half hippie

I am turning into a different creature than the one I used to imagine, than indeed the one my parents want to imagine.

I am about to divulge a fact about myself. It isn't necessarily a fact I like. It's not one that holds any value in meeting people in terms of charm or interest. For a long time, it's not something I wanted to believe, but I think I've become comfortable with it:

I am not extreme.

This applies to probably every aspect of my life.

Despite this fact, I always imagined myself when I was younger, thirteen maybe, as basically normal. But I am not that either. More and more I feel separated from society, or American society, in ways I couldn't have imagined before. More frequently I am disgusted and disheartened by people. Comments that used to seem to me innocent or friendly bother me because of their implications... you may have purchased something cheaper, but it doesn't mean a price isn't getting paid somewhere else. If I see someone drinking with a straw, I might not think about it. But I might also wonder what the hell sort of purpose a straw serves besides making someone at the end of some line a bunch of money and carelessly depleting a resource.

It's not a fun attitude, obviously. Actually, a lot of the time I feel like a grandpa. An embittered, enviro-conscious grandpa.

The thing is, once you're aware of your own values, and the values you desperately want other people to share, you can't shed them. I can't just shake my head and laugh and say, "Oh, those straws" because I know somewhere oil is being converted to plastic and shipped a thousand miles in some direction so people can use straws, and somewhere 700 million McDonald's straws are sitting in the dirt, trying desperately to become dirt themselves. Which will take a while.

And capitalism? Not a big fan.

The thing is, in our society, you can't really have this sort of view, an environmentally-sensitive, socially-critical point of view, without being lumped into the counterculture that ends up being so homogeneous most of the time that I just end up feeling alienated. Must I be physically exotic and tattooed to be a person with radical ideas? Because I find it hard to feel comfortable in any circle sometimes.

Really, though, this is just a small rant at the little things that pop up occasionally and leave me feeling isolated. The old friend that feels more experienced and looks at me only superficially with a how-can-I-help-you? expression, for example. The hypocritical nature inherent in everyone, even those on your side.

I also just wanted to note how hard it is to relate people.

And proclaim that I need a cat.

love will get you in the end

I'm pretty sure I'm in love. With M. Ward's voice & sweet guitar strumming & ethereal lyrics. It's perfectly contained comfort, an earthenware mug of tea, a 4AM autumn breeze. I have trouble listening to Iron and Wine anymore due to repetition. Maybe he's my this-year's Sam Beam.

Listen to "Lullaby + Exile". For your own good. Right now.

Oh, and classes start tomorrow (today). Excited? Yes. Also I sewed a patch in my favorite pair of jeans (though I had to sacrifice my favorite bandana) and made a lovely tomato soup.

WHAT A PRODUCTIVE WEEKEND!

a film review

Do not go see "Across the Universe"--just don't.

I wanted this film to succeed, I really did. The trailor was well-done; it charmed me. But it didn't happen. I was not charmed. I was embarrassed.

Maybe it was the way the film expected one to feel for a movie's characters based solely on events, neatly dusting the concept of "character development" under the rug. Or the way everything became so ridiculously formulaic while pretending not to be--while parading around as art (now that is pretension.) Or the character Prudence, who apparently exists solely so the song "Dear Prudence" can be used, and as the token gay.

I watched metaphors painfully constructed on the screen. The most cringe-inducing: a group of Vietnam soldiers literally carrying the Statue of Liberty through the fields.

The movie relies on our knowledge of the "craziness" of the 60's and creates a bloated and cliched vision of the time without bothering to make it personal. When the characters actually speak instead of sing, they tend to be unoriginal and corny (like when Lucy sees off her war-going boyfriend, or Jude uses the phrase "bun in the oven" without any humor.)

Watching this movie, there were several times I actually cringed. I felt insulted.

The last movie I saw that tried to call itself art and failed this miserably was "A History of Violence".. if you want to gouge out your eyes, have a marathon. Watch both.

the british are coming...!

Last night I went to my first frat party of this school year. Save for the first-years and some off-campus people who were early coming back, the undergrad student body is not back yet, which means dealing with the awkwardness of big gaping spaces in big party places.

It was all right though, last night. My other permanent roommate, U., is back--to my sheer and utter joy--and I never really feel too uncomfortable if I'm near her. We sat on the porch and talked for a while, some friends (and friends' friends) around us. Even not talking, looking around contentedly and remembering what my classmates are like, was really enough for me to enjoy the night.

What I love about parties is this: you can meet people, randomly introduce yourself and talk, and not have to feel awkward about it. Few places offer that opportunity. You can't do it at train stops or bus stops, restaurants or movie theaters.

And so I met a small group of international students who came up, introduced themselves, and sat down. It amounted to one German guy and three British guys, all grad students in business. Here's something I'll admit, though it might be embarrassing or annoying: I love talking to foreign people. I love comparing countries and getting an outsider's perspective on America--you'll hear a lot of surprising things that way. And it's more fun to expand on differences than try to find similarities with the sloppily drunk, hovering stranger from New Jersey.

Hans (let's call him Hans) ended up being an excellent conversationalist. He wanted to know how I possibly entertained himself in Hyde Park, as there apparently is only one pub and I can't legally drink anyway. The drinking age was something he for some reason found endlessly amusing, and kept bringing up ("What do you do?!") and I tried to explain that it doesn't really stop anyone (I mean, come on, we were at a frat party) but he wouldn't have any of it.

I didn't pay much attention to any of the British guys until I realized, sort of strikingly, that I don't think I've ever even talked to a British guy. They were like an exotic species, suddenly, and I started trying to listen to them and Hans at the same time, which meant I spent a fair amount of time looking blankly at Hans as he talked, and pausing to register what he said before I replied.

When H. came out on the porch to join us I got sort of excited. "They're British!" I said, indicating the guys, remembering H.'s love for England. Hans started talking some more, but I caught the phrase "proper football" and a few other snippets. Like H. pointing out, "Hey.. you colonized my country" and the measured reply, "Yeah; sorry about that."

The British were, I guess, exactly how'd expect them to be: sarcastic, dry-humored, unimpressed. Mr. Darcy without the class maybe, a cynical Hugh Grant without the bumbling cuteness. Incredibly fun to talk to probably, but Hans was very attentive and they were very inattentive so I didn't really find out.

A short while later I found myself accompanying Hans, one British, and two Americans to an apartment party somewhere, and then I found myself halfheartedly playing something called "Flip-Cup" with the seven other people who comprised the party. Hans became increasingly comfortable and the increasingly handsy, so I used work this morning as an excuse, slipped on my shoes, and fled.

I hadn't told them that my apartment was literally 3 buildings away, and when I got inside one minute later it seemed very funny to me, like it was such a secretive thing to do, my own private joke.

Let it be known that frat parties are now redeemed in my mind.

wake me up when september begins

School starts in a week. This is my second taste of UChicago's idea of summer - an endless expanse of time that ends around the time you're double-layering socks and seeing on your breath on breezy, misty-blue mornings. Even the leaves are changing.

A late summer is not really something that warrants complaint, except that it's made up for by the absence of early summer.. we take our finals on hot, bright blue June days that take one back to baseball with the cousins, even if you don't know how to play baseball and know your cousins even less.

Anyway, this prolonged summer is shifting my nerdism into overdrive. Being home this past week has only worsened my symptoms. I barely survived the 3 1/2 hour car ride from Leelanau to Hastings with my entire family. I calmed myself down by writing a to-do list.

Later, I not only printed out my schedule, I used Excel to make a lovely visual. I adjusted font sizes and colors. I color-coordinated similar classes (Hindi is lavender, Hindi discussion is a darker mauve.) I then printed out all the information on majoring in both International Studies and Environmental Studies. I know that I must earn 13 credits in each/either. I now know that I possibly cannot double-major, thanks to the combined powers of the Core and Mandarin (why did I take you, Chinese, why did I invest so much time in your illogical scrawls?)

You'll imagine my excitement, then, when I checked my email this morning and found an email from my Environmental Studies prof (subject: "Hi Class"), saying he'd put a draft syllabus and our first week's homework online. I immediately went to Chalk. I combed joyously over the syllabus, as though it were a love letter. I opened and checked the size of each reading. I barely stopped myself from starting the reading for next Monday. I know, deep down, that I'm going to print it out when I get home. I know that I won't start it because I've yet to go get.. school supplies. Notebooks and neon highlighters, folders and pens. School supplies.

This is bad.

I wasn't even this bad last year as a dizzy first-year in sudden neo-gothic bliss, rescued from the dullness of rural public school. And that, my friends, was euphoria.

Vaulted ceilings and heavy wooden tables in the dining hall (dining hall!) in the place of lemon-scented linoleum and avocado-colored plastic chairs. Ivy instead of brown brick & plaster. The Middle Ages instead of the 1970's! And more: first-years instead of freshmen, serious readings instead of definition lists, profs instead of teachers. People might complain about pretension, but after spending time in apathy, pretension is like a beautiful thought.

But even then... I wasn't this excited about homework. Terrified, yes. But there was a lot going on. Excitement was being channeled in every direction. It was evened out. Now I know where I am.. the school, and the city.

Oh, UChicago. I have my complaints, but I love thee.

CHUM-CHUMS.

(For explanation: See September 4.)

of diversity, disconnect & disappointing desserts

I had a surreal experience with multiculturalism last night.

I should first note that if you're in Chicago and you really want to see different cultures, you should go to Devon Street. Not the South Side. Not downtown. All of Chicago, of course, is a land of different ethnicity, but one place to really get that sensation of immigration (that just popped out.. I should write brochures) is in the far North and West, neighborhoods that typically get less travel but are extraordinarily interesting. Far more interesting, in my opinion, than the Jamba Juice on the first floor of the John Hancock.

We (T., A., and I) took the Red Line out to Morse, the third to last stop on the North Side. Almost nothing was there (note: if you're going to Devon, get off at Loyola, not Morse) so we got on a bus. A bus with some strangely loud Latinos and lots of brown people in bright colors.

Devon (if you're reading this and not from Chicago) is an Indo-Pak neighborhood (more precisely street) that caters heavily to its community. It's covered in Indian and Pakistani restaurants, grocery stores (and delis, and bakeries..), clothing shops (mostly full of rainbowy-colored and sequined and silky-looking clothing), and on, and on. Compared to other neighborhoods in Chicago, Devon feels very alive. It seemed like everyone was outside, walking around, or else huddled in groups, sitting on benches and crates, shopping bags in hand, talking. Seeing it made me feel something almost akin to nostalgia.. like that's what cities were like before the internet happened.

We ate in a restaurant that was comparatively less formal than the rest (no white tablecloths & dim lighting) but still very clean and obviously modern (it had distracting and entrancing flat screen televisions in each wall playing over and over the same Bollywood music videos and movie trailers and commercials). A. and I ordered sweet lime sodas. We had no idea what anything on the menu was, so we just ordered three random meals and a side of samosas. I ended up with a very homey lentil dish, A. got something spinachy and sweet, and T. got a sort of spicy okra thing.

Afterward, we went to a very popular-looking fast-food-but-still-classy kind of place for dessert. As with the dinner, we didn't recognize anything, so we stared through the glass and decided based on names and colors ("What do you think that green stuff is? Pistachio?"; "I don't know, but I really want one of those pink things") -- in the end we had an assortment in a darling little box and went out to a bench to try them. We were all pretty amused by the "chum-chums", so we opted for 3 pink and 3 "sandwich" chum-chums. Afterward, we found it didn't really matter, as all of it, according to our palattes, was sort of flavorless and unsweet and wet. One thing tasted a little to me like old cheese. The brown thing tasted strongly and a little revoltingly like ginger. There was an orange thing, but no one could figure out the flavor.

We took the bus back to the Loyola stop, and waited for a train. Standing around at the stop, I noticed suddenly that the same guy on our bus was waiting for the same train. An Indian guy. In lightly-colored jeans and white shoes. Carrying a baggy. T. and A. and I discussed our chum-chums and the guy kept looking, and I kept looking back. When the train came, we got in the same car. By this time everything felt a little hilarious and I was feeling kind of inexplicably manic.

Lots of distinct-looking people got on and off the train. The guy crossed his legs at the feet and leaned his head sleepily against the plexiglass pane. I glanced, looked away, glanced back. Occasionally he'd glance back, and in my head it felt like the shared glance seemed to ask the same thing: "Are we going to the same place?"

I looked at the people around me, felt strange, looked harder. Then I realized: nobody around me was sticking to their cultural stereotypes. I sat across from an African-American guy with a fedora-like hat, black leather shoes that were almost feminine, and he had his hands politely folded in his lap. A young East Asian couple got on the train looking... stereotypically black. The guy wore big, puffy, colorful shoes and baggy pants and an oversized shirt and a loud, shiny belt buckle and a big, multicolored, backwards Sox cap. The girl had neon yellow & orange Nikes and big sunglasses. They were really, really loud. The fedora guy got off the train and was replaced by another black guy, this one wearing an almost dainty white knit cap. He looked peaceful, Buddha-like.

I glanced at the Indian guy, turned to T. "Hey," I whispered, "Let's bet which stop the guy is getting off." T. was quiet for a second. "Belmont," he said. "Or else Fullerton." I watched everyone in the train, read the ads, glanced. I started to think maybe he'd fallen asleep, but then I'd see him adjust his feet, sit up just slightly. We passed Belmont & Fullerton, and T. reguessed. "Clark."

"Lake," I said.

And so it went all through the nine or so downtown stops, until it became clear he was headed for the South Side. I felt a little excited, and started laughing. "He's totally getting off at Garfield," T. said, poking me. I couldn't stop laughing. "You like him," he added suddenly. "He's like 35," I pointed out. "So what? You're thinking about jumping him, aren't you?"

Sadly, the guy got off the train at 47th, one stop short of Garfield. When we got off at Garfield, I was smiling uncontrollably, like I'd just fallen in love or something... which is what T. kept accusing me of. But that wasn't it.

I think it was a city-loneliness syndrome. We went from the same bus to the same car on the same train, and I hoped the pattern would continue, that he'd be going back to Hyde Park too, that we'd start a conversation, go get coffee somewhere and talk about interesting things. I wanted a connection amongst all the disconnect in the city.

Today I ate lunch in Ex-Libris and after I momentarily left my table with my newspaper, a table with something like 6 other chairs, someone else sat down at the opposite end, thinking it was empty. I came back and he apologized in a quick, jerked, rabbity kind of way and started frantically gathering his things. "It's OK," I said and laughed slightly, "You can stay." I don't think either of us were really starved for privacy, but in the city, public-privacy is everything.

Last night I wanted a sudden lack of privacy. But it was okay. It was somehow exhilarating enough that me & the guy shared a bus followed by a train, that our destinations were separated by one stop. (And yet I wonder: Whither goest thou, Indian guy, with thy little baggy into the night?)

T., A. and I took the bus back to our apartment and stood outside H.'s window, doing a briefly choreographed song-and-dance routine about chum-chums. After he let us in, A. one-by-one fed him about 5 or 6 sweets. "Mm," he said of the chum-chums. "It's beautiful."