So I’m going to make a couple of confessions here. The first is that I never liked potato salad. The second is that I had never eaten potato salad until a couple of weeks ago. But it didn’t matter that I’d never eaten it; I was certain that it was simply terrible and I’d never touch the stuff.
A couple of weeks ago my friend Chris threw an impromptu party before heading off for an extended stay in Portland. I was the first to arrive at his place (a bad habit of mine, showing up early), and we hung out whilst he prepared for the rest of the guests. Chris had bought fried chicken from Cub Foods supermarket, which I was very happy about, since I love their fried chicken. He also set about making potato salad.
I freaked, but I didn’t show it. I wanted to be a good guest and eat the potato salad. But if I was to eat it, I wanted to be a good guest by not showing any disgust. And it was also on me for not having brought anything along to the party. I didn’t know what, if anything, the other guests would be bringing, I hadn’t eaten dinner, and I didn’t want to make a meal just of fried chicken.
So I served myself up a bit of the potato salad. And before I took the first bite, I realized that I had seen Chris make it, so I knew exactly what was in it. It had potatoes, of course. I love potatoes. It had onions. I like onions. It had mayonnaise. I used to hate it, but I’ve grown to where I can tolerate it. It had celery. I don’t like celery, but I wasn’t going to pick it out of the salad.
So I ate it. And it was…okay. Not the absolute best thing I’d ever eaten. But honestly, was I expecting it to taste like cherry pie à la mode, or filet mignon? Of course not; it was potato salad. But it wasn’t terrible, either. It wasn’t cilantro (which, no, doesn’t taste like soap to me, but like mown grass). It wasn’t raw tomatoes. It wasn’t jalapeños.
The potato salad was just okay. And okay was okay. I could enjoy what I didn’t like of it, mentally ignore the bits I tasted and didn’t like.
And now I’m about to write what’s probably the cheesiest thing I’ve ever written:
Life is like potato salad. It’s a mix of things that we like and don’t like. And it’s not perfect, but it’s okay. And okay is okay.
One of the more unfortunate parts of my personality is that I have a perfectionist streak a mile wide. And I’ve had to work very hard, thanks in large part to the advice of therapists, to learn to overcome this nastier part of myself. One of the side effects of perfectionism is black-and-white, all-or-nothing thinking. In the past, decision-making was all but impossible, because I thought that, if I didn’t make exactly the right choice, I would only be left with the worst decision ever. And it was impossible to start projects because I was scared to death of making a mistake; thus, a lot of things that needed to get done didn’t get done.
What I’ve learnt is that either/or thinking is not a true representation of the real world. Most of the decisions we make have a mix of good and bad consequences. I daresay all the relationships we make have some good and some bad elements to them. And nothing we ever do will be perfect, but we can do a great job of doing okay.
And okay is okay.
At this time ten years ago, when I turned 30, I had just moved to a new city. In the city I’d moved from, most of my friendships were pretty new. I moved very suddenly because I had to; my opportunities had completely closed up. So I settled into a big city to start a new life. The world was so big and fresh and wonderful. Life begins at 30, I declared.
Today I turn 40. I’m about to move to a new city. In the city I’m leaving, many of my friendships are pretty new (at least judging from my party RSVP’s). I am moving with plenty of advance notice because I get to. The city I have been living has opened up possibilities to move on. So soon I will be settling into a little town to start a new life. The world is so big and fresh and wonderful.
Life begins at 40.
I like baseball. I can’t say I’m the perfect fan – I don’t follow it the best in the world, and I don’t understand the finer points of the game. But I enjoy watching a game, especially live. As an American of a certain age, I think it was unavoidable that I would have some connection to baseball. I remember when I was two or three, my mom bought me a little plastic Baltimore Orioles helmet (although I thought the logo was of Chilly Willy).
When I was older, I watched baseball on TV. Indiana doesn’t have its own major-league ball club, so we split our loyalties among the closest teams: the Chicago Cubs, the Chicago White Sox, and the Cincinnati Reds. Our local TV station aired the Reds, so that’s who I followed. Later, the station switched affiliations to the Cubs, and though Harry Caray was fun to listen to, I couldn’t really get into the Cubs. Read the rest of this entry
I have a conflicted relationship with Independence Day (or the Fourth of July, as it has been branded for so long). Patriotism doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. The idea is that you’re supposed to be proud of the country you’re born in. But I didn’t have any control over what country I was born in. I just happened to fall out of a woman in 1974 at roughly 39°N 85°W. I didn’t do anything for that. And if you tweak any of those factors slightly, relative to the size of the world and the scope of history, suddenly I’m not born in the United States anymore.
There are, of course, plenty of people who choose to move to the United States, just as there are plenty of people who choose to move to other countries, and, given the incredible obstacles that have been established to prevent someone from moving from one country to the next, one could take pride in having accomplished such a move. And I know people whose parents and grandparents and great-grandparents made such a move, and the narrative of that move has been passed down to them, so there is a kind of pride by proxy, and I can get that. But I don’t have that narrative in my family. Most of my ancestors arrived on this continent as colonists, before there was a United States. They were always citizens of another country even though they lived here. The rest of my ancestors were dragged here against their will on slave ships. Read the rest of this entry
One of my indulgences is my Netflix account. It’s astounding, when you think of it: access to thousands of movies and television shows for just $8 a month. Yet, with all of my viewing possibilities, I tend to fall back on television series I’ve seen before. I’m a sucker for nostalgia, and Netflix offers me plenty of video comfort food.
When Freaks and Geeks was cancelled in 2000 after a mere 18 episodes, the show’s devoted fans were livid. They (by which I include myself) wanted to know more about the futures of these high-schoolers. We wanted more of the well-crafted characters and thoughtful plots. But the powers that be thought otherwise – the same powers that cancel 2/3 of American television shows by the end of their first season – and canceled the show. Read the rest of this entry
I think it was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of high school. My youth pastor had the idea of taking us to a nearby park for our youth group meetings that summer. As we were in Indiana, he imagined the basketball courts would be a natural draw for attendance. I didn’t play basketball. I had the hand-eye coordination of a rock. So I would just sit off to the side and talk with the girls until youth group officially started.
One evening, after our youth pastor beckoned us from the basketball courts, he opened up the evening’s discussion. He asked us to raise our hands if we believed in capital punishment. Hands shot up all around me. Then he asked us who didn’t believe in capital punishment. I was the only one to raise my hand.
The next hour was spent engaged in a relentless onslaught. Youth pastor, group sponsors, fellow students, taking every tactic they knew to change my mind. Of course, the first line of offense was to quote Bible verses. But that wasn’t enough to sustain the argument. They talked about how life imprisonment was a drain on taxes. One of the sponsors explained that capital punishment was more humane than life imprisonment, because the guillotine was invented to make death swift. I struggled to see how an instrument that was no longer used was essential to the discussion.
No one backed me up. And I am not one to engage in heated argument. I couldn’t get two words out without someone firing a volley back at me.
What could I do? I was just a fifteen-year-old kid. I was no expert in public policy or theology. I wasn’t an expert in anything. So, at the end of the hour-long onslaught, I relented with a “maybe you’re right”. I didn’t honestly think they were right, but what could I do? I would see them all again, the next week and the week after and the week after. I had to live with them.
Of course, I could have chosen not to live with them. I wasn’t forced to go to church – in fact, at that point, I was the only one who attended. The rest of my family quit going because they were tired of being bullied – my siblings for having learning disabilities and my mom for being poor and having a handful of disabilities.
But I attended because I was loved. Or, I was told I was loved. In truth, I was mocked and bullied much of the time. But the youth pastor told me that the other kids in youth group mocked and bullied me because they loved me. And, of course, I believed him.
But I think back. What was the point of the discussion that evening? What relevance did a specific view on capital punishment have on the spiritual development of teenagers? None, that I can think of. As I look back, it seemed to have much more to do with grooming us to vote for a specific party.
Now, in the United States, churches aren’t supposed to campaign to their parishioners in favor of a specific party or politician. To do so jeopardizes their tax-exempt status. But the pressure doesn’t have to come in an official channel, through the pulpit or the front of the classroom, in order to be effective. My congregation at that time was lock-step Republican. They could tell me how to vote – three years before I could – over pitch-in dinners and post-service conversation. And at my church, a number of peers and adults constantly pressured me to change my political outlook, because, heaven forbid, I sounded like a Democrat, and everyone knows that Democrats are really Communists, and Communists are against God.
And I look back on it all in astonishment. For people who were supposed to be focused on eternity and on a kingdom that was spiritual in nature, they were awfully wrapped up in political parties and countries and other things that are bound to come to an end and thus have nothing whatsoever to do with eternity.
I think we would have all benefited that night in the park from a lesson in love, or compassion, or grace, or any of a zillion other things that, not only are more important to the message they claimed to profess, but also are of greater permanence and importance to the human species.
I closed yesterday’s post with an odd allusion that might not have made much sense in the context in which I put it, so I thought today I’d clarify.
You see, patriotism doesn’t make much sense to me, and here’s why:
First off, patriotism implies an allegiance to a country that either you were born into, or that you have moved to and chosen for yourself. Now, in the latter case, having an allegiance because of a conscious decision you’ve made makes some sense. You determined which country would be the best fit for yourself, and you’ve made considerable sacrifices in order to reside in or even to take up citizenship in that country.
But most people don’t make that conscious decision. They reside in the country they were born in. And though some may disagree with me, I will maintain for this argument that you don’t choose where you’re born.
So, then, what obligates your loyalty to a choice you don’t make? Let’s start by looking at who or what makes this all-important choice. And of all the theories and philosophies and theologies I can think of, it boils down to one of two options: Chance and Fate.
Let’s look at Chance first. This theory assumes that the place and time of your birth is left up to the randomness of the universe. And it’s hard to argue in favor of loyalty to sheer randomness. But, to make my point clearer, let’s look at just how random this chance is. It’s important to bear in mind that nation-states, as we understand them today, are very temporary things. I’m reminded of how my father always referred to “the great 48 states of the United States”. Now, I think my father was aware that there were 50 states when I was a child, but when he was a schoolboy, Alaska and Hawaii had not yet become states, and he could never get that early schooling out of his system. So it’s always been evident to me that what constitutes a nation-state changes over time. And, for a wonderful further proof of this phenomenon, check out this video:
If I had been born at a slightly different time (relative to the very long history of humanity), then my obligation, my loyalty, would suddenly change. So this idea of patriotism is a very impermanent thing.
But now, let’s argue that the time and place of my birth were not random, that some supernatural power (that here, to accommodate all the belief systems that share this claim, I call Fate) had foreordained the time and place of my birth with a specific purpose in mind. Then, suddenly, there’s purpose to the time and place of my birth, which would seem to justify a feeling of loyalty and patriotism. But wouldn’t this adoration be more properly directed to the Fate that put me here? The time and place would be secondary, in this equation.
But, for the sake of argument, let’s argue that this formula still obligates me to be patriotic to my country. If the time and place of my birth were foreordained, it stands to reason that this would be true of every single person who ever lived (because, gracious, there’s nothing particularly special about me). But then, that means that different people are born in different countries at different points of history were all put in their particular locations by this same Fate. And that would mean that every person was obligated to be loyal to whichever of the thousands of countries that have graced this planet over the milennia.
Now, here, I think the fact that I was born in America gets in the way. In the United States, we are taught that our country is the greatest country in the world. (Even though, in many measurable respects–from healthcare to infrastructure to education to sports–we are not #1.) But it stands to reason from the path of my argument that every country could argue for being the greatest country on earth. And that makes no sense.
It’s not that I’m lacking in loyalty. It’s where I place it. And I place it in humanity – a view which is independent of time and place, and which recognizes our fundamental equality.
I am not a patriot. I am a humanist.
So if you’re wondering where I’ve been, let me tell you. The hinge on my laptop fell apart on February 24. And it has been in repair limbo ever since. What ostensibly was supposed to be a simple replacement of a part has turned into a customer service… well, not nightmare, more like one of those bad dreams you get from eating too many nachos.
So I’ve been stuck with scattershot computer access from libraries and at work. I can’t just compute whenever I want, as long as I want. And some of my posts require quite a while for me to write. So I’ve been forced into an unintended hiatus until I can get it back.
I will try to catch you up on my life here. I received six graduate-school acceptances altogether. As the funding scenarios fall into place, I close in on my choice, which I will post here in the next few weeks. (A certain degree of discretion is critical in these sorts of negotiations, not so much for the schools as it is a courtesy to other applicants.)
I took a trip to my hometown. I got to spend time with my nephew, who just turned seven and is a really cool kid. I got to spend time with my mom, who just turned seventy-five and is full of stories and I consider her stories the greatest gift she could give me. I got to spend time with friends I hadn’t seen in over ten years.
Life is weird and wonderful.
Today I went to the Minneapolis College of Arts and Design (or, as we call it here, MCAD, pronounced “Em-cad”). They have a fantastic little art-supply store called the Art Cellar for their students and the general public, and from time to time I pick up supplies there. As I walked down the hall of Morrison Hall, I felt the oddest sensation, a shudder, almost. And I’ve felt it every time I’ve walked that hall. Today I figured out what it was:
In September 2007, I attended their open house for prospective students on a lark. I didn’t know for sure if I wanted to pursue a degree there, but I was desperate for a change of pace in my life. As I toured their studios and classrooms and laboratories, I drooled over the possibility of attending. I would have the opportunity to create almost anything I wanted, trained by the best in their field.
And so I set about putting together my portfolio and application. I hadn’t drawn seriously in the longest time (and with my job and commute and ridiculousness from my roommates at the time, didn’t really have the time or space to do so). But I gave it my best shot. I filled out the application and made an appointment for a portfolio review. Though she wasn’t so impressed with most of my drawings, my mixed-media work intrigued her. Shortly thereafter, I received notice of my acceptance to one of the top art schools in the country.
And then I found out how much it was going to cost.
And I understood why most of the students come from wealthy families.
Maxing out every possibility for funding wouldn’t have even touched the bill. And so, with that, I let go of that little dream.
And now, every time I walk the campus, the ghost of another self from a slightly different universe accompanies me.
I’ve had some very good news in the past week from graduate schools to which I have applied for a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing. (I’m not going to tip my hand as to the specifics just yet in such a public venue as this.) Suffice it to say that I will be moving from Minneapolis this summer after a decade of living here.
The question for me at this point is, will I exorcise all these ghosts before I leave?
The job opportunity I didn’t take.
The guy I didn’t ask out.
The apartment I turned down.
Will I leave these ghosts behind when I move away, or will they somehow find a way into my baggage?
Does it matter?
I like where my life is going. It’s been a remarkable turnaround from my lowest depths five years ago. My future is bright right now, and my present ain’t too shabby, either.
The pangs of what might have been may always stick with me. My brain always seems to be at every point of time except the present.
It’s up to me to graciously respond, “Yes, that would have been nice, but this is nice, too — and probably better.”