Scarlett Letters

A couple of remarks on Facebook this morning got me thinking about contrasts and distinctions.

1) An acquaintance of mine posted a single phrase: I need a girlfriend. The conversation that ensued was . . . enlightening. A couple of his female friends advised that he work on himself and that love would come. (This has been my occasional thought about this acquaintance, as it has often been about myself.) Some of his friends asked him what he could possibly need a woman for; girlfriends, they said, were all whiny, needy and expensive. And this acquaintance of mine said, "You mean it doesn't get better? At least the last one had the body of a goddess." At which point, I thought, "Ah, you're not looking for a girlfriend; you're looking to get laid." There's a difference. It also made me remember one of the many reasons I've never dated this acquaintance of mine. He reveals himself too often to be exactly the kind of man who doesn't see women as real people. We are useful for particular things, but mostly we're adjuncts to men, from his perspective.

2) I saw a production of "Cabaret" last night, and remarked upon the fact that a couple of people laughed at the end of the song "If You Could See Her," with its horrifying, deliberately anti-Semitic punchline. I said that I wasn't sure whether or not they laughed because they were shocked or because they actually thought it was funny, that in the current political climate it's hard to tell. A friend responded that it's an old show, and that when he saw it in the 1980s, people laughed then, too. I responded, "I don't think the age of the show has anything to do with it. It's a shocking moment, signaling a major cultural shift in the play." He said, "The age of the show was in reference to your thought on current politics." But the more I think about this exchange, the more I think he really didn't get my point. Did he think I thought the show is contemporary? Is he not aware of my more than passing interest in theater and awareness of at least some of its history? Possible, certainly, but I'd be surprised if that were the case, given how long we've known each other. Art--good art--remains relevant despite the passage of time. It will provoke different conversations in every era. Either he missed my point, or he really thought I had no idea what I was talking about. The longer I know this man, the more we butt heads about particular issues, the more I think he hasn't been paying attention, which is . . . disappointing. Or maybe it's just that we've lived such completely different lives that we don't know how to communicate with each other--a thought that has never occurred to me until just now.

Earlier this week, something happened that made me very angry. I wrote a long, heartfelt blog post about it, my browser crashed and the whole thing was lost. At the time, I was enraged that all that work was gone. A day later I thought, Well, you've had your catharsis. Move on. But this morning I realized that I was still angry. I'm not going to talk about the specific incident, but I want to talk about the larger principle behind it. This won't be as gracious or poetic as that first draft, but it still gets the idea across.

I have a philosophy: try to be kind to people, but be especially kind, especially careful and considerate, with those to whom you are close. That kindness manifests, among other ways, by being polite. Saying "please" and "thank you." If I want or need a favor, I try to ask for it carefully and with consideration for the other person's feelings, their time and effort: "If you wouldn't mind, would you please . . . " Being polite is a Thing for me, but it's especially a Thing with regard to the people I care about. It's a sign of respect.

The closer I am to someone, the more I owe them my care and consideration. When I say "close," I don't mean family, because family can be abusive or manipulative or mean. Sometimes we are close with blood relations--caring, supportive, enthusiastic about each other--and that's great. But we also have close friends who are like the family we want most. Anyone we're close to, by this definition, deserves to be treated thoughtfully.

I have heard some people say that the closer you are to another person, the less important it is to be polite; they know you care about them so politeness isn't an issue. To me, this is like saying the closer you are to someone, the less you have to respect them. But I can't believe for a minute that a friendship isn't damaged, that relations aren't strained, when one person treats another without consideration. Such behavior assumes that love is known. It assumes good will.

But you know what Felix Unger said about assuming.

This applies regardless of the relationship and regardless of the circumstances.

This isn't a matter of social graces. It's a matter of treating the people we care about with respect. It's about offering consideration to others, especially if we need or want something from them. It's a way of demonstrating appreciation, a way of saying, "Thank you for caring about me. I care about you, too." It's about being a mensch. I have found that respect begets respect. Consideration begets consideration. If you don't treat someone thoughtfully, you don't give them a reason to treat you that way either. You strain their goodwill. You diminish their love for you.

ETA: I'm not perfect. I can't say that I'm completely considerate and thoughtful every single time. No one is. But I try to be aware and I make a regular effort. If I fail, I try to be more considerate the next time. Perfection isn't the point--practice, intention, effort is.

This goes back to one of the first lessons we learn as children. Say "please" and "thank you." Ask nicely. Consider others. It's a little thing, but it makes a difference. And you'll be remembered more kindly, loved more fiercely, as a result.

Night before last, I had an interesting dream. (Well, interesting to me anyway.) I was in Seattle Center at the Armory (formerly the Center House) having lunch with my brother. He got up to get some ketchup and my far-away friend BK came by to say hello. We hugged, chatted and he left. My brother came back and I told him he'd missed BK. "Well, crap," he said. "It would have been cool to meet him." I got up to go look for BK, to see if I could catch him before he left the area. When I went outside to find him, I discovered that people were leaving the area and then I came face to face with the reason why: a big Serengeti lion was stalking towards me. That's when I woke up.

I'm a pretty cognitive dreamer. I know what this dream was about.

BK is a rather formidable guy with a LOT of brains, a strong military background and a ferociously independent political streak. More than any other veteran I know, he--and his wife--are outspoken, plain-spoken, and have no time for bullshit, so when debates flare up on Facebook, they waste no time in telling you exactly what they think in unvarnished and often pretty brutal terms. You return the volley or admit you're outgunned and step away. On the one hand, I admire this forthrightness. On the other hand, it's hard to be on the business end of such fire, especially given the premium I put on being careful, polite, and thoughtful with those about whom I care.

I was on the business end of such fire recently, and it upset me. I stepped away from the exchange pretty quickly, understanding that a) political debates on Facebook get very heated very fast, B) I don't always have the presence of mind to manage my own response in such situations in a measured, objective way, and C) my investment in the substance of the debate was pretty low but my response to the language used in my direction was pretty high. It wasn't personal; it was debate, which is why I've weighed my response so carefully.

In the wake of that exchange, though, I've made a point to keep political debate off of my Facebook wall, and I've kept some distance between myself and BK online. BK has shown up in conversations on my wall since then, responding in friendly, pretty benign ways. The dream I noted above came in the wake of his posting a humorous video to my wall that entertained me and that was meant as a gesture of friendship and goodwill. The dream was a reminder that, like a lion, which is strong and beautiful and appealing, my friend is also a formidable, dangerous man and to act accordingly.

BK and I live very different lives. It's one of the reasons that I've maintained the connection--not the only one, by any means, but it's an important aspect of the friendship to me. I live in such a comfortable bubble, surrounded by people who live in ways very similar to mine. He has gone places and done things that I don't know if I'd have the fortitude to do, even with training. This friendship--maybe friendly acquaintanceship is a better description--is a reminder to be aware that not everyone lives the safe, comfortable life that I do, that people make choices significantly different than the ones I make, have different priorities and perspectives. It's important. But it's not always easy.

Eleven years ago today, a little girl I didn't know at the time would ultimately be my niece was born to a woman who didn't know she'd be my sister-in-law. Today, that girl turns 11 and I couldn't be more delighted to be her aunt. She keeps telling us that she doesn't want to grow up, but in many ways, she's more grown up than she could know. I love the person she is, and I'm looking forward to the adult she will be some day.



Thirteen years ago today, I woke up to the news that the United States had been attacked. I wrote about my experience of that day pretty thoroughly last year because I realized that I'd never written about it before. I don't feel a need to go over it again. But it's important to acknowledge the day, the loss we all experienced. For me, I still have this weird regret about not having been in New York City, this desire for the solidarity of experience with my fellow New Yorkers. It's a bizarre thing to wish, to have been present for tragedy and horror. I was fortunate not to be there and I know it. I was fortunate not to lose anyone I knew or loved. At the same time, I often feel like the grief I always feel on this day somehow isn't as justified, as if my growing up on Long Island and all my years as a resident of the city don't matter in the face of what happened. But they do. I walked those streets every day. I saw the Twin Towers every single day. I remember them being built. I wasn't in the city at the time, but a piece of my heart will always be there. And so I acknowledge the day, a kind of yarzheit for my fellow New Yorkers.

And then I look at that picture of me and my niece again. Life goes on in all the best ways. That's ultimately the most important thing. And it's the best way we can pay tribute to those we've lost.

I'm working with a co-worker to revise copy targeted toward lay people to help them understand something both technically and legally difficult. What I'm finding fascinating is the speed of interaction. It highlights different work styles, different emphases, and different information-processing capabilities. I'm turning things around fairly quickly; she's slower and more deliberate. I'm also seeing where the lines are drawn between communication specialists and subject matter experts or SMEs. The SME goes looking for accuracy and often ends up tangled in the language, providing passive sentence structure, more complicated vocabulary and so on. I read what she's sent, redraft it for the lay person in a more effective and economical way and send it back pretty quickly, 9 times out of 10 getting it right the first time. It's been an interesting process. And heartening to my sense of confidence and accomplishment as well.

September 9 was my tenth anniversary on LiveJournal. I intend to write about these last ten years at some point very soon.

September 11 is the 12th anniversary of the attacks on New York City, the Pentagon and a third location of which we'll never be certain (the White House? the Capitol? Has it ever been determined for sure?). In the ten years I've been a LiveJournal subscriber, I've never written about that day. I just checked--went back through 10 years of entries and found that either I never posted on September 11 and never wrote about it in the days before or after that date. At most I've posted brief things like "To absent friends..." or "Never forget..." and left it at that.

My memories of that day and the days that followed are fuzzy and weird. I remember that morning, turning on The Today Show to watch over breakfast as I did every day back then. I remember watching, and Katie Couric talking about a plane hitting the World Trade Center. It was the first plane, and they were showing a shot of the smoking building over her shoulder. It was a live feed so, as she was reading the news about the first impact, the second plane came into the frame and hit the second building. She looked over her shoulder to see both towers damaged. I was standing at the time and I actually collapsed to the floor when I saw that.

Now here's the thing: That's my memory, very clear. But I just watched the broadcast again on YouTube (Part One | Part Two), and that's not how NBC showed it. They had Matt Lauer and Katie Couric sitting on a couch at the beginning of the story and they cut to a live feed of the towers--which they never cut away from--throughout the next half hour at least. So my memory of Couric reporting and looking behind her is something my brain created. I can't tell you why, but there it is. And weirdly, watching those videos again, I now remember seeing that as well as this clear memory of Couric reading and turning around to see the video.

I went into work that day in a haze. I remember people asking me if I was all right, because I was clearly not. I shouldn't have gone into work. I remember posting to a mailing list I was--and still am--on that is comprised mostly of NYC friends and telling them to check in, to let us out on the west coast know they were OK. I don't remember much of the day after that, except for sitting at home and watching the news like a zombie. The next things I remember about those days are bits and pieces:

• The skies being crisp blue and eerily quiet for days after, with no air traffic


• Being freaked out because I was supposed to go to the Frankfurt Book Fair and not wanting to fly


• Wanting desperately to be in New York with my friends and family; wanting to be in my city; feeling isolated from other New Yorkers and feeling like I was alone on the other side of the country, mourning for my home town


• Going to the impromptu 9/11 memorial put together at the International Fountain at Seattle Center. I remember models of the Pentagon and the towers made of match sticks that someone had left there in amongst the flowers, teddy bears and notes. The Seattle Fire Department erected folding screens upon which they put flowers and cards, fire department patches and wreaths. I remember bursting into tears there. A black woman and her daughter came over to me, put their arms around me and started to pray--people I'd never met before, and never saw again. It was a remarkable moment. I'm still grateful to them.


• I was working for WizKids at the time. Two days after the event, I remember the company's VP in charge of marketing grousing that business was still shut down in New York City, and that he couldn't understand why people couldn't just pull themselves together and get back to work. I felt such hatred for him at that moment, and the dislike never went away. Until the day I left the company, I had nothing but disdain for him. I still feel it, even now.


• I remember people in Seattle talking about how scary it must be to go to work in the Seattle's downtown skyscrapers and thinking that they just didn't understand. There's not a single building in Seattle that is nearly as important as the World Trade Center was as a symbol of America--not a one. The only thing that comes within shouting distance, maybe, is the Space Needle, and its status is so small compared to things like the State of Liberty or Independence Hall that it wouldn't be a first-tier target. Not that it would never be a target, but not like the Twin Towers were, or the Pentagon. Seattle's ports are more likely to be attacked than our skyscrapers or the Needle. It just isn't the same.

It was a bad time. The world has changed since then, more than we could ever have imagined. For all the things I disliked about President George W. Bush, I'll give him this much: he made a point to tell the American people not to make this about Muslims, not to take it out on our fellow citizens. That was one of the only things he did in those days that I look back on with any kind of admiration. As for the rest of how he handled things, well, I won't say more than that.

We do live in different times. Americans have changed; our profile in the world and our influence have changed. Our perspective has changed. I want to believe that we're kinder, more empathetic, more sensitive about war and about how our actions affect others. I know that some of us are less tolerant, more fearful, less generous. It's not a safe world. For Americans, it was safe before 9/11 -- or at least we believed it was. What I've seen as I've traveled is that on a one-to-one level people are still kind, generous, curious about each other, loving and open. But on an international level, at the federal level, it's different now. It will never be the same again.

It's been a helluva year. With death and serious illness in my social circle, and my striking a half century in age, it seemed like it was time for me to do something enormously adult and, frankly, quite sobering: get my affairs in order. That's the euphemism many of us use for writing a will and thinking about The End. I was scheduled to have a meeting with an attorney about it last night. That meant that I had to call my brother yesterday and Have the Conversation.

Which conversation? The one about who will be the executor of the will. The one about who will oversee my health care wishes. The one about what to do with my body once I vacate the premises.

So I got on the phone with him. For reasons I won't get into here, I had to have this conversation during the day, which meant calling from work--from my shared office. So the woman with whom I share an office got to overhear this conversation. I didn't care, honestly. What we discussed didn't feel especially private to me--but then, as my brother said to me, he and I have been living with an awareness of mortality since I was 11 and he was 9. We are conversant in the vocabulary of end-of-life matters and pretty comfortable with it. (For me, the hardest stuff is what comes before if illness is involved, but that's another post for another time.) He was barbecuing chicken while we talked; somehow, that struck me as enormously funny.

It was an interesting conversation. My brother, it turned out, had made the same assumptions I had: that because it was just him and me, he'd be my executor and I'd be his. We discussed other elements, like what to do with my body once I was done with it, and who would be my health care proxy if I couldn't make my own choices. He was funny about the body issue; he said, "Jan, if you want your body dragged around town behind six white horses, I'll make sure it happens; it's your decision." While that hadn't been my first thought, I admit to having given it consideration once he suggested it! It has a certain je ne sais quoi that appeals to me.

What was also interesting about the conversation were the things he'd assumed about me that weren't, in the end, correct. Some of my own decisions surprised me, but from a practical standpoint they make the most sense for me. (I'm not going to share them here; while I'm comfortable talking about all of this in general, I do not wish to post the details of my decisions publicly.) Such conversations require thought, but they provoke thought as well. (This distinction is important; one thought leads to another, and often those thoughts are unexpected and unwelcome.) Things one might not consider with a cursory glance become clear and more complex upon deeper study. I should note that some of that study may reveal uncomfortable truths about one's life--who will be left behind, who will or won't visit a grave if one is buried, and so forth. Also, who will take care of my kitty.

Most important of all is that I made a point to discuss all those assumptions with him. One of the most difficult lessons I learned in the wake of my mother's death is that Felix Unger was right: When you assume, you make an ass of you and me. My mother assumed that my aunt and uncle would be the executors of her will, but she never asked them. She just named them, and when they found out that they were named, they were unhappy and clearly put out at the imposition. And they let 19-year-old me know. I vowed at that point that I'd never assume anything about this stuff. It's too sensitive and too important.

So we talked, he and I. And then he went and ate his chicken, and I hung up and went back to work. Or tried to. My coworker said to me, "It's so funny: as soon as you got on the phone your New York accent came back . . . but, ew, you were talking about death!" And I said to her, "Yep, it happens to us all." She said she hadn't known what to do; should she put on her headphones or something? I apologized if she felt uncomfortable but at that point, I didn't feel like it was especially private, and to please not worry. And I apologized again for any discomfort. She was fine with it.

The truth is, when death comes, we all learn about the decisions our family and friends have made anyway. We are meat; we are dust. But wills are contracts that take care of business. And the conversations that surround their creation help to set expectations so that people have an idea of what's coming and what to do in the event. These conversations are important, and ultimately, they're a kindness. They let your loved ones know that you've got a handle on things; they provide if not the reality then at least the illusion of some control. But they also are a way of telling your loved ones that when they feel their most vulnerable, you've made some accommodation; they won't be alone. You're still there, wrapping things up, even if it's only your will (literally and figuratively) and not you.

------------------

The Met Life web site provides an excellent, basic explanation of the elements of a will and the considerations to think about when you're preparing to put one together.

The Mayo Clinic site provides a basic explanation of living wills and advance health directives, something else to think about carefully (and something I need to discuss with my lawyer).

A day or two ago, a friend posted a link on Facebook that went to Alli Thresher's rebuttal to a blog post about "fake geek girls." I read it and then went in search of the original piece, written by Joe Peacock and published on CNN.com, Booth Babes Need Not Apply. A more well-intentioned but misguided thing I have rarely read. Go ahead, go read for context--start with Peacock and then go back to Thesher. I'll wait.

Google searches revealed that Peacock's piece has spawned not only Thresher's response, but a plethora of carefully-thought-out and well-written (not to mention occasionally delightfully snarky) rebuttals like these at DoctorNerdLove and Forbes.com (which always but shouldn't surprise me with its geek savvy), among others. (ETA: John Scalzi's response is the king of all responses, with thanks to oldmangrumpus for the pointer.)

I am not in the least surprised that we're still dealing with this kind of sexism and purity testing. I'm not surprised that it's still the "POSER!!" accusation wrapped up in nuanced argument and published in the context of a reputable news outlet (though the idea of a reputable news outlet these days seems to be one that's fading fast and becoming a relic of another era). Mainly what I am is disappointed.

Geek culture is supposed to be about acceptance and joy. The oblivious sexism in Peacock's discussion is its own damnation. Purity testing makes it no different than the kinds bullying geeks have dealt with our whole lives by bullies who didn't find us straight enough or mainstream enough to socialize with. And so here we are, our own worst nightmare wrapped in TeeFury geekitude*, wielding the Light Saber of Truth and a Patronus Charm against girl-geek wannabes. ::sigh::

I hope for the maturing of geek culture to the point where these conversations don't happen any more. Based on the patterns of other cultural tribes (I'm thinking of certain male-dominated sports fandoms, mainly), I'm not convinced we'll see it any time really soon. I am, however, comforted by the rebuttals and the discussion taking place. Social growth and change take iterations of transgression, dialog, and healing. Sometimes helping someone grow up takes the infliction of a spanking. Spank away, internets. The culture needs it.


* (Note: For the record, I am the proud owner of two TeeFury tees--they are awesome.)

It recently occurred to me that I needed to turn my mattress. This mattress, not being double-sided, must be spun like a disc rather than flipped like a record. What a freakin' pain in the butt. I wish it were more comfortable, so as to feel like it's worth all the damn trouble. ::sigh::

One of the things I have long enjoyed about my neighborhood is that I often am reminded that I live near a lake in the middle of the city. Despite the occasional inconvenience of living on the side of the lake farthest from the freeway, it still gives me a great deal of pleasure. And though it's scenic, it's also a busy lake with a great deal of leisure and commercial traffic, both maritime and aerial. I often see the seaplanes that launch from the south end of the lake flying north up to Vancouver over my neighborhood. Sometimes, if I look between the trees, I can see a sail gliding by in the distance. I also can hear the boat traffic, specifically whenever some ship toots its horn requesting that the Fremont Bridge be drawn up.

Lately, I've been hearing one particular, very distinctive tooting about once a day. There's some boat--I'm assuming a leisure cruise vessel--that comes down the canal toward the Fremont Bridge that plays a music-box-like version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" punctuated by its baritone horn. It's the strangest, most comical thing, like the horn of some ship out of a children's book. That's probably the point, of course, but it's just odd, and it always makes me smile. It feels like a very Seattle thing, this peculiar bit of whimsy in the air.

I appreciate it for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that it reminds me of why I like living here and why I've stayed for so long.