Sick and run down

No doubt about it -- am definitely ill. Sore throat, fatigue, malaise. Yesterday was my first day "off" (no traveling, no work, no test, no studying) in over a month. I've been feeling off-kilter since Thursday and now it has caught up with me, shaken me by the shoulders, and roared, "I will NOT be ignored!" So okay, King Cold, I took a nap, and now I'm resting in bed with my laptop, and so there you are, all right? Will you go away now?

I'm in a slight pickle with classes: I am on the waitlist for both constitutional law classes, which meet at the same time tomorrow. I've been on the waitlist for the popular professor since last spring, and I'm #29. Her class will be around 140 people. The less popular professor's class has also just closed, and there I'm probably waitlist #9 or so. Her class will be around 60 people.

So, like everything in law school, it comes down to strategy. There's a slight chance that the popular professor will only take people who come to her first class. So do I go there tomorrow? Or should I go to the smaller, less popular class where I have a better chance of getting in?

I'm fairly pleased with the rest of my schedule: a clinical in employment law (3 credits), an undergrad/grad history class on Puritans (2 credits), and capital punishment (3 credits). I'm excited to be working on some of the issues we covered in my employment law class in the fall, and I'm really excited about the history class -- it'll be a very small class, two hours a week, and we're going to look at local county court records from the 17th century and write a paper about it. It sounds like loads of fun and (hopefully) not too much work.

The third class is, ironically, the class I'm most unsure about. It's ironic because I know a couple people who really want to be in that class. I happened to rank it high in my preferences last year, without really knowing why, and I ended up in it. Frankly, I'm only mildly interested in the topic, but there isn't really any other class I'm more interested in. There are a couple classes I think I should probably take, but since they are with ultra-popular teachers, I'll have to pick and choose carefully in the lottery for classes next year.

It's kind of a sad state of affairs that I have scrolled through Crimson Law School's course descriptions several times this term and found nothing that I want to take. Sigh. I wonder what the hell I'm going to do with this degree.

I've gotten paperwork from both firms I'll be working for this summer. I opened up the Mighty Big Passive-Aggressive Firm's envelope and flipped through the list of students working there this summer. There's, like, 20 from Crimson. I suddenly felt an unreasonable sense of resistance about working there. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

I felt better about opening up the UK Magic Circle Firm's envelope, with its A4-size letterhead, postmarked from London. Perhaps I am allergic to going with the flow, or perhaps simply to Crimson students.

Back

Back from Devastation/Drinking Week. Will catch up on all entries tomorrow, along with a hundred other errands.

Summary of week: Started out strong and energetic, continued on to amazing and inspiring, took a detour to Unexpected Argument and Walking Home In Rain In Utterly Deserted Streets land, but regained momentum and finished reasonably strong and outwardly normal though inwardly turmoiled.

Interested? Stay tuned...

N.O.: The final day

Departure day. We said our goodbyes to Host. The boys shook hands, the girls avoided it.* We had brunch at a place that felt like a hotel, but after my bloody mary, I didn't much care. I felt a little uncomfortable for having ditched the splinter group last night, but perversely annoyed at the same time. Matt didn't say anything about it, and neither did I, so we politely avoided the whole topic.

After brunch, we drove through Uptown, which was untouched by floods, though damaged in some places by wind and rain. My god, what a beautiful, stately area of town.

Because I wanted to see a cemetary, the group obliged, and we found a great one on the way out: St. Mettairie's. A crazy lady on a bike started talking to Matt and Rinna, who later reported that she said, "I'm concerned about those satellites, you know, the ones that can take pictures of you. Sometimes I jump out of the shower and move around with no clothes on, and they might have pictures of that!"

N.O. has developed elaborate cemetaries in part due to the necessity of burying people above ground because of the frequent floods. The tombs are amazingly ornate and kind of crazy sometimes, to tell the truth. We all rather liked the pyramid and the Sphinx, but there was also the replica of an Irish castle, and several with stained glass. "I guess if you're going to be in there the rest of your life, it might as well be pretty," Rinna commented. Or the rest of eternity.







As we drove away from the cemetery and toward the airport, we heard the perfect acoustic ending to our trip on the radio. A musician who'd stayed during the storm had written an album during it called Hurricane Romance. I can't remember the lyrics to the song we liked so much, but it was called "Downwind of the Refinery," and it had references to just about everything we'd learned about or seen during the week -- St. Bernard's parish, the Murphy Oil oil spill (soon headed to a class action suit), the floods, etc. Matt joked, "If we really wanted to end our trip on a perfect note, we would not say anything after this song until we got back to Crimson City."

It was a long trip back, through Atlanta, but we got in earlier than expected, and I was home by 11 pm. Weary, sick, thoughtful, and so grateful to have gone.

Postscript: The NOLA four are having dinner at Evan's house next week. He's cooking with some of the spices he bought in N.O., and we are responsible for bringing drinks and photos. Social divides suck, but only if you let them get to you.

*On thinking about the interactions with Host, I wonder if he might not have some problems with women. The prof he thought was egotistical is a woman (to be fair, others have held similar opinions about her, I just disagree), and he was really sort of aggressive about teasing Rinna and arguing with me. Well. Whatever.

N.O.: Day Five

We took in a leisurely breakfast at The Trolley Stop, a diner on St. Charles. It was near a spraypainted sign we'd seen every day on the way to work but that I missed taking a photo of; let me see if I remember what it said: "8/30: inside with 2 dogs, an ugly woman, and a shotgun. 9/4: still here, cooking a pot of dog gumbo". A NY Times or WA Post reporter quoted this sign in an article about Katrina; I'm glad to have seen it, the better to marvel over the writer's resilience and humor, but it's been five months since the storm, and the lack of rebuilding makes the sign sadder than it should be.

After breakfast, we picked up Betsy from the Marriot downtown, and went to the lower 9th ward Disaster Recovery Center. It's in a house that was gutted and somewhat patched up. A number of people came by, and we did the intake for them before Betsy counseled them and told them what the office could do for them. One man I did the intake for had just moved into his house in the lower 9th in May. Now it's completely gone. Another woman, a school teacher, was shuttling between N.O. and Houston, trying to start rebuilding a house. Betsy introduced us as law students who had come to help. The invariable answer was, "Well, we sure need it."




At 3:30 or so, we headed out to more hopeful pastures, namely the French Quarter and Cafe du Monde, the original home of beignets and chicory coffee. Despite the numerous empty tables, there was music on the sidewalk, and a wedding party on the stairs above us, and a sense of liveliness.




Beignets: fried dough covered with powdered sugar. I've had them before, the others hadn't. Betsy bought us 5 of them, and there was one left after we ate our share. Feeling that I couldn't leave the gift on the table, I finished off the last one. Oof.

Betsy left us to get ready for a ball (yes indeed), and we headed back home. On the way, Matt said that his roommate and the Common Ground folks were at a wine shop eating and drinking, so he'd like to go there rather than go home. Wanting to avoid Host, I went with him, and enjoyed a few bottles of Chimay with them. Fun!

But then, the evening started to go sour. You see, there was a social divide, as there often is. I was off making a phone call when the others, for some reason, decided to go eat at the Flying Burrito, even though, as it turned out, most of them weren't hungry. And because they weren't hungry, a splinter group formed that wanted to go directly to the French Quarter. While another group was standing in line for a table.

It ended up that the splinter group stood at the bar and drank, and the other group sat down and ate, and the splinter group headed out to Bourbon Street early. Matt, feeling in the middle, I think, explicitly said to me, "You'll come out, won't you? I'll be sad if you don't." Don't worry, I replied, it's the last night, we'll be out there.

In fact, Evan and Rinna decided not to go to Bourbon, and I ended up going with two of the splinter group down to the French Quarter, in the pouring rain. We found the guys easily enough; they had moved from a place famous for its Hurricanes (the drink, not the storm) to a local law school bar review. Free cheap beer, drunk law students, the works.

I immediately knew I needed to leave soon.

And I did. Soon after some of the splinter group began hollering at passersby and throwing down beads, I remembered, "hey! I don't have to stay here!" So I told one girl I'd been talking with, the DD for the group, and split. The patented hk duck-and-run.

Remembering that Host had walked to the previous night's gathering in about 45 minutes, I decided to try and walk back home. I passed the open doors of the bars and the groups of Saturday night partyers and slipped out of the French Quarter, glad to leave it behind. But then the streets got really desolate. And I got really lost. At which point I called Evan to pick me up.

"Where are you?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. I think I'm on Carondolet and ... shoot, why are there no signs here?"

I figured it out eventually, and Evan said he'd be there in a few minutes. In the meantime, I'd wandered into an extremely desolated area. There was no one walking except me, and nothing was open. Catching sight of the Marriot a few blocks away, I decided to walk over to that street, hoping it would be more populated.

Unfortunately, the way there was even more deserted, and I thought to myself, "Well, I can't go back the way I came, because then I'll look really lost. Best to pretend that I know where I'm going. In case there's someone unsavory out there. Which there probably isn't, seeing as only 1/3 of the city's population is back, and it's pouring rain. Even the robbers aren't out tonight, I'm sure. And if they are, they're probably back on Bourbon Street, preying on the drunk fools there. And besides, didn't the police chief say that daily arrests were down from 450, pre-Katrina, to 70 now?"

And I walked along, completely lost, completely alone, in my little yellow rain jacket, thinking of these things, and social divides, and desolation, and the ways of people and the world.

Evan and Rinna were slightly horrified when they did pick me up, soaked up to my thighs in rain and really, really glad to see them. They'd been watching a DVD of Forty-Year-Old Virgin at home, and I was glad to join them. Steve Carell's a funny guy.

N.O.: Day Four

We worked for about 2.5 hours in the morning, then went to lunch with Betsy, who then took us on a tour of the state supreme court, as Evan had to file something he'd been working on. We then proceeded to the lower 9th ward, which Evan and Matt hadn't seen yet.

It was odd -- as we crossed the river and approached the area, I almost felt short of breath, my heart rate up and my nerves on alert. We got out and walked around this time, Rinna and I taking pictures. The barge that broke the levee was crushing the front half of a school bus. A daybed lay carelessly beside it, a change of Sunday clothes for a young girl still hanging on it. They are reconstructing the levee.






But as much as it was terrible, I felt also that it was at least not a war zone. It was tragic and terrible, but at least there were no mines underground, no enemy soldiers lying in wait, no foe to attack except our own impotence and frustration.

We then returned to the office for about an hour. Mory, the head of NOLA, gave us mugs. We cleaned up and left by 6.

Dinner was at Nacho Mama’s (ha). Good, but not as good as Juan’s Flying Burrito. Mm. Nachos.

After dinner, we lazed around for a bit at home, dithering about going to the House of Blues or to Frenchmen Street. (We are really a group of non-decisionmakers.) But Evan, who we've nicknamed The Commander (because he used to want to go into the military), pushed a little more for Frenchmen Street, a lively stretch of bars and music.

I again volunteered to be DD, because I am continuing to feel under the weather. I must say, I did a rocking good job of finding parking.

Frenchmen Street was awesome. We strolled down the street, considering Cafe Brazil, The Snug Cat, and d.b.a. The Commander found a $20 bill on the street a few minutes into the evening, and I suggested he apply it toward drinks. We chose d.b.a. (best guess: Dead Before Arrival?) and sat in a weird fishbowl-y cubbyhole in the front. Much drinking ensued (unfortunately, not by me, although I did have a Long Island Iced Tea and a sip of someone's Tom Collins). Matt's roommate and the rest of the Common Ground volunteers from Crimson showed up, just after a 8-man brass band started to play. The band rocked, the place was hopping, and the crowd was still swelling at 1 am when we left.

Our host had joined us toward the later part of the evening, and seemed to be a mood -- he mercilessly teased Rinna, a quiet, shy girl who was clearly uncomfortable with the aggressive teasing. And on the way home, knowing that I am an idiot when it comes to directions and need block-by-block assistance, he misdirected me on purpose a couple times, played with the radio controls on the steering wheel while I was driving, and generally was a drunken ass. Evan called up from the back seat, "Hey man, just let her drive." Whatever.

However. I came home feeling in need of a drink. After the 9th Ward and all that. So our host gave me and Matt (who "would never let a friend drink alone") some vodka, and we sat around and chatted. Evan, clearly feeling the effects of 7 drinks, conked out, and Rinna went to take a shower.

Host and I discovered we'd been in the same class together last term ... which engendered a fight. About the professor. The professor! He thought she was egotistical, I disagreed. Which might have been the end of that, except that Host was very dismissive and personal in a way I didn’t expect and was totally stunned by.

"I don't think she's any more or less egotistical than any other prof at Crimson, or any law school," I said.

"Wow. That's the vaguest statement you could say. So now you're saying that all profs are egotistical?" he challenged.

"Well, yeah, they kind of are."

"Well, if you have to resort to that, you've definitely lost the argument," he said.

I called him on it. "I don't know why you're being so passive-aggressive about this. You think I'm wrong, and I think you're wrong, so why can't we agree to disagree?" I asked.

"At least you're direct enough to say that," he replied sarcastically.

It perhaps doesn't come across so much in the words he said as much as the way he said them. Host is a big, tall, guy, and his tone was aggressive and at times sneering.

Rinna came out of the bathroom and Host soon afterwards said goodnight. I looked at Matt quizzically and mouthed, "What was that?" As I got my pajamas out of my suitcase near his head, he quietly said, "It wasn't you. I was totally taken aback."

"Did I say something?" I asked, shaken. "Is there some reason he doesn't like me?"

Matt shook his head. "No, it wasn't you. I think he's a little drunk, and he wasn't expecting anyone to disagree with him. You didn't do anything wrong." He paused while I collected my things. "Are you okay?"

I felt tears rising, and I nodded without looking at him, "Yeah, I'll be fine."

I admit, I sniffled in the bathroom for several minutes. The whole things was just so weird.

The next day, Rinna asked what had happened, and I briefly said we'd had a disagreement about a professor, and that it was strange because Host had been so aggressive about it. She said, "He's normally so polite and nice, but I think when he's drunk he gets kind of weird." I'll say.

N.O.: Day Three

Not sure how coherent last night's entry was, so to recap: Yesterday (Wednesday), Rinna and I were out all day with an attorney at different parishes. Mary, a 28-year-old attorney who graduated from Loyola, took us to an interview with a client in Plaquemines, which is an awesome name, and then across the Mississippi on the ferry to St. Bernard's Parish, where the Katrina swept over the flat, low-lying lands at a height of 6 feet or more. Mary used to work in the legal aid office in St. Bernard's, but the office was flooded and there were no immediate plans to rebuild. She drove us by the old office and pointed out the law books lying in front of the building, rotting into a pulpy mass.

St. Bernard's Parish is a white, working-class community, separated from the parish of Orleans (consisting of New Orleans) by the Mississippi. (Lousiana calls counties "parishes.") It looks totally different from New Orleans -- almost rural. But it, like N.O., exhibits few signs of rebuilding. Buildings are empty, fallen, lying where they crumbled.

We had lunch in a huge tent set up by the hippies. Some organization from California had set up a well-run food center with hot, almost gourmet meals, and we stood in line with folks from around the parish. There was a woman from Acupuncture Without Borders (I kid you not) there, blowing a sea conch (I kid you not) to get everyone's attention. The cooks danced in, singing the menu. And a random fiddler strolled around the tables of tie-dyed, dreadlocked kids sitting next to construction workers spattered in paint. A man next to us drew his neighbor's portrait in pencils.

After lunch, we went across the street to the parking lot of the Walmart, which was not open. There, a number of large tents had been set up by church organizations and FEMA. We went into the FEMA tent, where Blackwatch, the hired hands in Iraq, manned the doors -- large, muscled young men in khaki uniforms with the Blackwatch patches on their shoulders and menacing handguns at their hips. They joked with us in that hey-little-lady way, teasing me and Rinna about being law students. One of them handed us a tasteless joke about Chuck Norris, which included: "Chuck Norris only masturbates to Chuck Norris." I'm not sure what the point was.

Rinna and I mostly sat and listened to Mary counsel the 8 or 9 people who came up to our table. A couple people wanted things notarized, like a transfer of title to a car. Some were there for insurance reasons -- a popular refrain in N.O. these days is this: "My roof blew off, so my insurance company will cover that because it's wind damage. But they won't cover the water damage, because they say it's flood damage (which isn't covered in most plans -- you need a separate insurance package). But if the roof blew off, and the stuff inside got damaged, isn't that part of wind damage?"

After a couple hours in the FEMA tent, Mary drove us through the most heavily devastated area of N.O. -- the lower 9th ward. This was a poor, black neighborhood that was decimated because a barge -- and no one knows why it was still in the river at that point -- was blown through the levee just where the lower 9th lies. I can't even speak to the extent of damage. Houses on top of cars. A Mack truck on its side, with a white couch dangling off the top. Whole houses literally in the middle of the street, shoved by the rushing water off their foundations. Once in a while, there was a structure still standing, usually a brick house. Everything else was in varying states of collapse.

Rinna and I thanked Mary for taking us through the area. No problem, she said, and then: "I think it's really important to bear witness to this. So please go back and write your Congressmen that we need a lot of help down here."

Today Rinna and I were in the office all day with Evan, while Matt was out at a Disaster Recovery Center near where we are staying in Uptown. It's at a JCC. I wrote letters and called clients. Betsy took us out to the same great Indian restaurant, Nirvana, that the four of us had gone to last night on her recommendation.

After work, we headed home, picked up our host, and ate at Juan's Flying Burrito, which has the best nachos I have ever eaten. Really. I only had a couple bites because I haven't been feeling well, but the chips were the un-greasiest chips I've ever eaten, the cheese and beans were perfectly melted, and the sour cream and jalapenos were perfect. Damn!

Since I wasn't feeling well, I volunteered to be the designated driver, much to Matt and Evan's delight, since they've been sharing the driving duties. After dinner, we went to a neighborhood bar that our host knew of, where the proprietor, a fat woman by the name of Miss May, apparently will take you out by the ear if she hears you cuss. The drinks were a dollar each and the boys drank up while chatting with a barfly whose mumblings we couldn't really make out, except for the parts when he was lecturing about pheromones and ladies of leisure.

After dropping our host off at home, we eventually headed over to the Bywater neighborhood, a slightly run-down, warehouse-y area of N.O., with the expectation of hearing Kermit Ruffin, who is a legend trumpeter in these parts. He plays on Thursday nights at Vaughan's, a neighborhood bar with what turned out to be the perfect mix of the merchant marine (a fat, white-bearded fellow), possible hookers, and us, the volunteers. Matt's roommate is volunteering with Common Ground, along with three other Crimson kids, and so we met up with them and other Common Ground volunteers. Kermit wasn't there that night -- the rumor was that he was playing in Russia, or South America, or the Caribbean -- and I wasn't feeling well, so I sat quietly with Rinna and Evan while the others mingled and drank. Despite the non-alcoholic tint of my evening, it was a very cool bar and a very cool night.

N.O.: Day Two

Totally buzzed. Why am I drinking 4 times as heavily as I do in Crimson City? Dunno. But very happy. Due to beer, vodka martini, beer, and vodka tonic.

At lunch at the Love Tent – this free food service set up in St. Bernard’s parish by hippies from California. Man, I don’t know where they get their funding, but the food they served was amazing – homemade clam soup, pasta salad with cilantro accents, fresh salad with crisp vegetables, a healthy chunk of ham, some kind of apple/oatmeal dessert. And the chefs came through the tent singing the menu, “Pasta! Pasta salad! Pasta pasta! Pasta saaaalad!” And there was a violin player. And Acupuncture Without Borders.

Went to see Ward 9 – total devastation, like the hurricane had hit last week. Mack truck on side, with white couch hanging off the top; a house ON TOP of a car, some houses so completely wiped out by the sudden rush of water from the broken levee that there was simply no hit of their previous existence on the lots. Astounding that this happened 5 months ago and no hint of demolition, movement toward the future, reconstruction. It’s infinitely sad and incredibly enraging.

Then went to a great Indian restaurant and then a very cool bar owned by Harry Anderson from Night Court fame – he has held a Wednesday night town meeting for the past 21 weeks, first to let everyone know what was going on and then to just vent. Tonight the police chief of N.O. was there to answer questions, some of which were tough and some of which were – well, one guy asked where could find stuff that had been looted, if the police had some record system, and: (1) a woman with a European accent said, “yes, my bra was looted,” to much laughter, and (2) the police chief said, “If the authorities took it, uh, there won’t be any record,” again to much laughter. There was anger and frustration and humor, and the whole room was white people. It was inspiring and maddening, and I was glad we were there.

To dwown one’s sorrows in dwink – it is exactly what I am doing. It’s so strange – I feel so energized by being here, and yet so devastated by – for example – the ruins (again, FIVE MONTHS after Katrina) in Ward 9. I can barely process what is happening, except that I am glad to be here, soaking it all in – the beauty of the Marigny district, with its elegant houses; the matter-of-fact attitudes of the people at the Disaster Relief Center set up in a Walmart parking lot in St. Bernard’s parish, where the water level reached 9 feet or so; the vitality and civilized anger of the French Quarter residents complaining about parking and street entertainers; the kindness and patience and diligence of my co-volunteers.

Fuckin' B, Man!

So I just checked my legal history grade again, and it's now a B. No minus. No B-! What the HELL is this?

Rinna, one of the other students on the trip, told me this afternoon (while I was in the depths of despair) that I should just wait until midnight, since they update the grades then, and that it would change for the better. I now bow to her as omniscient narrator of my life. And I want to live in her world forever and ever.

Abraham, a Tulane law student who is hosting us here, said it was volunteering. "You do good things, and karma gives back to you."

Karma doesn't work that fast (except in the charming world of My Name Is Earl). But I'll take what I can get. Hallalujah and praise the lord! Thank you, Jesus!

New Orleans: Day One

We are back after a day at work. We arrived today this morning at 2 am, and we slept for 5 hours, and then we got up to go to our placement at New Orleans Legal Assistance. We left there at 5:30, went to dinner on Bourbon Street, where I had a daiquiri (they are very popular here – why? The prevailing theory amongst our group is that they are rum-based, and rum is made in the Gulf, and sugar-based – sugar was imported through N.O.), a beer, jambalaya (disappointing) and seafood gumbo (surprisingly good with white rice on top). Bourbon Street at 6 pm was pretty quiet – almost eerily so, but as we sat and ate and talked about embarrassing moments in our lives (among other things), I looked across the narrow street to a two-story building with intricate gratework on the railings and columns, and a sky blue door hanging picturesquely if injuriously at an angle.

There’s a brokenness here that I’m not sure stems entirely from the hurricane. Driving to the 8 pm orientation that the student hurricane network organized for us tonight, I commented, “This city seems like it could be really haunted.” Evan, one of the other students, agreed, “Yeah, these houses look like they were once grand but now are kind of run down – melancholy.” Exactly. A feeling of grandeur past and faded gentility, starving its way into the present.

The four of us are working on different things – eviction, public housing, divorce, and bankruptcy. I drafted a couple pro forma demand letters and referral letters, talked to a couple people that the office had lost track of a couple months ago. It was good, although I definitely feel that I soaked up more of the attorney’s time than it would have taken for her to simply write the letters herself. I asked her about this later and she didn’t deny it; she merely said, with a luminous smile, “But I love teaching students. I love it.”

As the night wore and I drank more liquor, Bourbon Street perked up. More people began walking through the streets, a couple street performers in costume strolling among them. We walked between two bars having an impromptu battle of the stereo systems, thunderously playing 80s metal band songs while a N.O. police car sat between them.

The N.O. police apparently have a reputation for brutality, which has only gotten worse since the hurricane, according to a legal advocate who came to the 8pm orientation tonight. They’ve been cracking down, giving parking tickets where they didn’t before, arresting for public indecency where they looked away before.

We sat and drank another drink at a quiet bar before proceeding to get lost on the way to the orientation and then walking into the Bridge Lounge 45 minutes late. I got distracted for 5 minutes by the well-fed and happily panting large dogs clustered around the entrance, but found my way eventually to the rest of the group in the back.

Mory and Betsy, two NOLA attorneys, and another lawyer/community organizer, were there, as well as all the Crimson volunteers and the SPIN coordinator. It was 9 pm, and most of us had been through a full day’s work – the HRF people had worked all day and then interviewed laborers for two hours afterwards. But there was nevertheless an enormous sense of energy in the group. I myself, normally a sanguine, low-key, almost diffident character, was freakishly full of energy. One of the lawyers outlined the biggest legal issues: “housing, housing, housing, police brutality, and housing.” Jillian, someone I know from Crimson, asked about race, and the same lawyer replied that it was very much alive and at issue. Mory added that there was a huge dichotomy between the classes, and that the poor are mostly black.

I read an article that Joiner gave me that said that one of the rumors most rampant after the hurricane was that the powers that be had allowed the poor districts of New Orleans to flood while the rich neighborhoods were saved. The lawyer who spoke to the race issue pointed out that in the low-income white neighborhoods, the power lines were being repaired, while in the poor, black 9th district, they were being ripped out. Public housing had been wiped out by Katrina, and there had been open comments about having gotten rid of the problem element in N.O. Public housing residents are “99 percent black – no, maybe 100% black,” said Mory. There are tent cities in the low-income white neighborhoods; not so in the 9th district.

This is an extraordinary test. An extraordinary case study. Of race, of government, of class, of courage. I am aware – almost paralyzingly so – that we are here for only 6 days, and that we can’t truly expect to do anything of any import or meaning. We are here as symbols, as human gestures that yes, some people care. But it is the people who stay here, who came back, who won’t leave, that take the brunt of the effect. I told Betsy that I felt amazingly energized by the conversation and hopefulness and desire to do more in the bar tonight, and in her extraordinarily graceful and giving way, she said something that made me feel like even our gesture might mean something real. “The students bring so much energy,” she said, “they give some of that to us.”

The worst semester in my academic life

A B in employment law, and now a B- in legal history. Legal fucking history! Which I took because I like history!

I think I must have completely misinterpreted the second question on the exam. That's the only way I can explain it.

But the prof is going to have to explain it to me when I get back.

I can't fucking believe it.

This sucks

Six hours into a take-home final, which is not only difficult, it's freaking BORING. All the hallmarks of law school. And I so called the first question, only I didn't really think the prof would do it -- he's asking us to critique a brief that his organization is submitting to the Supreme Court later this month.

Two hours before I have to turn this exam in.

Two hours and 13 minutes before I get into a cab to go to New Orleans.

I hate this exam.

And there's a good three inches of snow on the ground.

Okay, okay, I'll go back and finish the exam now. I just cannot bear the boredom.

Class is over! No more psych!

Last day of class today -- hurrah! And I even managed to: 1. get the signature I needed to cross register into a history class for spring; 2. finish copying all the articles in the last journal for my research job; and 3. turn in all my work for the job to the prof's assistant. A good day's work -- productive and varied.

Thus, all that remains is to study for the damn psychiatry and law test, which may be a tad harder than I would hope, seeing as how I zoned out of class the last few days. Oh, and pack for New Orleans. I can't believe I'll be there in three days. Christ.

On the ever-exciting Not-Gay Boyfriend front: nothing. I happened to walk by his class on my way back from turning in my research, and saw his tall, thin form. He was wearing a robin's egg blue long-sleeve shirt under a lavender polo. Which -- don't get me wrong -- looked good! But combinations like this led to his pseudonym -- when I found out from my sources earlier this year that he had had a girlfriend, I started calling him my Not-Gay Boyfriend, with all the hopefulness that that implied.

Full day's work tomorrow awaits, with my piles of psych reading and notes. Panic... slowly rising...

It's not MY grades that bug -- it's other people's

I got a B in employment law. No grades for my other two classes yet.

I remember thinking in December that a B would be good, considering my abysmal performance on the exam, and it totally is. I completely bungled one subsection of a question on the test, writing that the claims that could be pursued under that subsection were the same as the one above. Clearly wrong. Clearly stupid. I just ran out of time.

When I saw the grade, though, I did feel pretty disappointed -- I liked the class so much, and really felt stimulated by the section on employment discrimination. Hell, I even applied and got an offer at the EEOC because of that class!

I was feeling okay about it, though, when I ran into Prom Queen a couple hours later. Prom Queen is an extremely popular, confident, extroverted, insanely ambitious yet equally nice to everyone, girl from my hall last year. She was also in the class, and did the take-home paper for it (I took the in-class exam). She got a B+ and is going to talk to the prof about it, 'cause she's not happy with the grade.

This, I must explain, is partly because she hasn't gotten above that B+ ceiling since law school started, AND because she wants to do employment stuff in the future (plus clerk for a judge), so it's not like she's Miss Straight As and whiny about the B+. But I still felt a twinge of jealousy. I liked the class so much! Why didn't I get a B+? And the green-eyed monster continues: I know I've gotten better grades than Prom Queen -- I got three A-s last year! So why did she get a B+ and I, a B?

My saner side intervenes: I know exactly why I got a B -- I fucked up the exam. And since the grade is entirely based on the exam, I should be happy that I got a B and not worse. I mean, I really flubbed that part of the question, ridiculously so.

Anyway, the most important thing is that I don't lose the excitement I had for the topic just because of my grade. After all, look at Uncle Joe (my property prof last year). He got a B- in his first year property law class, and now he's one of the giants of the field. (Which is funny if you know him, since he's a very short, avuncular Jewish man.)

This'll be a good test for me in continuing to pursue an interest, despite not having obtained the bells and whistles for it. Being good at something doesn't mean you like it (see civil procedure); likewise, liking something doesn't mean you're good at it (see property, also employment). But liking something probably means you're going to get better at it.

And thus ends the homily for today.

Wanted: a vacation

This being the 15th straight day of class, research, and reading, I am very glad that this winter session is almost over.

On Monday I take the exam for this class, which I've totally checked out of (seriously -- I was looking at my Alaska pictures during class), and then I'm off to New Orleans for hurricane relief work. Our group is working with the New Orleans Legal Aid Center. It may not be the most exciting work -- the other project that kids from Crimson are working on sounds much cooler -- but at least it will be different and hopefully helpful to people who need the aid.

And I get to go to New Orleans, where I've never been. It's almost pathological, my love of new places.

I feel a little bit like what I imagine grad student life to be, what with all my days revolving around research and reading of journals, both for work and for class. I like it, but it's wearing.

Notes of humor: in my reading assignment for tomorrow, there is again an article written by my Not-Gay Boyfriend's appellatory doppelganger (if Not-Gay Boyfriend's name was "Murgatroyd Eustacius Binkeldorf," the author's name would be "Murgatroyd Eustacius Binkelhausen"). AND! there is an article written by someone I know -- the wife of a old DOJ compatriot, whom I got to know in DC and is one hella cool chick. That was pretty awesome.

I was curled up in a ball in Joiner's armchair this afternoon, whiny as hell and unable to motivate to go to the library, and shouted out, "I need a vacation!" Or at least one day where I don't have to read or research. These are the things I would do, had I the time and/or money, starting with:

The practical...

- go grocery shopping
- get a haircut
- clean out my closets and donate a bunch of shit I never wear, and throw out a bunch of stuff I never use but feel guilty about throwing away, for various reasons
- go to a yoga class
- organize Alaska photos into an album on ofoto and get it printed

...to the unpractical:

- get a manicure
- buy shitload of clothes, some of which I kinda need (new pair of jeans, gloves, pair of black heels, a black skirt, a fitted blouse, running shoes, exercise pants, new flip-flops) and some of which I don't need (a pretty dress, a sexy shirt, knee-high boots that fit like a glove, sparkly earrings)
- get a facial
- drink a bottle of Veuve Cliquot
- get a massage
- go down to DC and eat some Ben's Chili Bowl chili cheese fries and chili cheese half-smoke
- buy a down comforter and a pretty duvet and loll around on them eating green tea ice cream and watching an entire season of 24
- and why the hell not -- drink another bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

Gosh, that would be nice.

Go Oh!

So Sandra Oh won a Golden Globe last night, which was well-deserved and historic and inspiring and completely void of any racial bookmarking of the moment. Why is that? I am personally THRILLED that my Asian -- and KA! -- sista got recognized for her tough, wisecracking character on Grey's Anatomy, but there's little in the way of celebrating this as a victory for Asian Americans.

Oh doesn't play a demure Lotus Blossom, which is fantastic; she does play a hard-hearted, non-patient-friendly female Asian surgical resident, which is a type that Ming-Na pioneered (?) on ER several years back. But! This hard-hearted, non-patient-friendly female Asian surgical resident has a hott thing going on with a hott black surgeon, and is unabashedly non-committal about it. Which is fantastic.

It really should be a moment of celebration for KAs and Asian Americans, both in terms of wider recognition of roles that As-Ams can play, as well as a personal recognition that we, Asian Americans, can do this. We can do the acting thing, we can do the creative thing, we can be who we want to be. It's a shot in a million that we can make it the way Oh has, but it's possible.

I remember watching Oh back in college, when the Asian American Women's Group put on a showing of Double Happiness, where she played a Chinese American woman struggling to become an actress despite her parents' opposition. Apparently, Oh came up against that in her real life, and has reported that her parents are now just coming around to the idea of her acting. She's said that she's going to give the Globe to her parents.

And though I didn't see it, I can imagine how her phone call to her folks went:

"Mom?"

"Yah."

"I won! I won the Golden Globe for best female actress!"

"Oh. Golden Globe? What's that?"

"It's like the Oscars, but for TV as well as the movies."

"Oh. Not the Oscar, huh?"

"No, mom. Not the Oscar. That's for movies. But the Globes are like predictors for the Oscars."

"But not the Oscar?"

"NO, mom. There are no Oscars for TV."

"But the Golden Globe."

"Yeah. The Golden Globe."

"That's good, huh?"

"It's very good."

(Dad gets on the phone.)

"Sandra, you play a doctor on TV, and you got a Golden Globe for that, huh? Too bad you didn't go to med school."

"This is way better than med school, dad."

"Huh. Yeah, that's good. So, are you eating right?"

"I'm eating fine, dad."

"You better eat some vitamins. Your mom will send you some."

"Okay, dad. Love you."

"Bye."

(And after they hang up, the parents go off and brag to all their friends about Sandra's accomplishments, having intimated none of their bursting pride to the actual recipient of the award.)
-----------------------------

I've been working pretty hard on this research and for my class the past two weeks, and so I'm pretty tired. It's 9 pm, and I'd like to go to sleep.

Today, which was pretty typical, went like this:

8 am -- wake up
8:30 -- run for half an hour, do some sit-ups
9:15 -- shower, eat breakfast, read
10:30 -- class
1:30 -- shoot the shit with Joiner, take care of some email errands
3:30 -- walk over to the undergrad library, start research
7 pm -- dinner, while reading for class
8:30 -- back in dorm, tired
9 pm -- back to reading for class, til I fall asleep

It's satisfying to have such a full, productive day. But I am ready for a vacation. Which I will not get, as I'm headed right to New Orleans on a volunteer trip the MINUTE I turn in my exam on Monday afternoon.
-----------------------------

Friend has reappeared.

You remember Friend -- I had a weird flingy fling with him last year which finally ended last term when I told him, yo. The window has closed, you're too late, and I can't reopen it.

We've gradually been reestablishing contact -- he called on Thanksgiving, and during the winter break -- but today he showed up at my door. I missed a gathering of last year's dorm mates yesterday, so he thought he would drop by.

I didn't mind too much. He very sweetly gave me a bag of tangerines, saying that, "last year, you used to mooch these off me all the time, and since you can't do that any more, I thought I'd just bring them too you."

Shot the breeze for a while, then headed over the library, thinking, "Gosh! He really must miss me."
-----------------------------

And in the Not-Gay Boyfriend news, I got an email not from him today, but from the friend he wanted to introduce to me last week at the pub. She's in the same class I'm taking (which is partly why he wanted to introduce us, I guess), and emailed today that she'd left class early, missed the assignment for tomorrow, and that she was sorry to bug me, but she'd gotten my email from Not-Gay Boyfriend. Oh, and that we should do the trivia thing again next semester, since we almost won last week. Which was not true (the almost winning part), but was nice of her. And hey, an email from the friend is almost as good as, right?

Heh. I amuse myself with my delusions.

Slightly related non sequitur memory -- last week, the day after I felt so disappointed about the awkwardness of going to the gathering of Not-Gay Boyfriend's friends, I had to read an article by someone with a name that eerily mirrored Not-Gay Boyfriend's. To wit: if NGB's name were "Ali Baba Treaclehopper," the author's name would be "Ali Baba Treaclehand." Ah, fate! You keep me laughing.

MLK Weekend

After a few days of unseasonably and unreasonably warm weather (50 degrees in January in Crimson City? the end of the world is nigh, I tell you), the temperature slid down to a cool 20 degrees or so yesterday. It was actually -8 last night.

I've been accidentally celebrating the memory of Dr. King by doing my research on Supreme Court backlash for a professor. Each day this weekend I dutifully went to the undergrad libraries and flipped through copies of journals from 1968 and 1969, skimming as I went along: riots, protests, new presidents, assassinations. A sober way to spend the holiday weekend, but certainly appropriate.

Last Thursday, I went to a screening of February One, a documentary about the Greensboro Four. These were four black college students who went into Woolworth's on Feb. 1, 1960, sat at the counter, and politely asked to be served. Their actions spurred a number of sit-ins throughout the south, and in about 6 months, Woolworth's gave in and served black customers at the counters formerly reserved for whites. (This photo was shot as they were leaving the first day.)

The four were fed up, and angry, and afraid. They expected they might be beaten up. The first day, a policeman was called into the store, and the cop walked back and forth behind their backs, slapping his baton into his hand, looking for any excuse to drag them out. They gave him none.

An elderly white woman came and sat down next to the four young men, and told them that she was disappointed in them. "Why?" they asked. For not doing this sooner, she said, and slid off the seat and into the annals of history.

Only one of the four students, David Richmond, stayed behind in Greensboro, NC, and suffered the consequences -- he could never find a job where his supervisors obliquely or openly didn't punish him for that act of sitting down. He died before the making of the film.

The other three became stock brokers, chemists, caretakers of the disabled. Richmond worked a series of jobs in Greensboro. There was footage of him working as a janitor. The other three moved to Massachusetts, New York, other parts of North Carolina. For them, Greensboro became one chapter of the story of their lives. But David Richmond stayed, and Greensboro stayed a part of his life.

Someone in the audience suggested that Richmond had other problems (he was an alcoholic, for one) and that his life might have been worse if he hadn't taken part in the sit-in. Certainly that seems possible. But it also seems very possible that by staying in Greensboro, Richmond suffered the fate of many who stay behind, of those who don't leave, of those who carry on the burden of everyday life when the camera crews are gone and the flush of victory is over. Whatever his motivations were for staying behind (he apparently stayed to take care of his ailing parents), he poignantly reminds me of the real price paid for heroism.
--------------------------------

I really enjoyed seeing that documentary, and learning about the sit-ins. I love learning facts, learning the inside story. I don't know if it's history, or the civil rights movement, or the personal stories of those involved that fascinate me so, but there's something there.

Despite the many hours spent so far on it, I'm also enjoying this research project. Fussing around with original source material is so fun.
--------------------------------

So I put a little moratorium on writing about Not-Gay Boyfriend, from whom I haven't heard a peep since Wednesday night. But here's my little message to him:

Dear Not-Gay Boyfriend:

Okay, so Wednesday was a little awkward and weird. You arrived later than I expected, I was already there, hanging out with you and your friends may have been premature. And there is that small matter of you having just ended a 3-year relationship.

Despite all that though, I think you should contact me. Reason? It's good to have a little distraction when you're going through a rough emotional time. I'm pleasant and fun (mostly), and patient and non-judgmental (mostly). And you interest me. So go ahead, Not-Gay Boyfriend, take the plunge. Only connect, dude. You won't regret it.

Your (possible) BFF,
hk

In memoriam

A dear friend's father died last night, surrounded by his children, on a farm in Florida. A good man, a good life.

My heart goes out to the Ringleted One and her family.

Dear Not-Gay Boyfriend:

It was raining, as you know, very slightly, when you walked into the place where you and your buddies have your weekly pow-wow. I was there already, having walked back and forth in the bar twice, looking in vain for you. I had already come in once and left, not having seen you and not knowing anyone else in your group. And then you walked in.

And it was raining, as you know, when we all left after 2 hours, raining harder when we left the bar en masse, when you thanked me for coming (polite as always) and we hugged awkwardly good-bye on a street corner, both tired and glad we didn't have a 9 am class (though I have a 10:30 class).

Rain is a funny thing. It can be refreshing, after a long dry spell. It can be dreary and gloomy, after days and days. It can be lulling, and it can be peaceful. It can feel like the mark of the end of things, and it can feel like the mark of something new (but mostly that feeling comes after a rain ends).

The rain to me tonight, Not-Gay Boyfriend, did not have the feeling of something new. It felt like the end of something. And the thing tonight that ended was my delirious state of unreality and infatuation with you. We were in the bar with your friends for two hours, and in those two hours, I was looking for something, something hopeful and necessary. I didn't find it.

It would have been easy to deliver that something. Holding my gaze, holding a private conversation, holding yourself in a way that intimated a particular interest in what I was saying, or merely in just my presence.

But I didn't find that something.

Maybe you're not ready. Maybe you're not interested. It sort of seemed like you were interested: we did have those two very nice meals together. You did invite me, with what seemed like genuine encouragement, to this weekly get-together of you and your friends. You even told your close friend about me and my summer in the state she'll be working in this fall.

But it was important, you see, to deliver that something tonight, there in the bar with your friends. You can see why, can't you? You're age appropriate for me -- you know (or definitely should know!) by now that you don't simply invite someone you're interested in to hang out and NOT make that gesture. For whatever reason, you failed to deliver it.

It doesn't matter what the reason is. It only matters that it didn't happen.

So the rain tonight, Not-Gay Boyfriend, marks the end of my expectations, as foolish and as delighted as they were. After we parted, I stood in the rain a couple minutes outside my dorm, finishing the cigarette I so richly deserved, humming the Etta James song that ran through my head the first couple days after you came up to me in class ("At last, my love has come around/And my lonely days are over/And life is like a song").

And then I sang quietly the song I made up a long time ago, while walking across the Golden Gate Bridge, heart-sore and determined to let go of another expectation, delirious and obsessive and painful and delightful as that was too: "And though I may have made a wish or two/On that bridge is where I lay to rest my dreams of you."

It was foolish to have expectations, but I don't apologize for them. When you've gone a couple years without feeling excited about anyone, you jump, exuberantly (and prematurely, as it turns out), at the hope of a connection with someone. Only connect! E.M. Forster cried out all through Howard's End, because connection with another human soul is the happiest and most necessary thing in life; without it, we are automatons, dry husks of movement and duty and service without the divine spark that makes existence bearable and sweet.

I know I am being melodramatic. I know that I was overly invested from the beginning, having harbored a crush that had started last year. But the rain makes people a little crazy sometimes. A little sad. A little refreshed. A little resigned. And when it ends, we shoulder our daily burden of life with the comforts that we already had, hoping that they'll stretch out soon enough to fill the space where hope lay, if only for a little while.

In friendship and solidarity,
hk

My first MeMe
(because I really don't want to read about PTSD)

Four Jobs I've Had
1. Paralegal at the Justice Department
2. Gofer at an exhibit design firm (researched sequoias, elephants, and dung beetles -- my work on the last of which is immortalized in bronze casts all around the elephant rotunda in the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History)
3. Editor at a DC-based publishing company (became intimate with appropriations subcommittee reports and wrote volumes about federal funding for non-profits and education)
4. Cashier and book clerk at an independent bookstore (where I read amazing books like Invisible Man and Timbuktu for free, as well as, uh, Cosmo)

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over
This is a hard one. I used to watch movies over and over, but I rarely do now. I have watched Princess Bride and When Harry Met Sally probably at least 10 times, but I probably wouldn't pick them to watch now. Thus, I ran out of movies by #3...

1. Casablanca (I had to. It was the only video -- besides Kosovo: The True Story -- that was in the apartment I subletted during my very poor summer of 1995, but I have seen it several times since then, and still adore it)
2. Aliens (the best, most kick-ass monster movie ever)
3. Matrix I (although really, only the lobby scene)
4. Zoolander (maybe. I've seen it once, and found myself laughing til I cried, but I haven't actually watched it again)

Four Places I've Lived
Only four? I had lived in four by third grade. Very well:

1. Seoul, Korea
2. San Francisco
3. Santa Barbara
4. Los Angeles (the Valley, to be exact)

Including summers, I've also lived in: New Haven, New York, Anchorage, Washington DC, and now, Crimson City.

Four TV Shows I Like or Have Liked
1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer
2. Twin Peaks
3. The X-Files
4. Grey's Anatomy

Four Places I've Been on Vacation
1. Southeast Asia
2. Western Europe
3. Puerto Rico
4. Philadelphia

Four Blogs I Visit Daily
Pretty much only Lecturess and Tomato Nation.

Four of My Favorite Foods
1. Korean barbequed pork and soju (okay, it's a meal, not a food)
2. Green tea ice cream
3. Chili cheese fries and chili cheese half smoke at Ben's Chili Bowl
4. Pho

Four Places I'd Rather Be
1. Any foreign city or town with a good travel buddy and time and money to spare
2. Alaska, in the summer
3. On the beach (preferably in a warm tropical locale, as it's 30 degrees outside now, but any beach would do)
4. Hiking or camping in the mountains, in good weather, with friends

Four Albums I Can't Live Without
1. Nina Simone, The Blues
2. Miles Davis, Kind of Blue
3. Sam Cooke, Night Beat
4. Dido, Life for Rent

Four Vehicles I've Owned
I've never actually owned a vehicle, though in high school I drove a Jeep Cherokee.

Stupid, stupid hk!

You know what's embarrassing? I mean besides having a roll of toilet paper trailing behind you, or having a huge piece of spinach caught in your teeth, or getting falling down drunk at your firm's holiday party. It's embarrassing to find a nice quiet place to read for your class, and in the midst of settling in with your friend, say very loudly, "Well, at least we know definitively that he's not gay!" about Not-Gay Boyfriend, have your friend observe there is class taking place in the classroom right beside you, walk by to check out which class, and realize that ... it's Not-Gay Boyfriend's class.

Again: shit, shit, shit.

Stupid, stupid hk. Never assume you're alone! Never!

Update on the not-date

Confirmed: Not-Gay Boyfriend, as his pseudonym implied hopefully but not confidently, is not gay.

Realized: Not-Gay Boyfriend and I have a good time hanging out.

Realized with some dismay (read on): I like Not-Gay Boyfriend.

Invited: To a semi-regular outing that Not-Gay Boyfriend and his friends do on Wednesdays at a local pub.

Discovered: Not-Gay Boyfriend broke up with his girlfriend of 3 years in December.

Thinking: Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit!

----------------------------------------
And in the other news, I had a really lovely day (minus the whole discovery of the rebound thing, if it is a rebound, and who fucking knows WHAT it is).

8:00 -- woke up
9:00 -- went to the gym and watched half of a 24 episode while burning 260 calories
10:30 -- went to class, learned about assisted suicide
1:30 -- ate lunch
2:30 -- read for class
5:30 -- went to dinner with Not-Gay Boyfriend
7:00 -- went to the library and did research for an hour and a half
8:45 -- came home and shot the shit with Joiner
11:30 -- sleep

I do love the learning and the researching and the hanging out with people I like. What a perfect day.

Hm.

Or maybe: oops.

Or maybe: d'oh!

I went to my friend's birthday bash at a bar last night with a mutual friend, Squashman. Squashman's the guy I went to lunch with last month, a very nice KA guy a little older than me.

So I got a little tipsy, and on the way back home started weaving back and forth on the sidewalk. So Squashman took my arm. And then we decided to walk out to the park to see the moon. But it wasn't visible from the park, so Squashman decided we should go to the river to see it. But then it was fucking freezing, so we stopped to warm up in a hotel lobby. And then we had a long conversation about family and KA life. And then on the way back home, he put his arm around me, and I did the same. And nothing happened, but I feel pretty shitty about it anyway, because I don't feel that way about Squashman. I like Not-Gay Boyfriend. So it has potential to be hugely awkward. Let's hope (fervently) that it doesn't.

And let's keep the alcohol consumption to a very, very low level. Like, one pint. 'Cause it was the second half of the second pint that did me in.

Stupid, stupid hk.

But also industrious hk: spent 8 hours in the library yesterday, and another 8 hours there today doing research for a prof. V. good.

And also social hk: before the drinking last night, Stave and Def picked me up and drove over to Mrs. Stave's sister's place across the river, where Mrs. Stave's sister and brother-in-law were waiting. We had dinner (me and two couples -- as it ever was, and ever shall be?) at a Thai place and afterwards went to Mrs. Stave's sister's place, where I met Zoe Silverman, the smartest cat alive. I don't know why, but I was delighted by the cat's name: Zoe Silverman. All pets should have first and last names! It gave Zoe Silverman an air of mystery, like she had a whole past that her current owners don't know about. (Which she does, being a stray.)

Was a Good Student today, reading all the material for tomorrow in the afternoon, which freed me up for dinner with my roommate from the summer. She showed me her album of photos, and we reminisced about that magical, glorious Alaskan summer.

And then we gossiped about the guy she's seeing, and about Not-Gay Boyfriend, and it was quite fun.

Some of her friends made a very funny but pointed spoof of a music video about Asian American men, which you can see here. You should really watch it. Who said law students weren't creative?

Roommate is already writing her 3L paper this winter term (short stories), building on her independent project from last year (short stories). I admire people so directed about their pursuits. And she considers herself unfocused!

Was thinking about how impatient I am with Not-Gay Boyfriend, and realized that in normal world time, a week after the holidays isn't such a long time to wait for a not-date. But somehow, in school time, everything speeds up, and a week after the holidays seems like an interminably long, uninterested time to wait to see someone. I guess.

(Mr. Stave, I know you advised me not to overthink it -- but overthinking is so fun!)

Father Joseph's untimely death has reminded me to live happy. So why not dream big, and set down a resolution for making decisions with less angst this year? I just fought another battle in deciding which class to take for the next 2.5 weeks. After advice from my various life coaches (thank you, BC, Joiner, and Double M!), I settled on a "Law and -" class. If it starts with "Law and," you know it's law school lite. Law and Psychiatry, Law and Literature, Law and Society -- you're sittin' pretty. I went a couple rounds, since the employment class I thought about taking was very small (8 students the first day, and undoubtedly fewer today) and it would have been a great opportunity to get to know a professor, as well as a welcome break from the 40- to 150-person classes I have taken so far, but after I said to BC, "The law-and- class is more fun," and she said immediately, "Then take it!" I thought, "Okay! Let it be fun!"

Isn't it awful how you can twist even someone's death into a story all about yourself?

---------------------------------
I brought two books with me to Seattle: Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice, and enjoyed re-reading those classics more than I thought I would, especially the former, which I first read (and probably have not read since!) in high school. I'm very fond of Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair, which plays on Jane Eyre with a very affectionate and respectful touch, and so several weeks ago, I thought I'd read the inspiration for his novel again. I'm much more amused and touched by the story than I was in my younger incarnation, when I thought it was rather silly. I still get impatient with Rochester's infuriating method of wooing Jane (by pretending to be engaged to Blanche Ingram? Please!), and I'm more than ever annoyed by St. John's hypocritical and decidedly un-Christian rigidity and lack of compassion for humanity, but I must admit to being tickled by passages such as this, when Rochester gives Jane ten pounds for her journey to see her dying aunt:

"Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use for it."

"And so have I, sir," I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. "I could not spare the money on any account."

"Little niggard!" said he, "refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane."

"Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence."

"Just let me look at the cash."

"No, sir; you are not to be trusted."

Hee! Aw. Cute. And precisely in tune with romances of every age.

---------------------------------
I have one other resolution this year, and that is to get into shape by the time I turn 30, a little under 3 months from now. I tried on a skirt last month that I hadn't worn in 2 years or so, and was dismayed to find that I could not zip it up, whereas before it had hung rather loose on me. I blame the free firm dinners this term, as well as lack of exercise, a changing metabolism, a sedentary student lifestyle, and, oh... global warming. Or something.

In any case, I resolve I shall lose this detestable (but adorable?) Buddha/beer belly I've developed, by March 23, and whittle myself down to my fighting weight. To this end, I've gone to the gym faithfully these past three days. The past two I've been using the elliptical trainer, but that machine lies like mad. Seriously! I went on it for 30 minutes today, and worked up a good sweat, but there is no way I burned 300 calories in half an hour like the machine said. That's like, twice what I burn on a treadmill while running, and running takes more energy than the elliptical. Ooo, I just hate lies.

---------------------------------
And finally, after SIX emails on the subject, Not-Gay Boyfriend and I are scheduled to have dinner on Monday evening. It is so NOT a date. For one, he suggested lunch. Then, when we had a conflict on Friday, he suggested Monday lunch. Which -- there are EIGHT other meals and countless small repasts between Friday lunch and Monday lunch, kiddo! As BC and Double M pointed out, why not go hog crazy and do brunch? Or get really wild and do coffee? NO. IT MUST BE WITHIN BUSINESS HOURS. And then, when Monday lunch didn't work out? Monday dinner. At 5:30.

What is this unyielding penchant for business-hour meals?

All right, so... whatever. It's not a date. It's... a getting-to-know-you. FINE. BE THAT WAY.

Humph.

I was sickened this morning by the terrible news that one of the three African priests who had been so adored by the entire language school in Seoul had died suddenly of heart failure, on December 18, while running a marathon. He was probably in his mid-30s.

Father Joseph was from Kenya. In a former life, he led safari tours in his country. He and I shared two classes together, and I was always impressed by his gentleness and patience. He had a smile that could illuminate a small city.

And now he is dead. Etsuko reported that he was dead before they reached the hospital. She wrote: "Father Peter, Father Joseph, and Father Tamlat -- they that were three and were one..."

There is truly no justice in the world.

The power of negative thinking!

I had dinner with the Neener tonight, and told her as we got up to leave that Not-Gay Boyfriend hadn't written to me, so I was a little sad about that. She said wisely, "Don't give up yet! Give him til the end of the week. Or, you write to him!"

But that would go against the rules of the game, I explained. "If he isn't smart enough to write to me by the end of the week, then he's not worth it."

"But he's worth one more email, surely," she said encouragingly.

"Well... all right. After all, he's age-appropriate! And that's the really important thing," I laughed.

"And he's nice! And liberal! And you had a nice conversation!" she reminded me.

"You're right, you're right." And I walked home in the light rain, exhorting Not-Gay Boyfriend under my breath to "write me that email, dammit! It's really not that hard! A monkey could do it!"

I was doctoring my face (almost 30, and still breaking out -- is there no justice in this world?) at home when Joiner popped by after an exhausting journey from home. After 10 minutes or so of catching up, she asked if I'd had word from Not-Gay Boyfriend. Nope, said I, and promptly walked over to my laptop to check. As the page loaded on my email program, I prepared to flip it the bird.

But then there it was. An email. From Not-Gay Boyfriend.

Eeeeeeee!

And yay!

And ... eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

And now it's time to stop squealing and go to bed.

Right after I read it one more time.

I have returned

It's lovely to have a week when you don't even touch your laptop. I only checked email once this past week, and only to respond to urgent things -- of which there weren't any.

In other respects, the holiday week wasn't so lovely. It started off rather poorly, you may recall, what with my yelling at my relations over the phone on Christmas eve. But when I got to Seattle, everyone seemed jolly enough, including me. I landed on Christmas day, in the afternoon, and we went to a Korean place for dinner, and then came home and watched a video (Four Brothers: not bad, that Marky Mark! Of course, my aunt and uncle hated it -- rather conservative, they are, when it comes to the bad language).

Monday passed without incident. Then Monday night, and Ye Olde House of Vomitousness was born. Seriously. My uncle started throwing up on Monday night, and so we took him to the hospital, where they gave him an anti-emetic and a saline drip (that night with Joiner taught me what to expect), and then another anti-emetic when the first didn't work.

Tuesday morning, around 6 am, we went home. Let the diarrhea games begin!

Wednesday, my uncle felt well enough to go out to the mall for a walk. But then that night? My aunt started hurling. We didn't take her to the hospital, but she was still feeling nauseated when I left on Saturday.

Thursday night, I succumb to madness, but fortunately avoid the yakking part of it -- just a general body ache, where all your joints and muscles feel like little dwarves have taken little pickaxes to them, and utter fatigue.

Friday, we all stay home, except for a trip to the donut shop.

Saturday morning, we all snarled and growled at each other like crabby old dogs, and then got out of the house in a relative frenzy of activity: Trader Joe's, where my mother and I show the aunt and uncle the joys of organic food; Rite-Aid, where I pick up some beautiful, life-saving Dramamine; Safeway, where we do NOT pick up some cabbage in order to make cabbage juice (J1's recommendation for digestive well-being) bc my aunt recalls she has some at home; and an hour-long walk by the Sound, which was quite rejuvenating. The Pacific Northwest is so hauntingly beautiful.

I was supposed to leave on a 7:20 pm flight on Saturday, but my flight was canceled and I was put on a 11:50 pm flight out. This is why it's a good idea to call ahead and confirm your flight, boys and girls. Luckily, I did so, and rested at home until it was time to go. My mother drove me on the way back to her house, and was even sort of pleasant -- perhaps being the only person standing in Ye Olde House of Vomitousness gave her a sense of empowerment (and I'm not really kidding). I was sorry to leave her, and sorry to leave my aunt and uncle, about whom I worry more and more. I'm almost 30, and it's time for me to start shouldering the burden of aging relatives, but it's not an easy duty to take on.

I did catch a few fireworks as my flight ascended to its cruising altitude, but I quickly fell asleep for the flight to Chicago. Where we landed at 3:30 in the morning (to my body clock) and where I had to wait 4 hours for the next leg to Crimson City.

I got back to my dorm room at about 3 in the afternoon, unpacked, took a shower, and fell into bed, where I was in deep, deep sleep when the phone rang at 6 o'clock.

"Hello?"

"hk?"

"Dad?"

It was my dad, calling from Korea so that I could say happy new year to my grandmothers.

"What time is it there? Were you sleeping?"

"Yeah..." I muttered, trying to focus on the clock. "It's 6 am."

"What?"

"6 in the morning," I mumbled incoherently.

"But it's 8 am here..." he said, trailing off.

"Well, it's 6 am here," I insisted sleepily.

"Okay, I'll call you back later."

"Okay."

Click.

And then I realized it wasn't 6 am, it was 6 pm. I'd only been asleep for two hours, but the darkness and traveling had disoriented me. I had a good laugh about it when I called my dad back at 10 pm. "Yeah, I knew you made a mistake, but I thought, 'Well, just let her go back to sleep'" he said. Heh.

I called my grandmothers, wished them happy new years, and fell into some sad thoughts about my father and his side of the family, about whom I have no worries and from whom I get no grief, and my mother and her side of the family, about whom I worry plenty and from whom I get lots of grief. What makes them so different? I wondered. My grandmothers in Korea seem so hale and hearty, while my aunt and uncle seem increasingly more fragile. My grandmother in Korea went to Japan and Turkey last year, for crissakes, while my aunt and uncle seem to more and more withdraw into their small world. My grandmother is older than my aunt and uncle by at least five years, and yet she seems younger. It's not a matter of hard living, I don't think -- my grandmother lived through the Japanese occupation and the Korean War, same as my aunt, and still she seems more grounded and happier, more sanguine and accepting. Is it a matter of living close to and being able to depend on family? Living in your homeland? Having more money? Or maybe it's just a matter of personality?

Sigh. It's immaterial anyway. I feel taken care of when I'm at my grandmother's house; at my aunt and uncle's house, I feel more like I have to take care of them. And that is what I will do, as best as I can.

Which takes money.

Which makes me hope I like my summer jobs.

Tomorrow I start the winter session. I haven't decided which class I'm taking yet -- I'm probably going to shop 3 of them. It's a good thing none of my resolutions included being more decisive.