The MTA and Me

So we've lived here in Brooklyn for 4 weeks. A number of ideas for a post have run through my head--should I talk about my run-ins (literally) with tourists by Grand Central station every afternoon as I fight the masses to get to my train before it's too crowded? Or how about a piece on walking (and sometimes singing and dancing) advertisements on 42nd street? Or would a summarized history of Mr. and Mrs. Baird outings around the city suffice? But I've decided against those things and instead start at the very beginning of most of my days: my subway ride to work.






Every morning (monday-friday), as soon as the front door to our building slams shut behind me, I turn my i-Pod on, put my headphones on, take a breath, and start my 15 minute walk past the park to the 45th St. Station on the R line. No matter how hot the day is supposed to be, the air usually feels cool and crisp at 6:45 in the morning. A few people are jogging in the park; a few people are getting into cars; some are putting the garbage out [these days I hate]; and others, like me, are scurrying towards the station.

I've experimented with leaving the apt. at different times to minimize how long I have to wait below ground for the train. In the summer, the station is especially damp and warm; the wetness in the air is usually accompanied by a variety of smells--as with most of the city's smells, it's a mixture of good (e.g. fresh bread or coffee) and bad (e.g. something emanating from what I can only describe as some form of mutant, rotting garbage). Thus, the shorter the wait, the sooner I can slip into the sleek, air-conditioned car, scramble for a seat and open up my book.

Many mornings, after I slide my card like a pro at the turnstile and walk quickly down the stairs [what if there's a train down there right now?!], I stand at the edge of the platform and view a rather bleak scene.
No train in sight.

I heave a sigh and wait. Usually I people watch. After a few minutes of alternating glances between my feet, other people, and the tunnel from which the train should soon emerge, I feel something in the air pick up. My favorite part. A rushing release from the sticky air of the station. The wind pushes faster and faster as two lights glow brighter. My hair stands straight back as the train chugs by, then stops. I look forward to this gush of wind every morning and afternoon.

The thrill of riding the train has somewhat worn off. I usually spend the 25 minutes on the train reading or, if I have a seat by a window, listening to music and noting the nuances about each station I pass. For the first few weeks, I wanted to be a professional rider--which to me, meant being able to stand the entire ride without having to hold onto anything. Though I was successful at times, my clumsiness is too overpowering and I ended up looking like a complete fool (plus, I'm pretty sure seasoned riders can be marked not by how they stand, but by how quickly they can barge through the doors--no matter how close they are to shutting--and get a seat. It also means not looking like a doofus getting off the train and having no idea which way the exit is. Anything I'm missing New Yorkers out there?)

I kind of have a goal to memorize as many subway routes and be familiar with as many stations as possible (admittedly, this story in the times Steven sent to me a week or two ago may have been a large cause behind my recent fascination). Many readers out there are official New Yorkers and may have become so accustomed to the subway that the initial awe of its artistry has completely worn off. If that's the case for you, I'd like to encourage a rekindling of those old flames (so to speak)--forgive the inconvenience of the (seemingly unending) construction work on the G line, let go of the frustration of the slow-running JMZ trains, and fall in love once again with the wonder that is the NYC transit system.

It's About Time!

I don't need to tell you that I hardly ever utilize my blog to its full ability. I have a hard time multi-tasking so if I already feel like I'm juggling too many activities or to-do lists, chances are blogging is going to be the first thing to take a back seat.

But now, things are starting to settle into place--funnily enough in the midst of pretty hefty changes.

I recently completed all parts of my degree requirements (course work, masters essay, and degree comprehensive exams). The exams especially have remained at the forefront of my mind for several months and I think its about time to let them go. They weren't that good to me anyway. Books and papers can't love you back.

So onto other things: Steven and I are in the process of signing a lease for our new apartment in Brooklyn. I'm (supposedly) starting a new job at the beginning of June in Manhattan. So moving and adjusting will replace school as my primary pressure point. I wouldn't feel like myself without something to stress about (probably should work on that). Also many of our friends are in transition/adjustment periods--expanding their families, moving to new locations, starting new careers. So I have a feeling this summer is going to be one of those monumental summers that will live on in a nostalgic haze of Wall St. and Midtown crowds; take-out food leftovers; weekend excursions to Coney Island, Prospect Park, and various neighborhoods throughout the city; steamy days of Baseball games and Beer gardens; and never-long-enough visits with the Bs (and one very important little b).

Of course, I could be wrong... it could also be the summer I remember first hating the city: urine- or garbage-seeped fragrances of sidewalks and subway stations; cramped commutes to and from work; yuppies and hipsters, simultaneously reminding me of how poor and un-hip I am; carrying groceries in the pouring rain; and of course, adventures with rodents. But as I enumerate both the potential good and bad of city living, I grow increasingly excited to experience it all. So I guess that's a good sign (?). Plus, I get to experience it all with S, who tends to make any activity an adventure.

It's been suggested to me that I use this blog to document all our adventures, big or small, in the strange parallel universe that is NYC. Guess I could give it a try. At the very least, I'll have something that details the summer enough to keep my future nostalgia in check.

Living with a Boy

I’ve recently had many friends ask me about how my life has changed since being married. Most of the changes are subtle since Steven and I have been together for a long time and I’m pretty sure that I had a good idea of what I was getting into. However, having grown up in a house filled primarily with women, I have enjoyed the new experiences of living with a guy, especially someone as unique as Steven.

Living with Steven means encountering a sprinkling of dress shirts and socks on the floor on a daily basis; it means unbelievable spur-of-the-moment dinners like Cuban-style rice and beans with lime juice and plantains, homemade potato soup with roasted peppers and goat cheese, and squash risotto; it means I never have to worry about the upkeep of my computer or other electronics; and it means that I own a panoply of T.V. shows to distract me from school work. While picking up a bit around the apartment the other day, I realized that our apartment is additionally filled with a wide range of items that strongly mark Steven’s presence: we have a seemingly endless supply of matches, beer, drill bits, extension cords, coins, whiskey, nails, white undershirts, new music mp3s, olives, hard drive space, and lighter fluid.

Lots of husbands have realized over the years that their wives have confined all of their “stuff” into a single closet or room or worse, gotten rid of it altogether. Apparently, it’s embarrassing for company to see the large speakers he purchased long ago for his bachelor pad. I wonder how many men basically feel like guests in their wives’ home. She selects the furniture, the color of the walls, the accent pillows, and the mini soaps in the bathroom. This might be because she assumes—perhaps even correctly—that he doesn’t really care about anything except the size or novelty of various electronics. It’s a common marital stereotype to portray the husband as a man whose identity (his hobbies, his preferences, his life choices, his priorities) is slowly chipped away by the person who is supposed to love him most [for a recent example of this kind of portrayal, see Juno]. Luckily for us, Steven is the one with the eye for design so I’m not worried about becoming “that wife” that turns the home into one filled with kitsch decor, flower prints, and pastel hues while shoving “his” things under the bed.

But while I would never want him to give up the things that make this apartment his apartment too, there are less-tangible things that have changed for him: he’s had to cut back on smoking (because I can’t stand the lingering smell of it in his hair, clothes, and skin); he doesn’t wander around the neighborhood alone late at night anymore (because I worry about his safety); he’s had to give up sole possession of his clothing (I love wearing his undershirts); and he’s had to get used to the increase in girly toiletries and the overwhelming presence of hair on the bathroom floor, in the carpet, and on his clothes.

All this being said, I'm still not entirely convinced that marriage changes much about the relationship itself, especially when you were committed to each other long before you said, "I do." The real difference (at least for me) has been that for some strange reason a simple marriage license offers a more validated sense of recognition from the outside. People finally start treating you like an adult and you are consequently entitled to lower car insurance, tax breaks, health benefits, and tons of gifts. Oh, and you get to wear a dress for about 4 hours. It's a huge shame, actually, that a signature on a single piece of paper gets more social recognition than the daily, unseen to the public, workings of a solid relationship.

EDIT: It has occurred to me that the portrait I paint of my husband above might be that he is a bit sloppy. This is far from the truth. He is, in fact, an organizing machine... our closets are in pristine shape thanks to his neurosis.

lightning and other misconceptions

I have always taken things seriously (perhaps a bit too seriously). When I was 9--an age at which I felt entirely capable of contemplating the vastness of eternity--I wanted to be baptized. At the end of a week of Jesus-Camp, during which I had felt both inconsolably guilty and incredibly elated, everyone gathered around a billowing bonfire in the middle of a large field. It was at this scene, while the preacher passionately barked about God’s disappointment and my peers around me sang, that I first wept for my salvation. But giving into the urge to jump forward and passionately declare, "I want to be baptized!" felt too charismatic to be a genuine desire, so I suppressed it. Being a thoughtful child, I was careful not to rush into things.

After returning home, I rehearsed a monologue in which I asked my parents if I could be baptized. After performing it, I knew they would not be able to deny my sincerity; I had said all the right things. And though Mom appeared cautious at first, she did not think it wise to ignore me. Instead, she took me to see the Evangelist’s (as they are deemed in the Movement) wife and asked her opinion in front of me. Debbie, in all her matronly glory, sternly told me that I was too young to have enough sins for God to forgive. I would have to wait until I had “experienced life".

From then on I was afraid of baptism. Anytime I felt the urge to make that commitment, I reminded myself that I had been wrong before and was, therefore, incapable of knowing what if I was truly "ready". I would need to wait for a sign. Years passed and I felt a kind of isolation from others at church my age. One by one, they were led to the water while I bit my lip in judgment.

By the time we had left the Movement, I was convinced that when it was time, it would hit me…like lightning. In a flash, some powerful force would convict me that I needed to be saved and I would be left with no doubt. It never happened. Instead, it took the poking and prodding of Youth Interns at my church, several weeks of debate with my parents, mentors, and friends, and lots of hesitation to get me in the lukewarm pool water on a hot August night.

In the end, it was the ceremony of it all that bothered me. The process of baptism, of answering the question, “Do you believe….?” and confessing, “Jesus is Lord” seemed a bit stilted. I’m pretty sure I was already acting like a Christian, though I had yet to be dunked, with my arms obligatorily crossed, fingers tightly holding my nose. I was comfortable with my relationship with God, but people kept reminding me of its illegitimacy. It lacked, after all, the wetness of deliverance. God loved me, surely; but I had not really made a commitment that counted. The years of prayer, fasting, studying, obeying, loving, and serving others were nice, but weren’t official. Yet I remained afraid of the act of being plunged. What if I wasn’t ready and it didn’t count? What if the time wasn’t right? What if the day I chose as the day to be baptized happened to fall a day too late of Armageddon?

Tom, a mentor of mine, asked my parents and me over to his house one night after dinner. As we were settling ourselves down in the comfy furniture of his appropriately Texas-sized living room, he abruptly asked, “Jennie, what are you waiting for?”

Knowing what he was referring to, I replied, “I have doubts about the timing, about my age and maturity to really know what I’m getting myself into. And because I doubt, I must not be ready.”

He laughed. Flat-out laughed at me. Mom immediately took to my defense: “How exactly is her taking this seriously funny to you?”

His response was immediate, but looking back he surely must have planned it. “You will always have doubts. You will never be 100% certain of anything. There are no lightning flashes, no roars of thunder, no instances where everything becomes clear and certain. There are only every-day decisions, gradual progressions, and choices.”

I got baptized that night. No planning, no special song or outfit, no speeches, just action. When I went down in the water, I looked up to the sky, hoping for the heavens to part—they didn’t.

The past few months have reminded me of those anxieties I felt not so long ago: the scrutiny and questions, the awkwardness, and the resistance of needing what is official to validate what I’ve already been committed to all along. In many ways, I'm again waiting for that one moment, the one that's supposed to matter more than all the others, when I am asked a simple question and I respond with a rehearsed answer, not realizing that in the meantime a question is being asked and answered with my every choice at every moment.

muggy boxes and extended metaphors

My window is open… even though it’s probably going to start pouring any moment. ABBA is playing on my i-tunes (yes, that’s right)… even though I should be listening to Beethoven or Bach. But Dancing Queen is calling me.

This is one of those days when I sit still, look around, think, laugh, cry, play music too loudly, and maybe even dance a little. My room is practically empty; all that is mine is packed in drab brown boxes. My life compartmentalized by kitchen, bath, books, clothes, school, bed… and labeled accordingly. They feel moist from the heavy, wet air seeping in through the windows.

I haven’t written in a long time. There are so many things to write about. So many moments worth recording that I let slip away from my memory. A lot of people have been encouraging me to write more. Mostly because I can’t get out of a writing rut. I never thought of myself as an author or as anyone capable of a career in words. I’m awful with words. I never know what to say or how to say it.

When I’m writing papers, I adapt this “academic” tone—as if when its paper time, I open up one of my cardboard boxes labeled “Term Papers” and delve into its contents: pretentious tone, stifled style, convoluted logic, awkward organization...

I don’t remember how this conversation came up, but I remember one day, senior year of high school, I was sitting in class talking to some friends about my fear of failing, of being labeled “stupid” or “incompetent”. I was always safe as a student. I conformed to whatever my teachers or parents required of me—even if I flat-out lied. I gave the people what (I thought) they wanted. And what they wanted surely wasn’t ME. A dear friend interrupted me at some point in my monologue, and with a sly grin said, “You know what Jennie? You’re in this box. And you’re stifling yourself because you think that’s where you belong. And you’re sitting there, waiting for someone else to tear the box apart from the outside—to tell you it’s okay to come out now. You don’t even realize you have the key and the lock. No one else can let you out, even if they wanted to.” And with a kind of laugh, he placed his arm on my shoulder and said, “I can’t wait for you to bust out of there.”

Okay, so it’s a little after-school special, and a bit cliché, but I think I get what he was saying. I think all my writing problems (and most of my other issues) have to do with my compulsion for conformity. And I don’t think it all has to do with my Boston Movement upbringing—although I can’t deny its influence. All my life, I wanted my teachers to like me. I wanted the students to like me. I wanted my parents to like me. I wanted God to like me. So that meant being someone else, being a box among the colorless millions of other boxes. When I write, I adapt whatever tone or style I’m reading because, hey, that’s what’s been successful enough to be published and consulted by countless scholars and academics—my paper will most likely end up in, once again, a cardboard box, taped up for years, in a basement or attic somewhere… disintegrating into oblivion (the box metaphor has officially been overextended. It’s trite. I’m okay with that). So, why write like myself?

And if I did, what would that even sound like?

That’s what this blog is for… or I hope it to be for. Where I can write fragments. Like this. And use whatever words I want…play around with puns and wit, and experiment with poetics in any style. In short, a place where I’m not afraid to break out of myself, to MESS UP. This is NOT for self-advertisement or public lectures. It’s for self-development. So why post online? One, to welcome criticism and two, to overcome the fear of people (yes, even strangers) seeing a part of me I often pretend doesn’t exist.

So, if that’s selfish or self-centered, I’m fine with that. I’ve recently received a sobering lesson in the right for each person to maintain control over him/herself. I deserve my mistakes, my thoughts, my words.