The reason this occurred to me is rather absurd: I thought of my Twitter and facebook accounts. Updates are the name of the game for both of those venues and you’ve got to be recent or be dead … untrafficked, at least. I haven’t been updating anything because I am depressed.

Don’t worry. Amongst my other talents, I’m a professional. I have bipolar disorder; it can get ugly at times but it is nothing new. I’ve lived with it my entire life (and a host of other mental issues that come along with being the daughter of a crazy person and a chronic depressive, genetics are a killer). This is why, time and again, I have learned that everything passes, the good and the bad. It can be difficult to remember at times like this but that’s what my robot heart is for—remote and impersonal evaluations of ridiculously complex and emotional situations.

So, I thought, I’ll update with Melynda Yesenia is depressed, or simply, Boo, depression, but quickly realized that to do so would only accomplish four things.

1. Nothing. This is the internet, not therapy, and to think that passive-aggressively reaching out will take the place of the real thing is self-defeating.
2. Counterproductive Questions. Often people see an unusually down post as a cry for help to which they are supposed to respond. If I have to answer questions like “What’s wrong?” I go from merely depressed to depressed-angry-terrified in a heartbeat. That’s sort of the point, though I can only speak for my own depressions, there is nothing else so wrong as me. I am what is wrong and I always will be and that is not the sort of answer for which there is a solution other than time, restraint, and perspective.
   There are few questions so terrible as “Are you okay?” when I am not okay, especially if it is accompanied by a gentle, reassuring hand on my shoulder. I know it is irrational but, there it is. I do not keep much company with therapists … or Cancers.
3. Advice. Due to that mental health stigma, admitting to being truly depressed makes people uncomfortable and people say really stupid things when they’re socially discomfited (I know I do). I’ve heard things like, “You should try to get more exercise,” “Have you thought about seeing a doctor about that?” and “St. John’s Wort. You should take that and Ginkgo and you’ll feel better in no time.” While it may be well-intended, this is not helpful. There are only so many ways and so many times I can politely, obliquely say, Thank-you for your concern, but shut up.
4. Confusing frustration. Invariably in the past when I have said that I am depressed, (if I’ve had to invoke the Sixth Rule*) at least one person will respond with “Oh, I know what you mean,” referring to a breakup or a difficult job-hunt or some such. These days the word “depressed” is synonymous with “sad” and sometimes even “bored” and though there are elements of sadness in depression, it is simply not the same. This is a bit like grief in that you can certainly empathize all you need but I don’t need to hear about it. When I’m inside the tunnel, I don’t care if you’ve been there too—you don’t know how I feel. Again, it’s irrational but, there it is.
   
   *The Sixth Rule, from my Crazy Survival Rules: Leave the apartment at least five out of every seven days. Speak to at least three people at least six of every seven days; text, email, SNSing do not count. So, I get one day off a week. For someone who frequently flirts with hermitic life, this can be quite difficult. On the other hand, I have lots of practice pretending to be normal so once out in the world, it’s not so much of a train-wreck as it could be.
   

After reading this through I realized that it may sound very negative, hostile even. Don’t try to help. You are wrong and can never understand me. Shut up, shut up, shut up. … Well, part and parcel I suppose but I should say it isn’t all support I find unacceptable, just some. It is rather like my touch policy. I generally cannot stand to be touched but I also crave physical interaction, but only from some people and only some of the time (cat syndrome).

I hope you don’t know what this is like at all but according to the latest statistics, chances are you do. It is assumed that everyone will be affected by depression in their lifetimes, either as a sufferer or as the friend/family member/etc. of a sufferer. Anywhere from three to fifteen million American adults experience depression in any given year, with those numbers rising all the time. And worldwide depression is …

Ugh, okay, you know what, look it up. I really can’t keep reading about it right now.

Actually, considering the statistics, maybe you shouldn’t either. Maybe pet a dog, go for a walk, or eat a piece of chocolate instead. I have neither dog, desire to be mugged, nor chocolate so I’m going to go play a moderately aggressive yet non-threatening video game, try to stop listening to Thom Yorke, and depersonalize for a few days.

You know, I said it before and here we are again—2010? Wow, what an incredible beginning… Incredible: ‘unbelievable’ or ‘not convincing’ :: applied to a situation, statement, policy, or threat to a person.

Yeah, absolutely incredible.

I was supposed to be go-go-going right now. Doing, making, experiencing, and experimenting from the moment the calendar hit 10.01.01.12.01. The first forty-eight hours were fine, stellar even. I planned, I wrote and I got things underway. Then: The Incident. I bent at the waist and threw my back all the way out. I’m convinced that there is nothing more humbling than having your best-laid plans and your intentions to “follow through no matter what” torched right out of the gate, regardless of the reason. Still, as means of explanation, I offer some backstory.

I have been in about a dozen car accidents in my life. The first were when I was much younger and may have had no bearing on my spine. In middle school something terrible happened involving my knees and the dashboard of a peach Mercury Capri which would later be referred to as “The Death Trap 3000.” High school brought what I blame for most of my damage, chiropractically, at least. We were turning out of a Dairy Queen drive-thru when another car made an illegal left turn into the rear passenger side of our car, where, until moments before impact, I had been safely seatbelted. I ended up molded to the rear driver’s side door, armrest digging into my back, head bouncing off the window. Ten years and several accidents later—a totaled van, a few concussions, some bruisy road rash—and we’re back in the present. Me immobilized for the last few days after bending over in an unguarded moment to pick up a notebook that had slithered under my bed. This near-crippling happens a few times a year. Each time I wonder which of the accidents was “the one” and each time I come no closer to figuring it out. I’ll never know of course but when you can’t move, there’s you and an ocean of time to think, mostly about yourself.

I have learned a few things from all of this.
Things I already knew but need reinforced every now and then, painfully, it seems:

Be flexible.
Slow down.
Let go.
Relax.

Change the pillowcases as often as possible.
Embrace bedhead.
Sometimes it is okay to eat lying down even though your mother would be appalled.

Though time moves quickly, and we cannot control its path through our lives (and that can be terrifying), there is always time to change perspectives and breathe deep. Always.

So we’ll call this project, Prep-1: Severe Spinal Damage and its psychological side effects. Otherwise known as, “What exactly is my pain threshold?”
Lessons were learned though I was whimpering and fighting unconsciousness much of the time … I also cried a little. Regardless, the experiment is underway. As soon as I can unbend again, I’ll tell a little more about it. Providing I don’t have a major relapse, which at this point would mean my spine had actually fallen completely apart and caught fire, we’ll keep this party rolling.

I just hope nothing falls under my bed—ever again.

Getting healthy is a full-time preoccupation.

I recently altered my diet to make me feel better about being alive, in the hopes of side-stepping that horrible food morning-after. You know what I’m talking about. It generally comes right after eating half a pizza? Or after a pint of super-chocolate, candy chunk ice cream? Yeah, it sucks. And for more than a year that was almost every day for me (even without the candy-chunks). Eventually I stopped eating solid food, almost entirely, and began wondering how much longer I had to live that way.

So I went vegan. I read labels for the word “whey” now and I care where my sugar came from. All of this might mean nothing more than an involved trip to the grocery but, as it turns out, my food journey did not stop there. While researching the truth about quinoa, which is more interesting than it sounds, I came across Calorie Count, which is exactly as it sounds. They don’t recommend a specific diet, they don’t even recommend specific foods. There is a community side to it but the bulk of its appeal, of course, is as a way to log your food intake and, hopefully, your activity levels as well. It’s probably a pretty good free tool for weight management but for me it quickly became pretty scary reading.

After logging everything I had eaten for the day (over a few typical days) I realized that I am most likely not eating enough. Not enough calories, not enough protein, just not enough. I am thrilled that my dietary change has lead to weight loss but that was never my goal. I set out to find some truce with food and begin good-living. Having several times in my life formed a very destructive relationship with food (though we don’t use the “ana” word around here), I never want to go back to starving myself again. For whatever reason, including ignorance, or oddly enough, laziness.

According to an article on about dot com one should:

Eat a minimum of 12 calories per pound of your optimal weight. For example, a man with an optimal weight of 150 pounds should eat a minimum of about 1,800 calories per day

Several sources say someone my height and build should be about that weight so I should be taking in about 1800 calories a day.

I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I already eat all day but most of what I eat is vegetables and water (before you pity me too much, it’s a choice. I prefer vegetables and water to coffee cakes and Diet Pomegranate 7-Up with Antioxidants—I really do). If left to my own devices, eating whatever I want, whenever I want, I only average about 1200 calories a day. If I’m to believe the not-insane-sounding advice I’ve read, 1200 is way too little for someone who is as active as I am. It’ll keep me alive but probably no better off than when I would have a slice of pizza and a latte for the day. I’m not going back to my old diet and I’m not going to stop exercising, I enjoy it too much, so what’s a girl to do?

I sucked it up and started eating more. [shrug] It’s ultimately worth it and I’m getting used to it. But, man, slogging through the informational mire to get to some understanding of what exactly is “healthy” for me, or should be, was a pain. I just wanted to drink my flax shake and get on with my life, not calculate safety zones and draw dietary Venn diagrams.
Okay, to be honest, Venn diagrams are always fun… Anyway, this site says 91 grams of protein, another says that’s way too much. This site says 1500 calories, another says 2200. Many sites encourage training to failure while others tell me interval ballistic training never to failure. I’m still a little whelmed. Not overwhelmed anymore but still, it’s a lot to process for something so simple (being alive). So, the past few weeks have been getting all of that figured out. Now that I know I’m getting closer to fine, I can move on to planning the year. I have a few things already in mind. Adventures in baking and painting, though not both at once, probably, and a little-film making are all coming soon to a blog near you. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, my advice to you (and me):

• When researching “health,” remember your grains of salt. This is the internet, not a doctor’s office and even a doctor is just one voice in a sea of a thousand opinions. Research is a net best cast wide and drawn in many times to filter out any useless dolphins… or some other less-complicated metaphor. One question, many sources, much common sense.
• Don’t let Calorie Count, or any other site similar, tell you your “target weight” if you would like to change your weight or size. I have no idea how much I weigh, none, but I know my heart is as healthy as all get out, I can run up my stairs without being out of breath, and I’m happy with how I’m changing how I feel. A website’s expectations for my weight loss have nothing on that.
• Pick one thing at a time. The reason I became so embroiled in all of this is that I, as usual, went in all directions at once. Caloric intake, proteins, the Karvonen formula, Max VO2 HR, the heartbreak of anaemia … ugh. It’s just too much to balance all at once. Focus is something I’ve been trying to focus on for years.
• When recording your resting heart rate, don’t listen to a mash-up of Nine Inch Nails and Ludacris. It throws the reading way off. Also, take it for a full minute instead of just ten seconds and multiplying by six. The two techniques, partly due to human error, can yield very different readings.
• Regardless of what they are, physical or emotional, for long-term gain or short, it’s much easier than one might think to change habits. Try it. I dare you.

My mother reeled me in. Every once in a while she calls me to tell me about a book or a movie I need to get and she’s always right on the money. Now I own all of the books. Though I sort of wish I hadn’t, I read the unfinished manuscript and debated a bit about that whole debacle. And I recently purchased Crepúsculo—I figure, why just reread when I could be practicing my Spanish as well? Which brings the grand total to five novels, one PDF, three or four ticket stubs, and the first movie on DVD.

Why do I bring this up?

This is not a defense of Twilight, or my enjoyment of the rest of the sub-genre, but about a social trend I dislike. The other day when someone found out I had seen New Moon, they referred to it, smirking and sneering as only haters can do, as my “guilty pleasure.” This phrase pops up often enough that, though I understand its common meaning, it still bothers both the etymologist* and the egoist in me.

The idea of feeling obligated to preserve an illusion of coolness, an arbitrary line I’m not supposed to cross, is absurd. I can like Star Wars, nerdy nostalgia, but not Star Trek (until very recently) because that crosses into unacceptable geekhood? I can read about witches and wizards, a magical, childlike fantasy, but have to apologize for liking vampires and werewolves? I do not accept this. But then, for a while now I’ve had a hard time understanding why people are so concerned with what other people think of them anyway, especially when it seems they haven’t the faintest clue what they think of themselves … but that’s an entirely new subject. I could digress my head off about psychosociology.

I find it interesting that the one group I’ve seen less governed by this is an ungroup, the Outcasts. There’s something to be said for never knowing acceptance. If you assume you can’t gain it, you’re less likely to fear losing it. No fear, no boundaries. Freedom. This is also the realm I’ve lived in most of my life. No surprises there, I guess.

A lot of people assume they’re going to be made fun of so they do it first, without even thinking, in the hopes that if they do they’ll still be accepted by their comforting circle of socially secure peers.

“So what are you reading?”
“Oh, just a little guilty pleasure.”
“Is that one of those Tru-Blood books? Ugh, I can’t believe they got you too!”
“I know, I know! It’s stupid and a waste of my time but my sister gave it to me and it’s such a fast read and I can’t stop rolling my eyes anyway … I don’t even like it!”

Much like most other forms of self-deprecation, I understand it but I don’t Get It. I don’t really Get guilt either, and certainly if something brings me pleasure, I feel no guilt in it. These exchanges for me, go a little something like this:

Them: “That’s not one of those vampire books is it? What are you reading?”
Me: “Soft-core porn.”
Them: [stunned silence]
Me: “Uh-huh, I’m outstanding and I know it. I don’t care what you think of me. Self-contained self-confidence—you should try it.”

*Word Rant: I understand that word combinations, like “guilty pleasure,” modify the definitions of words and form a new generation of language. What bothers me is when the new definitions, even new spellings, are just watered down, careless versions of the old ones. When people say “guilty pleasure” they don’t mean either word, not really. Their casual use renders both words meaningless and a word like “pleasure” deserves to have its power preserved. Much like happened with “ironic” or “random”—apathetic abuses of the language are sucking all the meaning out of it.

Opening day for anything with a rabid fandom, if you can check your crabby hipster attitude at the door, can be a lot of fun. Much like playing tourist in your own city, attending Comic-Con, or taking the kids to the park, this is one of those things that is much more rewarding if you get over yourself, and what you think others think of you, and let go. Hanging on to the perceived cool points you assume you glean from strangers is way less fun than geeking out about a city you love or doing cartwheels in the grass. Seriously. This is one of my most valued lessons: Have more fun and care less about who is watching.

This is more of a nostalgia thing but, remember when they played classical music in all the theaters before the previews began? Bach and Mozart and Dvořák… My mother would lean across the hard, little arm between us and tell me about her music appreciation class in college when she learned the pieces and their composers. Now that I have taught myself their names and can recognize the opening strains of Night on Bald Mountain, I’m more likely to hear someone hawking Mountain Dew for fifteen minutes while I wait for the pre-preview car commercials to begin. Sigh.

The real joy in my experience? The very element that had previously made me hate movie-going in this city: the audience. Here are a few highlights:

About half an hour into the movie, when Bella had lost her reason to live or get out of bed, but still had perfectly shiny, perfectly brushed hair, from behind me I heard, “Shiiit. She need to get out the house and find her that fine boy from the previews.” And when Jacob—the fine boy, actually the ‘fine’ wolf-shapeshifter—eagerly stripped off his shirt (this was only the first time) to dab a tiny cut on Bella’s head, instead of cheering, whooping and general appreciative carrying on, much to my delight the entire theater broke up laughing right along with me.

That same woman behind me, with the perfectly timed outbursts—
“She stupid,” this about Bella… I tend to agree, “And where the hell is Dakota Fanning!?”

I l-o-lled. For reals.

My favorite, the one you see spoofed in movies about movies, when Bella is about to walk alone into the pitch-black room and possibly be eviscerated by scary vampires, “Aw, you! It’s a trick, bitch! GET OUTTA THERE! RUN!”

It was so much fun. They were so enthusiastic and in all the right ways. No breathless swooning over Robert Pattinson or screaming “TEAM JACOB!” every time that kid came on screen. Aside from a few teen girls to my right singing along with every song, everyone there seemed to agree, This movie, and the whole phenomenon by default, is ridiculous, and we like it.

Even though they’ve taken away my classical music, and it takes half the day to get there and back, my experience with New Moon has made me rethink my hatred for movie-watching in Philadelphia. It’s not the place for every movie but at the very least I know where I’ll be the afternoon of June 30th, 2010.

Way to go again, much-maligned Twilight franchise, you’re the gift that just keeps giving.

Re: Comic-Con:
I will get to one of these one day. I will be out of my element, absolutely overwhelmed, and totally excited the entire time.

These were spotted in Fairmount, in front of The Flying Saucer, at 26th and Brown. Let me know if you find any more and in the meantime, visit the Knittas who started this whole thing and see what the fuss is all about.

I read moderately quickly, about a hundred-fifty or more pages an hour, depending on content. Or, I used to. I haven’t kept track recently. I haven’t actually had much time to read recently. Between getting work ready, printing cards, forgetting to settle business with the guy selling my cards (dammit!), and worrying about the dwindling days separating me from Christmas morning gift-giving, I haven’t had time to think about reading—much less do it. I’m not used to this. I usually read all the time, several books at time; I’m an addict. Really, I have to remind myself that it’s irrational to stay awake for forty-eight hours rather than put down the book.. So all of this not-reading was starting to get to me.

I realized that one of my tests for the year is all about reading. Specifically, I am going to gather a pile of classics, hole up in my apartment for a week and see how many of them I can get through. A stockpile of tea and avocados should take care of me physically but what about the rest of me? If this were a physical race I would at least stretch and do timed laps before trying the marathon. My brain deserves no less. So this week is the first of those tests and conditioning exercises. One book every day for one week. Today I’m on book three, Anonymous Rex by Eric Garcia.

Come over to The 29th Street Library and click through my reviews or skip straight to the results at the bottom of each entry. I’m a little below speed but I’m not worried yet. That just means more practice. More license to stay home and read every little thing I can get my hands on.

Nope. Almost never. The last date I went on doesn’t even really fall under that heading. I threw my near-constant caution to the wind and met a guy at his place to play Wiffle ball at ten a.m.. No big deal, except for the fact that I had only “met” him online… a day before I went to his apartment… after being awake for two days. Not the cleverest of decisions, I admit. What can I say? His arguments were compelling. Also, he was 6’2”? Over six-foot anyway, and I am charmed by tall men. It’s not good—My demonstrable intelligence is inverse proportional to the probability of my interest. A smart, tall male = breathless idiot, and he said this, which is proof that my actions were not at all my fault:

YesM: I’m not used to feeling this—interest.
YesM: I mean,
YesM: who Are you?
MBruce: I’m Batman.

Clearly, I had no choice. He was Batman. He used punctuation!

But much like Bruce’s alter ego, my idea of him was fantasy. I had no idea he was on cocaine and had been every moment of his life for the previous ten years or so. Groovy. Clearly it was not meant to be. Lesson learned: Dating is complicated, messy, and illuminating. I assumed he was a sign that I’d be alone forever; as disappointing as it was, I figured I was allowed a little wild extrapolation. Of course, my trusty gal-pal assured me that I was overreacting. Okay, okay. I can’t prove her wrong. If you say so. I’m putting my knitting basket and twenty-seven cats on the back-burner.

No, seriously, come find me.

Where?

Where are these geeks, these gamers, these avid readers and mad scientists? Or artists and writers… Logophiles and engineers? These computer fiends. Where are they?

THEY’RE HOME!

Just like me. Reading arcane texts or listening to German covers of fifties Rockabilly while watching anime with the sound muted. Learning how to DIY a new iPod speaker dock, looking up cheat codes, doing research for fun. Obsessively, reflexively checking their email.

While chain-linking through a bunch of different sites, I came across Geek’s Dream Girl. The Geeks’ dreamgirl in question helps internet daters polish their profiles and pictures to give them the best chance of finding someone and in the process, boosts their confidence. A mod that can only aid all of us. Maybe the feminist in me should be pitching a fit about the idea of someone padding a profile or “stretching the truth” in order to get women to fall for a guy to whom they would otherwise never give the time of day. Not only do I think she’s innocent of such shenanigans, and has exactly the right motivation, I think her site and her services are an excellent idea. She doesn’t sleaze guys up by lying or giving them a six-minute, Glamour Shot makeover. She’s their coach, their guide and in some cases I’m sure, an interpreter of the scary internet dating world. I’m glad that there is someone encouraging the men I encounter online to relax… And to refrain from sending the full frontal shot unless I expressly ask for it. She helps them choose good photos and gives examples of memorable opening emails. She advises spell-check and grammar-check, whether computer-aided or otherwise and she frowns absolutely on the cut-and-paste. So something like this…

Hi,
I jsut saw your profile and I think ur cute.
I hope to hear back form u soon.
X

might become far less common than:

γειά σου,
My name is Xavier.
Okay, I confess, I do not know Greek. I used a free translator. Now that I’ve come clean, it’s nice to e-meet you.
Your profile mentions you also like comic books and playing Prototype in addition to listening to Greek language-lesson recordings. Do you have an X-box or a Playstation? And, more importantly, which one: DC or Marvel?

Cheers,
Mr. X

which would absolutely garner a reply from me, easily (on a side note: I only wish I had Prototype. Stupid current X-box, not being a 360).

Perhaps with GDG’s help… dare I hope? Consistently intelligible emails? How will I know I’m online?
I’ll adapt.

Anyhow, while there poking around, I came across an article which featured the PostSecret on this page. Her reaction to it was the same as mine. I could have sent that card in. This all made me feel both better and worse. Better because sympathy, even from afar, is always welcome. As little as I would wish this odd blend of resignation and frustration on anyone else, it’s sort of nice to know that I’m not the only one.
It’s worse only because it really is true. At least if it were my own fault, I might be convinced that I have recourse. I could change my habits and be more likely to find like-minded people.* But if so many girls and women, and I imagine many men as well, are having this same problem… Well, perhaps now it’s clear why, despite my eye-rolling and initial attitude, I still maintain an active profile, still write back and still log in every few days. I’m not going to meet my geek in the Wilds and I really don’t think that that geek is going to come and find me. In the meanwhile, I’ll just be watching Serenity, writing in this blog, and reorganizing my thousand-and-one books by color and shade.

*Like many other descriptive terms I tend not to use for myself, I wouldn’t say I’m a geek, though the dating site which houses my profile insists that I am a breed of one, “Modern, Cool Nerd.” I’d say I’m more of a geek-groupie. I like that I can have a conversation with most geeks that covers more ground than just the latest episode of GLEE. It also gets into books we’ve read and concepts we’ve researched… and zombies. It’s just a relief to feel amongst familiar company and I rarely find it elsewhere.

Its entry from the Vegan Treats menu:

Voted one of the top reasons to go vegan in Veg News Magazine! Made a splash in the Washington Post! Photographed in Time Out NY with the caption that read “I’m officially obsessed with Vegan Treats!” This cake has been raved about, talked about, obsessed over, gobbled down by the thousands and is hands down, our most famous cake!

Moist chocolate cake. True cake, not sponge, not too dense.
Chocolate ganache. It seemed like ganache… Regardless, this stuff is a miracle and we have to take them when we can.
Peanut butter mousse. “I said goddamn, goddamn.”

I think it might be made of baby unicorns. I imagine they would be this delicious.

The store is located out in Bethlehem, a good 45 miles away from my kitchen. The drive would be worth it, Heck, the bike-ride would be worth it… if i had a bike. However, they actually sell in quite a few locations throughout the city. The closest Baby Unicorn cake, i mean, Chocolate Peanut Butter Bomb is a mere 1.2 miles away. Of course, we went. Cake was purchased and revelations were had.

Soon to be devoured slice of cake, i heart you so hard.

Rather than dancing about architecture, or in this case, trying to write about culinary fireworks, i offer a photograph and suggest that you find your nearest purveyor asap.

P.B.  You know that moment in Raising Arizona when Holly Hunter is in the car and she suddenly bursts out crying, sobbing, “I love him so much!” I had a little replay of that moment with this cake. Do yourself a favor. Eat it.

“Ishk ad obnon, nur arr terrorist!”

Oh! Terrorists. Well, as long as that’s what you’re carrying on about. In that case, please leave me alone. And, i wish i hadn’t let you touch my hand, you presumptuous, racist jerk (I don’t think my coloring or my clothing or any physical attribute led her to believe i could be a terrorist. Besides that, i doubt she was really seeing anything all that clearly).

She continued blathering. I have no clue what she was saying but at one point, some words leapt above the verbal tumult: “Gimme three kisses!”

Wow. No. I’d rather punch a kitten.

She still had her cheek turned toward me expectantly and then, “Shr-ed-a-bick!”

Excuse me?

“UHN! Shrr-ad uhn Arr-r-ick!”

Yeah, “ick.” Please maintain the Standard American Minimum Safe Social Distance of three hundred feet away from me at all times.

This came after watching her stumble and kick, rave and shout her way up and down my block for about fifteen minutes. This is not even close to being an unusual occurrence on my street. In her defense, i hadn’t seen a belligerent drunk yet that day so i was due. In addition, it was after seven p.m. which amounts to a free-for-all yelling and drinking party around here. Regardless, moving on:

“YUHN SHRR PEE AHN AGH ARR-R-ICK!?”

Oh! [insight-bulb] Ugh.
I think i might throw up.

“You sure… Do you speak Arabic?”

She was trying to find terrorists and, i imagine, do some terrible things to them. She had some concern that i might be one. She wanted to see if i would shake her hand or give her a kiss and was trying to find out if i spoke Arabic, “Arr-r-ick,” by which means, of course, she would definitively prove that i was, in fact, a terrorist. Call the FBI. We have a natural-born profiler.

For a split second i though about saying yes.

“I speak a little Arabic. Why do you ask?” I imagine that would have gone poorly. For everyone involved.

I just said, “Uh, no?” She looked relieved, held my hand a little longer, looked over at my companion and walked away. Well, was half-dragged away by her two human crutches.

This woman, she doesn’t deserve my rancor. She may or may not be a terrible sort of person but i don’t know her well enough to make that call. However, for a moment, i despised her. Not her, perhaps, but what she represented of my country. I just cannot stop thinking of her face when she was later telling a police officer, in a very loud whisper, “She’s not a terrorist,” while looking over at me with a we’re-brothers-in-arms kind of smile. The smile made me a little sick.

I thought about the violence that bloomed in every city, some worse than others, after the events of September 11, 2001. The discrimination and the shameful close-minded, willful ignorance of a (relatively) small contingent of this country. In November of that year, the U.S. Department of Justice had to release a memorandum, “Regarding Post 9/11 Violence Against Arab-Americans.” Part of it reads:

“We must not descend to the level of those who perpetrated violence by targeting individuals for threats or violence based on their race, religion, and national origin. To do so would be to grant terrorists a victory they cannot—and would not—otherwise achieve. We are a great nation; we must treat one another and others in a manner consistent with that greatness. Everything we do must reaffirm and respect the dignity, heroism and sacrifice of those who have died, lest their sacrifice be in vain.”

Out of all of this, after everything i thought about the entire experience… My automatic reaction to the woman… The way i felt after i realized what she was talking about… I felt worse and worse as i turned it over in my head, as i began to write this blog. I was all set to just write a few snarks about this idiot drunk on my street but i began checking my language, listening to myself, judging myself. I don’t know her. I don’t know anything about her. My imagination began to run afield. What ifs and maybes.

She had been saying, “This for you.” She was leaning in and holding my hand and speaking intently through a mouthful of marbles, the way drunks and toddlers have of making a point. Sincere though incomprehensible.

“Peehd ish or oo!”

What she was doing is wrong. If i thought it was possible to have a rational conversation with her about racial profiling i might have had but that wasn’t going to happen. That doesn’t mean that i had to verge on hating her, be disgusted by her without considering her at all. Was she a veteran? No. My guess is no. I could be wrong but, i’m not. Could she be a family member of someone who was lost to war? Maybe. Is she someone affected by the violence and ignorance and pain that runs unleashed in our society? Yes.
To some degree or another, we all are.

Lessons Learned: As hard as i try, i can still be close-minded. Respect is to be earned for sure but my self-respect should dictate the manner in which i treat others, otherwise, i may not be far from being a presumptuous jerk myself. Those people about whom i lament, the ones who aren’t asking questions and challenging their preset ideas… Well, pot and the kettle.

I also received a refresher on pluralizing complex title structures. There are plural “Attorneys,” not plural “Assistants.” Good to know. Thanks, Apple Dictionary.

I come from a law enforcement/military family. My uncles and aunts and cousins are all involved in one way or another. We have two overseas, a few who were restored to our ranks and one who never came home. Veteran’s Day is still often only a day for me. I like the idea but not the execution. For most people i know, it’s just a day off. A day to barbecue things and drink and possibly briefly talk about whatever war we’re in at the time. I can’t get behind that. My respect for the fighting and the fallen is carried out every day. And, since last night, i’ll be thinking about the other casualties as well, both the people and the conceptual ideals. Not because i think that our sacrifice here at home is the same as theirs so far from it, but because i agree with the Assistant Attorneys General who issued that memorandum. “Everything we do must reaffirm and respect the dignity, heroism and sacrifice of those who have died, lest their sacrifice be in vain.”