Perhaps it’s because of the grey weather, or the general stillness of winter, but I’ve been having one of those self-reflective sort of weeks. It all started because the Vienna Forum for the Global Initiative to Fight Human Trafficking is occurring right now, and it’s the event nearly all my efforts at the UNODC went towards. It’s a little strange to work exclusively on an event and never get to see it come to fruition. It’s the plight of many of the short-term UN folks like us, but I’ve been talking to my friends and colleagues in Vienna regularly over Skype and email, and they’ve been keeping me abreast of the activities there.
I have such an assortment of feelings when I look back on Vienna. I don’t know if I could work on human trafficking exclusively – as one friend put it, I managed to find the only thing more depressing than cancer to work on when I went to work on human trafficking – but I loved every minute of working for UNODC, and feeling a part of a larger, global cause. This isn’t to say that I dislike my job at Yale. It’s just a very, very different world. When I think of possible life paths, I don’t regret what I’m doing or my decision to come to New Haven. I look at Todd every day and know I made the right decision. And most days I like my job quite a lot. I just sometimes think about the other paths life could have taken.
Really, this is all Jonathan’s fault. Let me explain. Jonathan is a friend and former colleague of mine from UNODC, and had the somewhat dubious honor of being the only other American in my unit. In addition, Jonathan was my “Northern Exposure” hookup, as he received periodic care packages from his Illinois parents that included DVDs of the Cicely, Alaska-based show. As my time at UNODC was ending, Jonathan’s consultancy contract had come to an end, and in classic UN style, his new consultancy contract was tied up on bureaucratic red tape. He ended up enjoyed a few weeks of unpaid, forced relaxation, and then was hired to head up UNODC’s anti-human trafficking efforts in Afghanistan. He now spends a couple weeks each month in Kabul implementing anti-human trafficking programs, which honestly has to be one of the toughest and most noble jobs I can imagine a person doing. He and I frequently chat via Skype, and there is something very strange about sitting in my office talking to someone who’s typing away in a UN compound in war-torn Afghanistan.
I realize I romanticize what Jonathan does. For one, to do the work that Jonathan is doing in Afghanistan -- but as a woman -- would be infinitely more difficult than it already is. He works long and tireless hours, often just shuttling between the UN compound and back home again because security is so abysmal. He doesn’t get to spend much of his spare time wandering around Kabul. But when he does, he finds the pleasure in life there and in the warmth of the Afghani people, despite the country being pulled apart by conflict. When one day he instant messaged me, I looked at the clock and wrote back, “Jesus, what time is it there?” He responded, “Mohammed, its 3:30 in the morning.” His sense of humor manages to keep things intact.
I don’t know if I could do exactly what Jonathan does, but I miss feeling truly connected to the work that I’m doing, and feeling like what it does makes a difference in the world. I’m not going to flatter myself to say that my work at ACS and UNODC had a significant impact on the ground, but I did get to interact with people who made me feel like what I did mattered to them – breast cancer survivors and team leaders, former smokers, and Active for Life participants who stuck with a physical activity a year after the AFL campaign. I have a great group of committee members and volunteers here at Yale, but it’s just not the same feeling. I try to create that feeling for myself as much as I can (for example, when I receive a gift towards a financial aid scholarship, I like to think that what I do matters to the student who will now receive this scholarship), but it’s just a completely different set of circumstances.
I’m sure my mood will change once the sun starts to shine. Go without sun for two weeks and you’ll start believing in seasonal mood disorder too. But for that at least I now have “sunshine in a box,” a collection of mementos that remind me of California and sunny days at the beach, courtesy of Todd for Valentine’s Day. And come reunion weekend, when I get to see the culmination of my efforts, and the great work that will come from my labors, I know it will all be worth it. Until then, I’ll just keep waiting for sunshine – and spring.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Random melodic musings
I’m a sucker for cowbells. Accordions too. Clapping as a percussion tool, fiddles, even kazoos – if a song contains one of these elements, there’s a reasonably good chance I’ll like it. And anyone who knows me and my love of Rocket from the Crypt knows that I love me a good horn section too.
All these melodic musings stem from the fact that right now I’m sitting at my desk listening to a song I honestly haven’t heard in 10 years. Despite the length of time, the minute I heard the opening chords, I audibly sighed and said “Oh, I love this song!” and found myself sucked back into 1996. Literally. I swear if someone walked in on me right now they’d think I’d gone to some other world.
I’m always amazed at the ability music has to evoke such strong emotions and memories in me. For many songs, I have very specific and distinct memories and attached to them. Anytime I hear Kylie Minogue, I’m instantly transported to London, March 2003. If I hear Bob Marley on the radio, I feel like I should be driving on the 52 to the beach after school. And whenever I hear “This is the Day,” by The The, I’m back in Laura Kass’ or Steph Berry’s (formerly Hedeline) living room, watching a little-known, semi-mediocre movie called “Empire Records.” In the summer of 1997, this movie became the go-to movie for girls of a certain age, due in part to its cast of young, gorgeous starlets. “Empire Records” was a breakthrough movie for several then-unknown actors, most notably Renee Zellweger, Liv Tyler, and Anthony LaPaglia, and it tapped into the teenage dream of working in an über-hip record store, surrounded by lovable and good-looking men who secretly pine away for you. Let’s just say it hit a chord.
Now I’m not even going to get into the fact that someone was idiotic enough to name their band ‘The The.’ I’m sure the lead singer must have felt particularly profound when he pulled that name out a stoned haze. And I can’t name any other song by The The, but I will say that that “This is the Day” might be one of the great feel good songs ever put to record. An accordion, synthesizer, fiddle, and percussionary clapping – it’s a strange concoction of perfection. Seriously, if a nerdy 80s pop group and a jug band had a love child, this song would be it. And it would be one damn happy baby. Hearing the song makes me want to grab the one I love, look into their eyes and tell them how wonderful they are, and then start dancing. For other, semi-inexplicable reasons, it also makes me want to have a baby on my hip to dance around with. But I digress.
So here I am, stuck in an office, wanting to dance around but I know I can’t, lest I further the well-established stereotype here of what a Californian is.
Wait. I have a door to my office! If you’ll excuse me, I have an office dance party to attend to. But where’s a baby when you need ‘em?
All these melodic musings stem from the fact that right now I’m sitting at my desk listening to a song I honestly haven’t heard in 10 years. Despite the length of time, the minute I heard the opening chords, I audibly sighed and said “Oh, I love this song!” and found myself sucked back into 1996. Literally. I swear if someone walked in on me right now they’d think I’d gone to some other world.
I’m always amazed at the ability music has to evoke such strong emotions and memories in me. For many songs, I have very specific and distinct memories and attached to them. Anytime I hear Kylie Minogue, I’m instantly transported to London, March 2003. If I hear Bob Marley on the radio, I feel like I should be driving on the 52 to the beach after school. And whenever I hear “This is the Day,” by The The, I’m back in Laura Kass’ or Steph Berry’s (formerly Hedeline) living room, watching a little-known, semi-mediocre movie called “Empire Records.” In the summer of 1997, this movie became the go-to movie for girls of a certain age, due in part to its cast of young, gorgeous starlets. “Empire Records” was a breakthrough movie for several then-unknown actors, most notably Renee Zellweger, Liv Tyler, and Anthony LaPaglia, and it tapped into the teenage dream of working in an über-hip record store, surrounded by lovable and good-looking men who secretly pine away for you. Let’s just say it hit a chord.
Now I’m not even going to get into the fact that someone was idiotic enough to name their band ‘The The.’ I’m sure the lead singer must have felt particularly profound when he pulled that name out a stoned haze. And I can’t name any other song by The The, but I will say that that “This is the Day” might be one of the great feel good songs ever put to record. An accordion, synthesizer, fiddle, and percussionary clapping – it’s a strange concoction of perfection. Seriously, if a nerdy 80s pop group and a jug band had a love child, this song would be it. And it would be one damn happy baby. Hearing the song makes me want to grab the one I love, look into their eyes and tell them how wonderful they are, and then start dancing. For other, semi-inexplicable reasons, it also makes me want to have a baby on my hip to dance around with. But I digress.
So here I am, stuck in an office, wanting to dance around but I know I can’t, lest I further the well-established stereotype here of what a Californian is.
Wait. I have a door to my office! If you’ll excuse me, I have an office dance party to attend to. But where’s a baby when you need ‘em?
Friday, January 18, 2008
An Open Letter of Apology to my Tercel
Dear Tercel:
We’ve been through a lot together over the years. As the first car I’ve ever owned (the Infiniti G20 I had from 1998-1999 was, in fact, my uncle Lon’s car on loan to me), you were sort of my vehicular training wheels (no pun intended). I’ve learned a lot from you. And even if you aren’t the prettiest or newest car on the block, by God you are reliable, and that means more to me than any of those other things.
I feel like I’ve tricked you. When you rolled off the truck at Bob Baker Toyota, fresh from the factory, you looked forward to a charmed life of mild weather and ocean breezes. The most severe weather you ever thought you’d encounter was an overabundance of sea salt. But now, in your twilight years, I’ve subjected you to the harsh New England winter, and I’m not sure you’ll ever forgive me.
Let me back up for a moment. In truth, the hard road to New England began with your cross country journey. On the final leg from New Jersey to New Haven, the truck driver ‘hit a bump too fast,’ and for reasons I still don’t quite understand, the car wasn’t tied down very well. You flew up into the roof above you and got dented all over the place. It’s ok – I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault. You suffered the humiliation of a sagging ceiling (it’s ok dear, it happens to all of us eventually) for over two months, until the auto shippers’ insurance company finally paid to have you fixed. Now, with a fresh lift and coat of paint, you’re good as new.
But then the cold came. And boy, did it come! In all your California life, the worst you experienced was mild ice on the windshield. I left you for 11 days at Christmas, only to come home to you completely frozen shut. I heaved, pulled, and grunted until the driver side door opened with such a sickening crack that I thought my superhuman strength had broken the car door off. And to add to the comic scene, with the final burst of strength I used to open the door, the momentum of the door flying open threw me flat on my butt in the middle of the street. I looked up to see your car door still intact (no super strength after all -- damn), and devoted the next 20 minutes to removing the snow and ice from you.
To add insult to injury, all this scraping, pulling, and general chaos occurred in -9 degree weather. Yes, that’s not a typo – it was negative nine degrees. Even the brightest, most youthful car would have a hard time getting going in subzero temperatures. It took you a while to warm up (again, no fault of your own – moving slower just comes with age), but you did start, and I can’t thank you enough.
The next stop in our Connecticut journey is a trip to the DMV next week, where you and I both must rescind our California driving identity and become drivers in the Constitution State. I think it will be a sad day for both of us to say goodbye to the Golden State identity we’ve known and loved (in fact, it’s the only identity we’ve ever known), but we’ll look optimistically forward to the next chapter in our lives.
Sorry Old Gal for the shock to the system, but know that I promise to be as good to you as I can be, and I hope we’ll have a nice long run together for at least several more years. And I promise the warm weather will return. Someday.
We’ve been through a lot together over the years. As the first car I’ve ever owned (the Infiniti G20 I had from 1998-1999 was, in fact, my uncle Lon’s car on loan to me), you were sort of my vehicular training wheels (no pun intended). I’ve learned a lot from you. And even if you aren’t the prettiest or newest car on the block, by God you are reliable, and that means more to me than any of those other things.
I feel like I’ve tricked you. When you rolled off the truck at Bob Baker Toyota, fresh from the factory, you looked forward to a charmed life of mild weather and ocean breezes. The most severe weather you ever thought you’d encounter was an overabundance of sea salt. But now, in your twilight years, I’ve subjected you to the harsh New England winter, and I’m not sure you’ll ever forgive me.
Let me back up for a moment. In truth, the hard road to New England began with your cross country journey. On the final leg from New Jersey to New Haven, the truck driver ‘hit a bump too fast,’ and for reasons I still don’t quite understand, the car wasn’t tied down very well. You flew up into the roof above you and got dented all over the place. It’s ok – I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault. You suffered the humiliation of a sagging ceiling (it’s ok dear, it happens to all of us eventually) for over two months, until the auto shippers’ insurance company finally paid to have you fixed. Now, with a fresh lift and coat of paint, you’re good as new.
But then the cold came. And boy, did it come! In all your California life, the worst you experienced was mild ice on the windshield. I left you for 11 days at Christmas, only to come home to you completely frozen shut. I heaved, pulled, and grunted until the driver side door opened with such a sickening crack that I thought my superhuman strength had broken the car door off. And to add to the comic scene, with the final burst of strength I used to open the door, the momentum of the door flying open threw me flat on my butt in the middle of the street. I looked up to see your car door still intact (no super strength after all -- damn), and devoted the next 20 minutes to removing the snow and ice from you.
To add insult to injury, all this scraping, pulling, and general chaos occurred in -9 degree weather. Yes, that’s not a typo – it was negative nine degrees. Even the brightest, most youthful car would have a hard time getting going in subzero temperatures. It took you a while to warm up (again, no fault of your own – moving slower just comes with age), but you did start, and I can’t thank you enough.
The next stop in our Connecticut journey is a trip to the DMV next week, where you and I both must rescind our California driving identity and become drivers in the Constitution State. I think it will be a sad day for both of us to say goodbye to the Golden State identity we’ve known and loved (in fact, it’s the only identity we’ve ever known), but we’ll look optimistically forward to the next chapter in our lives.
Sorry Old Gal for the shock to the system, but know that I promise to be as good to you as I can be, and I hope we’ll have a nice long run together for at least several more years. And I promise the warm weather will return. Someday.
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