I find myself terribly depressed right now. There are a few triggers specifically associated with summer — the lack of structure that school provides, the lack of nighttime in Alaska (which I won’t see for about two more months.) It’s a struggle just to get out of bed, or to shower, or to dress, or to make myself something to eat or drink. I’m trying to be kind to myself, trying to find some way to help me out of this funk. But nothing is working so far. Many days I can only accomplish the tasks that require the least mental work, because even my brain is fatigued. In fact, I’m having to write this relatively short blog post in several sessions because that’s all the brain power I have today. But I couldn’t not write this post, so here I am.
Anyway. My laptop is an easy distraction for my depression. I can run a marathon of some sitcom I’ve seen before on Netflix with little effort of my brain. I can play a simple game of Boggle or Bejeweled. And, perhaps most importantly, Facebook gives me the ability to talk with those most dear to me about what I’m going through.
But Facebook is a double-edged sword Read the rest of this entry
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