Being Smart is so much better...

I very recently (last night) went to a Mother Jones fundraiser featuring a conversation Rachel Maddow. She was as engaging and funny in person as she is on her show, and very approachable. So much so, that I was able to get a picture with her, and she wrote a note to my 13 year old son.



The on-stage conversation covered politics and media, with an occasional toe dipping into conspiracy theories and other personal views that make Rachel tick. And I found that I identify with Rachel on quite a few things.

There was talk about how Rachel and her show are both smart, and how the expectation that the audience can keep up is part of her show's appeal. She quipped about not being a typically pretty news anchor, saying "...if you're dealing with people who are not making a decision purely on the basis of celebrity or looks, then ou have to offer something else..." For Rachel this means detailed news peppered with nuance and cleverness. Her words reminded me of a transition I experienced a few years ago.

First of all, I've always been a geek. Whether or not I was in denial about this fact for a number of years or just oblivious to my own geekyness is a personal dispute that I occasionally wrangle with. Nevertheless I was a geek all the same. Still am. But, in my younger years, I was also quite the babe. Although not very tall, I was slender, with an athletic build, long hair and an ass that looked great in red jeans. I was pleased with how I blossomed as a woman, but also very frustrated. I found that I had a hard time getting people to take me seriously. Contrary to my cute looks, I was quite a serious person, and had a hard time connecting with people on a personal and intellectual level. This struggle lasted for a number of years, until after having my second child, I gained weight and lost my babe status.

At first I mourned the loss of being desirable, but then I started recognizing the benefits. For the first time, I was being taken more seriously. Not being an archetypal object of desire afforded me the opportunity to be thought of by my state of mind. When people described me as having a great personality, it was more than a euphemism for being fat. It was a genuine observation that might have been missed in previous years. It was as if not being thin and pretty anymore allowed me to be smart, clever and quirky. I was finally recognized for who I really am.

So it's for this reason that I choose to celebrate the success of someone like Rachel Maddow. She doesn't fit the classic tv model for broadcast media. And as a result, her audience watches to hear what she has to say, and enjoy the many ways that she brokers her finely distilled intelligence. I hope that her success is the beginning of a movement that truly celebrates women for being smart as opposed to being sexy. Because quite honestly, I've enjoyed the former far more than the latter. It is by far a better way to be recognized and reinforces a mantra that I regularly repeat to friends and colleagues alike: The best things we can be as women are smart and strong. Once we embrace that, everything else falls into place.

I'm one of them

At various times in my life, I've come to the realization that I'm one of them. When I wore a pleated skirt and penny loafers, when I donned woodland camouflage, when I carried one child in my arms and led another by the hand, I was one of them. I became a member of a group, of a class of a sect, and that membership led me to a new realization of who and why I am. I correlate these realizations with what I consider to be chapters in my life. They are segments that make up the whole, or whole parts if you will. Thus, once again, I'm one of them. A new self identified with an other that contributes to my whole.

On weekdays, I dress sensibly, pack a lunch and travel to work. White ear buds account for my bobbing head as I work on my laptop, sipping coffee from a pink thermos on the way there. When I arrive to the world class City I work in, I trek along the Embarcadero, passing by a postcard scene, that tourists awe, and inhabitants cherish. It's that kind of town, and I go there 5 days a week.

I get to my office, where I write emails, return phone calls and take meetings. Most days, I eat lunch at my desk, but sometimes I traverse from one ethnic district to another for something both interesting yet common to the locale. As I perform my work, I draw from a culmination of experience, knowledge and skills, all the while gratified that I can do such things.

At the end of the day, I trek back to my way home, to a suburban existence. I read my favorite magazine, watch a video on my computer and on Fridays enjoy a beverage. Upon arriving, I'm one of many who cross an intersection to the parking lot where we park our cars.

We all carry computer bags, talk to our loved ones on cell phones and repeat the ritual over and over again. And thus, I realize, I am one of them.

Imagine me and you, I do...

I took Jada for a walk today.

As soon as I'm up in the morning she starts to get excited. She jumps around and wags her tail, and can hardly contain herself once she sees me going for my shoes. She's a good dog. She will calm herself enough to sit while I put the leash on, and walks very well, without excessive pulling.

Like most days, once we get to the meadow, Jada goes off leash. And what happens next is what prompted this blog entry. Once off leash, in the meadow, she's a different dog. She is suddenly transformed. She saunters in the tall grass with a confidence that I don't see anywhere else. She jumps and bounds through brush, and occasionally she points. When we are on the trail, it's not uncommon for her to rustle out pheasants and turkeys. She is both primitive and focused at the same time.

Today as I watched this transformation in Jada, I thought of my son at an earlier stage. I remembered my now surly teenager, playing outside as a preschooler, running across the yard with a stick in his hand. And I could see it in his face, that the stick captured his imagination. It held endless possibilities. He had a tool, and could imagine himself in a new way because of it.

Then I began to think of how many times and ways we re-imagine ourselves. When we dress for the day, who do we become? Does a single item or accessory capture our imagination and transform us for the day? And what about long term transformations? Do these simply become layers upon layers that make up who we are?

So I asked myself, how many ways have I imagined myself, and to what did I transform? I've been a musician, an artist, a wife, a soldier, a mother, a student, a politico, a writer and an innovator. Each one of these identities contributed to the next, and it can seemingly go on forever. This I think is what Shakespeare meant when he wrote,

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,

(As You Like It, Act II, Sc VII)

I have a theory that we are our truest selves around the age of ten. When ever I experience a difficult individual, I always imagine them at that age on the playground. Which kid were they? Were they the kid that intimidated others by being bossy? Or, were they constantly overcompensating to mask insecurity? Some people, you can tell that they were the kids who moved easily between groups. And others, just as they do in adulthood, thrived on cliques.

After a jaunt in the meadow and through the forest, Jada and I came back to the street, where she obediently sat while I reattached her leash. And, as we went from grass to sidewalk, this whirl of thoughts ceased. Back in a world of houses, yards and streets I thought of all the things I would have to do today and wondered what will capture my imagination next.

Share what you covet

In a Daily Beast article this morning, Noreena Hertz wrote,

"While it is true that over the past few decades there has been a growing obsession with material worth, this may be more a case of nurture than nature. Anthropological studies show that societies that have less share more, while recent work in behavioral economics has confirmed that benevolence is not alien to human nature. So while under Gucci Capitalism there was a tendency to bowl alone, it might just not be the case that we are essentially individualistic.

More likely is that we are entering an age of pulling together, as was the case during the Great Depression and the Blitz, and that this will be one of this era’s key defining characteristics."

I have a confession to make. I have secretly been hoping that the economy would fail for this very reason. For years I have been personally offended by the celebration of wealth at others expense. I've been equally disgusted by the rampant materialism that seemed to have taken hold of our culture. For some time it has seemed that the primary thread that connects us as a culture is our consumerism, our desire to covet, and have. The problem with this, as I see it, is that if we are gratifying ourselves with the acquisition of things, where does it end? When do we have enough? And, do the things we buy for gratification really gratify us long term? I think not.

I admit, I'm guilty of such gratification. I have a shoe and bag habit, albeit comfortable shoes and second hand bags, it's a habit just the same. And I admit, that the more I acquire, the less I give. I start to become very attached to my things. It's the ugly underbelly of relative success.

What Hertz writes about sharing is true. I've seen it at Burning Man where sharing becomes infectious. Once you are out there, you're limited to whatever food, water and supplies that you've brought. If you're like me, you go uber-prepared, ready to share the many extra things that were packed. Last year, we shared, powdered drink mix, aloe vera, lotion, an extra moo-moo, a bike inner tube, lots of bacon and cereal and of course cocktails. It's good to be reminded of this on a yearly basis.

Even in my current travels I try to share, but recently I was reminded I do not share enough. It happened Friday, on the ferry when I struck up a brief conversation with a fellow New Yorker reader. We talked about how we had both let our subscriptions run out. He had just bought the most recent issue at full cover price, which we both agreed is absurd. At the end of the ferry ride, upon our arrival to the home dock, he handed his issue to me. "Here," he said. "I've read it." I was both grateful and shamed because I seldom share my New Yorkers. They are something I covet. But here was someone who understood why I covet them so much, willing to share, without provocation. It's a reminder and a lesson that offering what we have to each other is far more gratifying than covetting for one's self. I think it will be something to really work on this year.

Working for my job...

Three weeks into the new job has left me quite satisfied. I’m satisfied to spend approximately 10 hours each week motoring back and forth across the San Pablo, Richmond and San Francisco Bay on the ferry. I’m satisfied to say that I’ve learned how to traverse across the City using public transit. And I’m satisfied to feel as though I do all this traveling in order to do my work as opposed to a job. A very wise friend told me once that there is a difference between one’s job and one’s work. A job is something you do to make a living. Work is what you do for life. It’s a seldom privilege to meet both objectives in one’s occupation.

Going to the City every day is still quite exciting. Metropolitan areas have always fascinated me. There’s a rhythm to urban space that is infectious. It’s both fast and intense. There’s always a lot going on, people walking places, deliveries being made, and eye candy on every block. This is especially true in the city that I work in. There’s never a lack of something to look at. I could spend days just examining the architecture. And then there are the random exhibits of expression. These come in many incarnations: sidewalk stencil art, political messages inwindows, stickers on bicycles, graffiti, and of course fashion. I’ve begun taking pictures on my cell phone of things that catch my interest. After time I believe these shots will begin to tell a story that my words never could.

Well, it’s 5:59PM on Friday, ad as I write this the sky is turning a dusky purple and refinery lights can be seen reflecting off of the silvery water. And as the ferry slows, and turns into the channel where we will dock, I look forward to another grueling week of work, and hope that the satisfaction I feel on this Friday will be a frequent occurrence. Or at least, I hope I remember to come back and read these words when they aren’t.

A walk in the park

I lied. the other thing I've been missing at my new digs is my dog. She comes to visit me two or three times a week, but I miss our hikes. I'm sure she does too.

I took Jada for a walk in the park near my parents house today. It was a beautiful day, and the meadow was calm and quiet. I use to play in this place when I was a kid. It hasn't really changed that much. The property owners whose yards we use to cut through to get to the park all have fences now. The giant play structure with it's multiple slides is gone. But it still feels the same. It's still an interesting and magical place.

There is an almost pungent perfumed smell that comes from trees that bloom with bright yellow flowers. That scent is layered with the scent of Eucalyptus that comes from the adjacent grove. As a kid, I can remember walking into that forest to a chorus of birds. They chirped wildly chattering back and forth. Below the chirping, an owl would hoot methodically.

We imagined great things in that forest. We told each other stories of fairies, and ancient spirits. We caught frogs and polliwogs and collected feathers. Later when we were teenagers and we went there to do the things teenagers do, we still appreciated the magic of that place. We laid on hills and watched sunlight fall through the trees appreciating the serenity that it offered.

One of the great things about living in the place where you grew up is being reminded of these things. There's an entire study that focuses on memory of space. This space for me is not just a place I played. It's a space that preserves our memories, our emotions, and our adventures. Everyone should be so lucky to have such a place.

Two days and a wake up

Hallelujah! I'm a person again! Well at least I'm online that is.

It's been an interesting month. My mother has been sick. So, being the dutiful Mexican daughter that I am, I came to camp in my childhood room, so I can cook, clean, and drive for the folks. It's not that bad. I have my own tv, my own bathroom, and time to actually read. The kids aren't here so I get all the coco pebbles to myself, and because I have to feed the folks a low fat, high fiber, low sodium diet, I'm losing weight. The only thing I haven't had is internet.

I never realized how essential internet has become until I went without for almost a month. I was relegated to do email via my wannabe Blackberry mobile device. There was no online Tetris to clear my mind, no endless link surfing, and no online video clips. Of course I could spend some time at work checking headlines, but it's not the same as taking time to read an article and googling the facts. Even writing email wasn't the same. When on a computer my fingers are simply an extention of my thought process. I can type almost as fast as I think and speak. Using the miniature keyboard on my mobile device to send meaningful messages proved to be quite a challenge. I finally understand why kids resort to so many acronyms.

In the middle of my communication breakdown I got a new job, and now I'm going to have to commute. In my area, commuting is a way of life. I don't mind it so much. I simply accept it as a subculture that I'm a part of. There are all kinds of commuters. There are those who drive solo, they're usually talking incessantly in their Bluetooth headsets, shaking their heads and gesturing as though the person on the other end of the call can see them. Then there are the carpools. Some casual, some arranged. The person in the back seat is usually reading the paper, while the person riding shotgun figures out how many more times they can listen to the same play list the driver has plugged into his stereo. Finally, there are those who take public transit. Although I sometimes fall into the previous two categories, public transit is my mode of choice.

I have the options of a bus, a train or a boat, or a combination. Each has it's pros and cons. The buses available to me are quite nice. They are the result of a nice pork package courtesy of our local Congressional Representative. Pork has never been so nice. The coach buses have nice plush seats, and a luggage area below if you have a bike or shopping cart. And as long as you don't look through the wind shield you won't get carsick.

The bus can be taken all the way to the City or to the light rail system. Light rail in the Bay Area is called BART. BART can be very interesting. There's what I call BART theatre, which are those uncomforatable moments when people talk to themselves, fight, make out, or inexplicably recite a soliloquy. The down side to BART is that it is often crowded during commute time. But, one can still read by holding on to a pole with the crook of your arm while holding your book or magazine. This brings me to my favorite part about any public transit. I could never read while I drive. I could never sleep while I drive either. I couldn't crochet, organize my backpack, review my calendar, make a grocery list or drink alcohol. The latter option is possible when taking the ferry.

To me, the ferry is the most civilized mode of travel. There are tables to work on, a snack bar that also serves cocktails, a bicycle rack, coat hooks and nice scenery. It's relatively safe to fall asleep and it doesn't take long before the crew knows you by name. To celebrate my new job, I treated myself to a new bike helmet and thermos. I can't wait to enjoy a daily journey to and from the world. It always makes home, where ever that is at the moment feel that much more special.