Smarten.

Voynich Manuscripts

I just read about the Voynich Manuscripts today. I love mysterious languages and codes. Take a look at it for yourself. And if you are so inclined, take a listen to Skeptoid’s podcast about it.

The common thread linking people throughout societies and time is the undying curiousity for the unknown. I love that about this place.

Remember when…: Pagers

Every now and then, my place in history makes me stop and think. I’m 28 and have gone through a massive wave of consumer communication technology. I’ve seen the popularization of the internet and cell phones during my time. The popularity of texting has never been a surprise to me and I picked up on it quickly because it reminded me of simpler (actually, more complicated) times when I had a pager, because THAT’S how people use to text (you know, after writing letters and using Morse code).

Pagers, I’m now learning, were not something all American teenagers had access too. And no, it wasn’t exclusively for drug dealers and doctors. It might be a regional thing, but anybody who was anybody (in high school terms), had a pager. My favorite one had a pink, clear case (because, and you’d know this if you were a part of the pager culture, getting a unique, awesome case was part of the fun of owning one). I remember getting paged during school and knowing one of two things about that person’s whereabouts - they were either at home sick from school, or at a pay phone. ((REMEMBER PAY PHONES? I barely do.)) No one had cell phones (not until I was in 11th grade anyway and that was rare) but people paged each other off the hook. I had a “200 pages plan” that I was always going over. (My mom: “I’m not paying $17 for 80 pages!”)

Anyway, the best part about having a pager, was that your parents couldn’t read pager code. Pager code was a way of communicating numerically and then signing with your “code” so the person knew who it was from. My code was 11. Sometimes you’d get anonymous pages and sometimes people would use other people’s codes so you’d think it was someone else. I had a boyfriend once who had a crazy ex-girlfriend. She paged me one time when I was hanging out with him using his code saying “1773 3-5401170-8123815-119” (translation: We should break up”). Drama!

Now people have the luxury of being able to spell things out into actual letters. And if you think it’s hard to communicate on Twitter through 140 characters, try 30… numerically. Now, you don’t have to call a number and punch in the EXACT numbers. If you make a mistake, it can throw off your whole message. It’s not like you could go back and delete it. Some people had alphanumeric pagers but the major downside of those was you had to call and TELL someone your message. So sexting was only for the gutsy.

20 years from now, there is going to be some advancement in communication technology and we’ll look back on texting as antiqued, just like pagers. By then there will be so many abbreviations (I’m reading Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story right now and they ‘brev everything in the future… kind of like now?). Or you maybe in the future you just need to think of your message and it sends straight into the recipient’s mind.” Sounds like a nightmare. I wonder what the future will hold and if pagers will continue to be one of the smallest blips on communication technology’s radar… only time will tell.

-11

Job Satisfaction

According to an uncited “new survey” posted on CBS news, 55% of the American population is unsatisfied with their job. I was a part of that percentile until today when I finally quit after months of waffling back and forth between, “I can make this work” and “I don’t know how I can make this work.”

Within hours of quitting, I already feel stress-free and back to my happy self.

I shall see you soon, dear Tumblr.

Like clockwork

Between 8:30pm - 10:30 pm, an ice cream truck plays “The Turkey in the Straw” somewhere in my neighborhood. I’m pretty convinced at this point that it’s a bat signal for a drug haven or sex den. A few times I’ve considered driving to find the whereabouts, but that seems unsafe for some reason.

Naturally, I had to Google, “Late Night Ice Cream Truck” and apparently, I’m not the only one who has experienced this - and suspected it was involved with drugs.

And here’s a (racist) fact about “The Turkey in the Straw” (of course I had to Google the title of this song. I only knew it as, “That damn ice cream truck song!”): It became popular in the early 1800s by a blackface performer. It is also the same tune you sing “Do your ears hang low?” song, which creeped me out a lot when I was little. In the same way as the story of the girl with the yellow ribbon around her neck did. Why the hell did I read that in school??

Last names

I’ve often wondered how people acquired their last names. I know that it can trace back to our ancestors occupations, personalities or place of birth. And I know that in certain religions, if you married outside of your religion or class, you’d drop/add a letter to your name. What I didn’t know is that there is a whole study of the origins and meanings of last names called onomastics.

What I’ve been more interested in, however, is learning about the tradition and cultural practices of adopting your spouses’ surname. As my wedding day approaches, I’m realizing this huge decision that I’ve never really given much thought to is upon me.

Let me back things up. Up until recently, I’ve called myself a feminist. A few months ago, I realized that I’m not really a feminist, but more of a… peoplist? Rather than focusing on one group of people getting rights, I’d rather everyone have positive, respectful intentions towards others. I realized when I have the focus on just women, I feel polarized. Everyone deserves respect. Its not just a battle for women, it’s a battle for humanity.

Now, when I think about if I’m going to change my last name to my fiance’s, I immediately say no. And this isn’t about feminism or woman’s rights. I’m free to choose how I want my name and my families’ name to be (and I thank women’s rights for allowing me to have that freedom). I feel sad that tradition has normalized family names as being patrilineal. My family has a rich history and I don’t want to have my children less attached to those links. I want to keep my name. And I wouldn’t be opposed to hyphenating my name if I didn’t think hyphenated names were too much of a mouthful. There is something exciting in the newness of a new name. Like a chapter title introducing me to a new life. A new start.

Here’s where I’m conflicted. I want my fiance to change his name to include my last name and I do the same with us. First name Mine-His. Or His-Mine, whatever (but more like Mine-His just because it has a better ring to it). Why should I be the only one changing my name? It doesn’t seem fair. From the little interest I’ve been able to garner from my fiance on this idea, I feel like it’s an up hill battle… and probably one I won’t be able to win. I want us to come to a mutual agreement but I can tell he doesn’t want to change his name. Is it the young feminist inside feeling like I’m not asking much more than tradition/societal values are asking of me?  I want to share the same name with my kids and it’d be nice to share a family name with my husband, but why do I have to give up my name and history to do that?

Ambilineality seems to be a common practice in America nowadays where kids are getting both their mother’s and their father’s surnames. There are many other societies that practice this as well. Polynesian cultures like Hawaiian, Samoans and Pacific Islanders. So maybe I’m just a generation behind more people feeling comfortable switching up this naming tradition.

Either way, I’ve already reserved every possible Gmail name that I’m open to taking on when I’m a married woman. At least I’ve still got some thinking-time.

Canadians

Justin Bieber is Canadian.

I barely knew about Justin Bieber until some of my students locked me into an intense conversation about how awesome he is. I finally broke down and listened to one of his songs. It’s not bad and he’s a cute (and RICH) kid, but did you know that he’s Canadian?

That shocked me more than learning he has his own nail polish line.

In ‘97, This American Life aired a show called “Who’s Canadian?”. I heard it for the first time a few months ago. The show opens with a married couple (the woman American, the husband Canadian) talking about famous people who are Canadian. The woman stated,  “If William Shatner and Pamela Anderson are Canadian, then I could be Canadian.” 

I’m an American woman newly engaged to a Canadian and I’ve only recently learn how absolutely ignorant I am to most things Canadian. They invented basketball, discovered the tell signs for strokes, and wrote Winnie the Pooh. (I learned this all from watching A Part of Our Heritage commercials about all the things Canadians have done. It’s apparently a very popular foundation to a Canadian drinking game.) And you know what, ALL THOSE THINGS SURPRISED ME. I don’t know why. My perception of Canada before dating my fiance has really been not much of anything. The silent northern neighbor who are nice. Now I know so much more about the country and the people to have a less naive and generalized perception.

But Justin Bieber… Canadian? That just feels so strange to me. Strange like knowing Superman was created by a Canadian.

Cementaries

2011 has brought a lot of challenges so far. One of which was losing my grandfather recently. I knew his death was approaching when I saw how he looked after losing my grandmother a year ago. The hardest part hasn’t been losing him, but watching my family grieve. Luckily, the string of time pulls us along and healing has been in motion.

During this whole process, a lot of questions have come up for me. Not about death itself, but about the whole cultural practices of honoring someone’s life and death. The whole process is not only expensive (averaging at $9,000), it’s also strange once you start to deconstruct it.

Last year I lost my grandmother, which was the third funeral I had ever been to in my life. Previous to that was my great-grandmother and my step-grandfather. All old people dying of old people diseases and conditions. When my grandmother died, I began to understand just how strange funerals were. Her funeral was very Catholic. I complained to my mom later that it was so impersonal to her life experience, that I felt a little offended. Why did we need a mini-lecture on Jesus, Paul & co. when my grandmother’s life was more than that? I understand that’s my own issue of not understanding or appreciating the Catholic faith, but it seemed obvious to me to at least address my grandmother’s life in some way during her own funeral.

At my grandfather’s funeral, there was very little talk about God. People were invited up to speak (I stepped up first because I was eager to share my experience of my grandfather with everyone). We also sat graveside and watched his coffin be lowered over my grandmothers which provided a sense of closure I didn’t feel at my grandmother’s funeral (after the “service”, we left the cemetery to go to a church to eat free food from the parish - frozen lasagna and potato salad). The common thread between the two experiences that I do not understand was having an open casket.

Google was unable to provide me with an answer to my question “what is the average number of funerals that have open caskets”. But I did find numerous articles/blogs/forum postings about the appropriateness of open caskets. From what I was able to gather from these accounts: Open caskets are generally a Catholic practice but also common in cases of sudden deaths where loved ones want to “make peace” or see that person one last time. I wanted to read more about this practice in other cultures, but then I ran across an article about whether or not people should publish photos taken during open casket funerals and I saw a dead person which made me click right the heck out of there.

I know it’s my own issue but I just don’t think I care to see a person after they’ve died. I’d much rather remember them alive and well. All funerals I’ve ever been to have been open casket and it’s been creepy. While I don’t want to look at the dead person, I also find myself so morbidly curious that I end up staring and daring myself to touch the body. I touched my dead step-grandfather’s side when no one was looking and have regretted it since.

I asked Google another question of “how many cemeteries are there in the world” and then parsed down to “in the U.S.” only to find a rough estimate of 500k (a source is not even worth trusting or citing since it was a Yahoo Answer). I wonder how much land we’ve dedicated to the practice of burying our dead. I wonder how these traditions of death have maintained over time even though its not sustainable for the living.

Maybe what I find to be strange isn’t the actual traditions themselves, but the whole elaborateness people go to honor the dead. From creating tombs with things you can use in an afterlife, to lying flowers on a tombstone and saying special prayers. We all live and die (one of the only true FACTS of life, Tootie). What happens to us next is a whole other series of conversations. But please, when I die give me an eco-friendly situation. Bury me and then plant a tree over me. Or cremate me and spread the ashes in a forest. But whatever you do, don’t put me in a box (and then open it) and bury me in a plot of land where hundreds of other people lay decomposing. I’ll be dead and gone and won’t know the difference either way, but I worry about the time when robots and aliens come to battle with zombies and me having to be a part of that army because I’m buried in mass with others.

Bucket List Item: Write a novel

I’m finally taking the leap. I signed up for the “Starting Your Novel” course through the Berkeley Writing Salon. I tried to participate in NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org/), but I realized I need someone or a group of people to help me in this process. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. I have been writing casually nearly daily since I was 9. I wrote a letter to my grandparents (they recently showed it to me) telling them how badly I wanted to be a young, published author. Well, its never to late and I’ve been working on a piece I feel is strong enough to carry through the finish.

I’m nervous. Who will the people in the class be? Will I be in over my head? Will there be comfortable chairs and endless, flowing coffee?

My “Valley Girl” accent preceeds me again

In 2006 I volunteered to be part of a biracial identity study. This has always been an interest of mine and I went on to write my own Masters thesis on this topic. What I learned was how unstable the definition of race really is. I don’t fit into either one of my racial categories so now I just identify as “mixed race”, which can mean anything. 

The researcher is about to put her book into print and asked me to reflect on how she analyzed our multiple interviews. I found this quote:

In the group interview Tina said, “I think that it’s really hard for me because I pass as White all the time everywhere, every day.  It’s also unbearable because I look like a White girl.”  Tina spoke with what many would refer to as a “valley girl” accent, which is typically related to White young women and girls. Tina doesn’t want to be viewed as just White, but that is how others perceive her because of her light skin and because of how she talks.  She doesn’t feel she has a choice; she said, “And I think ever since I was younger I haven’t felt comfortable.  But it’s kind of like I don’t have much of a choice.  I pass.”  Tina struggled with this perceived identity.

So there it is. I’m actually less concerned with my racial identity nowadays since I feel comfortable being my (not so) ambiguous self. Its the fact that I love saying “totes”, “awesome” and all that jazz as frequently as I possibly can. Can people still take me seriously in the real world? I’m not sure, but that can’t be my problem since language is the spice of life.