnic table in the yard. I guess you never know when you might need a spare car seat.
The only other things of note on the walk back to the tram were some small statues reminiscent of the ones at the subway station at 14th Street/8th Avenue (presumably by the same artist) sitting in pedestals planted in the rocks by the riverside. The title of the installation was "the Marriage of Money and Real Estate," featuring a small house in a skirt either holding hands with a coin in a hat or being dragged down into the river by a lobster with a money bag for a head.
Passing a rather expansive and cozy-looking Starbucks just before the tram, I believe I found most of the residents of the island, packed inside sipping grande lattes or cocoas and typing away at laptops; it was the largest concentration of people I'd seen there all day. But again, no one seemed to be talking.
At this point I had walked Roosevelt Island pretty much in its entirety, and not finding one place to draw me in and make me stay awhile, I decided it was time to move on. I regained admission to the tram with a swipe of my MetroCard and several minutes later was again sailing through the air and over half the river, peeking in nearby windows and deserted rooftop gardens, back to the loud, densely populated New York with which I am by now intimately familiar.
I know that in the past when I expressed interest in Roosevelt Island, my friends gave a small snort and said "Why? There's nothing there." Unfortunately I can offer no gripping experienced to refute this claim, and in reality I think Roosevelt Island's history may be much more fascinating than a visit. For example, according to the RI Historical Society, the lighthouse I mentioned, which overlooks the forebodingly named Hellsgate section of the East River, was built in 1874, and its construction was preceded by "long 'negotiations' with John McCarthy, an asylum inmate who'd built his own clay fort there to defend us against British invasion. Until the 1960s McCarthy's crudely carved plaque remained (stating):
This is the work
Was done by
John McCarthy
Who built the light
House from the bottom to the top
Let all ye who pass by
Pray for his soul when he dies."
I suppose my initial assessment of the Octagon may not have been as far off-base as I thought.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Letting Love
Love hits you at unexpected moments--moments like this one, when I'm sitting in my room by myself, listening softly to music, winding down for bed, trying to crimp one last necklace clasp into place, not thinking of anyone or anything in particular. A few words in a song trigger the realization that I've seen the one I love for less than four hours in the last nine days, and even though life has kept me more than adequately occupied and satisfied, right now I'd give anything just to lie down next to him and drift off to sleep.
I suppose most of the time I am quite good at doing my thing--working hard, and in my too-scant free time pursuing one of many outside interests. Sometimes, though, sometimes when I least expect it, this feeling in my chest or the pit of my stomach will take over and remind me that I'm deeply connected to someone else. Despite my best effort to control it, to make light of it and not act like I take it too seriously, moments like these make me realize that this relationship means more to me than most anything else. Somewhere in the course of the last two years I did let go and let myself love without holding my breath. It's hard to fully articulate, but when these feelings hit me, I probably feel the most scared, and at the same time the most grateful to have someone like him in my life.
I suppose most of the time I am quite good at doing my thing--working hard, and in my too-scant free time pursuing one of many outside interests. Sometimes, though, sometimes when I least expect it, this feeling in my chest or the pit of my stomach will take over and remind me that I'm deeply connected to someone else. Despite my best effort to control it, to make light of it and not act like I take it too seriously, moments like these make me realize that this relationship means more to me than most anything else. Somewhere in the course of the last two years I did let go and let myself love without holding my breath. It's hard to fully articulate, but when these feelings hit me, I probably feel the most scared, and at the same time the most grateful to have someone like him in my life.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Strange/r Love
It's funny how despite the passing years, the changes you go through, and the long silent periods, you still go on loving those same people who once changed your life, even though in reality now you only know them a little better than strangers.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Wedding rings without lovers' hands are just rings.
Unpacking is a process that takes me days, weeks even. I've been back from Georgia for five days now and piles of clothing and objects I removed from my suitcases (but with which I did little else) were slowly spreading across my floor, threatening to take over. Tonight I finally put most of my clothes away and moved on to peeking into the pile of small boxes containing jewelry and other small objects I brought back with me. Poking through the contents of one, I came across something I'd stuck in my bag almost as an afterthought when going through an old jewelry box at home--my step-grandfather's wedding band.
Both my maternal and paternal grandparents divorced, and both my grandmothers remarried. Neither grandfather did, so I ended up with four grandfathers and two grandmothers. Unfortunately none of the four grandfathers lived long enough for me to know them well. The grandmothers fared better. I was quite close to my maternal grandmother, and the wedding band in question was given to me by her one day when I was at her house. I had seen it around before, I think in the kitchen after my step-grandfather died. Though the details are fuzzy, I must have asked her about it, asked her whose it was. She told me that it was Roy's and that I could have it.
The significance of the exchange escaped me until just now. I was young; I took it home and tried it on all my fingers, and of course it fit none of them. I experimented with wearing it on a chain around my neck, but I abandoned it shortly for other, more sparkly pendants. It has sat untouched in my jewelry box at my parents' house for many years. Tonight, taking it out, I again tried it on all my fingers (it still doesn't fit, of course). I turned it over and examined it closely. It's a fairly simple gold band with five tiny diamonds forming a gently curved diagonal across the widest part. It's just a man's wedding ring.
But it was my grandmother's husband's wedding ring. I have no idea why she gave it to me, and she is no longer alive for me to ask.
I don't remember her making me promise to take good care of it, to keep it safe because it was special. She simply gave it to me. She had often easily handed over other objects I'd admired, so of course being a child, I thought nothing of it. Now as an adult, it seems strange to me that she would just hand over her deceased spouse's wedding band to a child as if it were a cookie or a doll.
You often hear of elderly people holding on to their spouses' wedding rings after their deaths, keeping the bands close until the day they die. I suppose the rings serve as a comfort to these people, of a reminder of a love and a commitment they once held dear and that shaped who they are in innumerable ways. I understand this; I'd be inclined to the same sentimentality. Being sentimental, one of my first thoughts tonight was that maybe she chose to give it to me as opposed to any of her other eight grandchildren (or five children) because she thought I was special, thought I would understand more, thought I would be more responsible for it than any of the others.
Maybe, but I doubt it.
Then, being also a touch cynical, I thought that because it was her second husband's wedding ring, perhaps it didn't mean as much to her.
Knowing how much love my grandmother was capable of giving, I don't think that's the reason, either.
I think my grandmother was just different. Once she let go of the physical person and internalized the experience and memories of her husband, she was able to simply let go of the physical objects associated with him. Without him, his things meant nothing. What she carried inside of her was more representative of him than any ring or article of clothing would ever be again.
I suppose what my grandmother might have been telling me, in a way, is that the true gifts we get from people are intangible; they are moments shared with those we love, etched always in our memories--a sideways smile through barely opened eyes first thing in the morning; fits of riotous laughter shared rolling on the floor; top-volume, windows-down sing-alongs to hair metal or Broadway musicals while driving; unexpected conversations around the kitchen table that last for hours past dinner and then bedtime; just the right hug given at just the right instant. A wedding ring doesn't mean anything; the real gift is looking into someone's eyes, knowing there's complete truth in the statement "we're in this together," and finally understanding what commitment means. The moments we have with each other, the love we share, and the memories we tuck away are the only treasures we can keep with us forever; everything else is essentially disposable.
I'll never know my grandmother's real motivation behind giving that ring to me, but I do know that, all these years later, it means something to me. Perhaps what I get from it is not what the wedding ring designer intended for the band, but I think it's significant nonetheless.
Both my maternal and paternal grandparents divorced, and both my grandmothers remarried. Neither grandfather did, so I ended up with four grandfathers and two grandmothers. Unfortunately none of the four grandfathers lived long enough for me to know them well. The grandmothers fared better. I was quite close to my maternal grandmother, and the wedding band in question was given to me by her one day when I was at her house. I had seen it around before, I think in the kitchen after my step-grandfather died. Though the details are fuzzy, I must have asked her about it, asked her whose it was. She told me that it was Roy's and that I could have it.
The significance of the exchange escaped me until just now. I was young; I took it home and tried it on all my fingers, and of course it fit none of them. I experimented with wearing it on a chain around my neck, but I abandoned it shortly for other, more sparkly pendants. It has sat untouched in my jewelry box at my parents' house for many years. Tonight, taking it out, I again tried it on all my fingers (it still doesn't fit, of course). I turned it over and examined it closely. It's a fairly simple gold band with five tiny diamonds forming a gently curved diagonal across the widest part. It's just a man's wedding ring.
But it was my grandmother's husband's wedding ring. I have no idea why she gave it to me, and she is no longer alive for me to ask.
I don't remember her making me promise to take good care of it, to keep it safe because it was special. She simply gave it to me. She had often easily handed over other objects I'd admired, so of course being a child, I thought nothing of it. Now as an adult, it seems strange to me that she would just hand over her deceased spouse's wedding band to a child as if it were a cookie or a doll.
You often hear of elderly people holding on to their spouses' wedding rings after their deaths, keeping the bands close until the day they die. I suppose the rings serve as a comfort to these people, of a reminder of a love and a commitment they once held dear and that shaped who they are in innumerable ways. I understand this; I'd be inclined to the same sentimentality. Being sentimental, one of my first thoughts tonight was that maybe she chose to give it to me as opposed to any of her other eight grandchildren (or five children) because she thought I was special, thought I would understand more, thought I would be more responsible for it than any of the others.
Maybe, but I doubt it.
Then, being also a touch cynical, I thought that because it was her second husband's wedding ring, perhaps it didn't mean as much to her.
Knowing how much love my grandmother was capable of giving, I don't think that's the reason, either.
I think my grandmother was just different. Once she let go of the physical person and internalized the experience and memories of her husband, she was able to simply let go of the physical objects associated with him. Without him, his things meant nothing. What she carried inside of her was more representative of him than any ring or article of clothing would ever be again.
I suppose what my grandmother might have been telling me, in a way, is that the true gifts we get from people are intangible; they are moments shared with those we love, etched always in our memories--a sideways smile through barely opened eyes first thing in the morning; fits of riotous laughter shared rolling on the floor; top-volume, windows-down sing-alongs to hair metal or Broadway musicals while driving; unexpected conversations around the kitchen table that last for hours past dinner and then bedtime; just the right hug given at just the right instant. A wedding ring doesn't mean anything; the real gift is looking into someone's eyes, knowing there's complete truth in the statement "we're in this together," and finally understanding what commitment means. The moments we have with each other, the love we share, and the memories we tuck away are the only treasures we can keep with us forever; everything else is essentially disposable.
I'll never know my grandmother's real motivation behind giving that ring to me, but I do know that, all these years later, it means something to me. Perhaps what I get from it is not what the wedding ring designer intended for the band, but I think it's significant nonetheless.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
(Ahem, ahem)
I have a bone to pick with Entertainment Tonight. Yes, I know. Self-respecting people don’t even admit that they watch the show, but sometimes I just want background noise, so I turn on the TV while I make dinner. Unfortunately for me, ET always seems to be on at exactly the same time.
In any case, the other night I was halfway listening to the show’s mindless celebrity blather when a clip of an “interview” with Hillary Clinton came on. I put the word interview in quotation marks because the “reporter” was not asking questions of any substance or direct relevance to her Presidential campaign, so in my opinion it doesn’t really qualify. I began to listen with just a touch more attention, because I haven’t yet decided on which Democratic candidate for Presidency I will vote in the primary, but Hillary is definitely up for personal consideration.
About three questions in, the interviewer flashed his over-bleached smile and in very serious tones asked Mrs. Clinton what I can only assume the show’s writers thought was an important question to people of the country:
“Mrs. Clinton, if you win the Presidency, do you have any plans to redecorate the White House?”
Hillary smiled back patiently and calmly said, “I think Mrs. Bush has done a wonderful job maintaining the White House and it probably does not need redecorating.”
Yeah, dumbass, because if she wins the Presidency she’s going to be too busy RUNNING THE COUNTRY to spend any time wondering whether the drapes wouldn’t look better in chartreuse.
This question and its underlying implications completely offended me as a woman and, in my opinion, should infuriate any other intelligent, career-focused woman with ambitious goals. As I interpret it, the question can imply two things: either people do not take Hillary Clinton seriously as a Presidential candidate or they expect her to fill not one, but two prominent public roles—those of both President and First Lady.
In the first instance, the redecorating question sounds patronizing; in other words, “Yes, Mrs. Clinton, sure you’re running for President. But let’s talk about the real issues you’ll be facing: does the Chinese ambassador prefer red of white wine?” Does the public really think that Bill will actually be orchestrating the Presidency from the wings? Do people really think that she is only running because Bill has already served two terms and this is a nefarious way for him to get back into office? Or are they not asking her serious questions just because she is a woman—hey, it’s “nice” that she’s running but no one really takes her seriously?
The second implication would suggest a blatant double standard. Excuse me if I’m incorrect, but aren’t activities such as White House redecorating and Christmas tree trimming typically the duties of the spouse of the President? If this assumption is true, then if Hillary becomes President, wouldn’t Bill be the person in charge of selecting new rugs and organizing Easter egg hunts? Maybe, though, I am grossly mistaken, and in reality the person who assumes responsibilities for these tasks is the woman who lives in the White House. Is the expectation of the people that Hillary will assume all the responsibilities of the Presidency while also filling her old support role? Has any male President in the past been expected to both fulfill his official duties and manage the more unofficial responsibilities of his spouse? Why, then, would Hillary be expected to do both?
Whether or not she is the best possible Presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton’s bid for the Democratic ticket is a step toward changing the perception that the U.S. Presidency is a man’s job. Women hold top offices in other countries around the world, but for some reason, the United States, which prides itself on being an advanced nation, is still stuck with the archaic notion that it ultimately takes a man to lead. I believe that this country needs more women like Hillary—intelligent, successful women who challenge the status quo.
However, shows like ET seriously undermine efforts to change gender perceptions in politics and the workplace by refusing to acknowledge the positions that characterize Hillary’s endeavor and focusing instead on what they think people want to know about her (Will she redecorate? What will she wear to the next debate?). Instead, ET reinforces the idea that a lot of people probably carry—it’s nice that she’s running and all, but really, what does she know about politics?
What’s truly unfortunate is that for some people, shows like ET serve as a primary news source. Some people don’t take these programs for what they are—televised tabloids—and are actually influenced by what is presented. Frighteningly, such influence has the potential to sway opinions at the polls and to ultimately negatively impact the welfare of the country. I don’t know about you, but I for one am appalled that “fluffy” questions about matters unrelated to politics (like decorating, or even religious affiliation) can influence a vote. I wish that so-called journalists would take the initiative to use their public influence to educate rather than to distract for the sake of “entertainment.”
In any case, the other night I was halfway listening to the show’s mindless celebrity blather when a clip of an “interview” with Hillary Clinton came on. I put the word interview in quotation marks because the “reporter” was not asking questions of any substance or direct relevance to her Presidential campaign, so in my opinion it doesn’t really qualify. I began to listen with just a touch more attention, because I haven’t yet decided on which Democratic candidate for Presidency I will vote in the primary, but Hillary is definitely up for personal consideration.
About three questions in, the interviewer flashed his over-bleached smile and in very serious tones asked Mrs. Clinton what I can only assume the show’s writers thought was an important question to people of the country:
“Mrs. Clinton, if you win the Presidency, do you have any plans to redecorate the White House?”
Hillary smiled back patiently and calmly said, “I think Mrs. Bush has done a wonderful job maintaining the White House and it probably does not need redecorating.”
Yeah, dumbass, because if she wins the Presidency she’s going to be too busy RUNNING THE COUNTRY to spend any time wondering whether the drapes wouldn’t look better in chartreuse.
This question and its underlying implications completely offended me as a woman and, in my opinion, should infuriate any other intelligent, career-focused woman with ambitious goals. As I interpret it, the question can imply two things: either people do not take Hillary Clinton seriously as a Presidential candidate or they expect her to fill not one, but two prominent public roles—those of both President and First Lady.
In the first instance, the redecorating question sounds patronizing; in other words, “Yes, Mrs. Clinton, sure you’re running for President. But let’s talk about the real issues you’ll be facing: does the Chinese ambassador prefer red of white wine?” Does the public really think that Bill will actually be orchestrating the Presidency from the wings? Do people really think that she is only running because Bill has already served two terms and this is a nefarious way for him to get back into office? Or are they not asking her serious questions just because she is a woman—hey, it’s “nice” that she’s running but no one really takes her seriously?
The second implication would suggest a blatant double standard. Excuse me if I’m incorrect, but aren’t activities such as White House redecorating and Christmas tree trimming typically the duties of the spouse of the President? If this assumption is true, then if Hillary becomes President, wouldn’t Bill be the person in charge of selecting new rugs and organizing Easter egg hunts? Maybe, though, I am grossly mistaken, and in reality the person who assumes responsibilities for these tasks is the woman who lives in the White House. Is the expectation of the people that Hillary will assume all the responsibilities of the Presidency while also filling her old support role? Has any male President in the past been expected to both fulfill his official duties and manage the more unofficial responsibilities of his spouse? Why, then, would Hillary be expected to do both?
Whether or not she is the best possible Presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton’s bid for the Democratic ticket is a step toward changing the perception that the U.S. Presidency is a man’s job. Women hold top offices in other countries around the world, but for some reason, the United States, which prides itself on being an advanced nation, is still stuck with the archaic notion that it ultimately takes a man to lead. I believe that this country needs more women like Hillary—intelligent, successful women who challenge the status quo.
However, shows like ET seriously undermine efforts to change gender perceptions in politics and the workplace by refusing to acknowledge the positions that characterize Hillary’s endeavor and focusing instead on what they think people want to know about her (Will she redecorate? What will she wear to the next debate?). Instead, ET reinforces the idea that a lot of people probably carry—it’s nice that she’s running and all, but really, what does she know about politics?
What’s truly unfortunate is that for some people, shows like ET serve as a primary news source. Some people don’t take these programs for what they are—televised tabloids—and are actually influenced by what is presented. Frighteningly, such influence has the potential to sway opinions at the polls and to ultimately negatively impact the welfare of the country. I don’t know about you, but I for one am appalled that “fluffy” questions about matters unrelated to politics (like decorating, or even religious affiliation) can influence a vote. I wish that so-called journalists would take the initiative to use their public influence to educate rather than to distract for the sake of “entertainment.”
Friday, November 2, 2007
Doubt
What happens when you suddenly, for no reason at all, have misgivings? What happens if you've been spending the past year plus of your life staying somewhere, pursuing a career path about which you feel only lukewarm at best, because you wanted to be with someone, and then out of the blue, you find yourself with a sick feeling in your gut, wondering if maybe he's starting to move in a different direction? What do you do when you were always sure that you were the one who was going to leave, and suddenly you feel like you might, in fact, be the one left behind?
I suppose if you're a mature, rational individual, you talk about it. And if you may be (just a little) crazy on the inside, you let it fester ad tear you apart.
But how, how can you ask someone whom you can't even tell you love (and who has never told you the same) if he's stopped loving you?
I suppose if you're a mature, rational individual, you talk about it. And if you may be (just a little) crazy on the inside, you let it fester ad tear you apart.
But how, how can you ask someone whom you can't even tell you love (and who has never told you the same) if he's stopped loving you?
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