Downside

En route to my former home last week, the quintessential city that never sleeps, I decided to ride in style for once...the Amtrak train...so that I could finish reading my book...partake in three cups of tea.

In short, it goes like this: (read this book.) in the rural and remote regions of Pakistan that surround the monumental peak of K2, a humble American man and former mountaineer has been building schools for the uneducated village children since he was my age. The protagonist of the true story of this venture, "Three Cups of Tea", is a character of patience, drive, and true intent. (read this book). His successful building missions allowed many Pakistani girls the opportunity for formal education, many extending beyond grade school, to career training in the larger cities and towns surrounding the mountain region. (read this book). The first girl(s) to achieve this trip downside were awarded a scholarship to study in a prestigious high school in the city. Almost immediately they both began adopting less traditional styles of dress and diet, serving Lipton tea and wearing fancy burkhas...and even embracing the possibilities of starting a hospital downside in the city of Skardu with their newfound education, rather than returning home to the mountain village. It is evident they had become empowered, independent, ambitious.

Having new-found appreciation for the city-life and the opportunities it affords, the young girl recites "I believe every [girl of the Braldu] deserves the opportunity to come downside...at least once"

Of course the downside to going downside; that is, having first-hand knowledge of opportunities the city affords, is trifold:

Initially, once that can of worms has been opened, once the eyes have seen and the ears have heard, it is hard to forget the rush of people, the access to things before unknown, experienced, or seen, or the seemingly endless opportunities lurking around every corner. Having left the great big apple, I often miss the access to things, to everything really, unavailable in my home village.

Consequently, however, time "downside" inevitably costs much much more than the slower life of the home village, both physically and financially. Stress levels increase. Material standards and expectations eat at your psyche. The cost of living is far greater than what was previously customary. (I once heard that living in New York City for an extended period of time can take 10 years off your life. After two years of living there myself, I believe it.)

And finally, returning to the city makes one acutely aware of how living in the village of childhood matures one faster than is desireable. And not in a good way. I'll be turning 28 in less than two weeks, but judging by my recent slump in social interaction, extra-curricular activity, or usual levels of adventurousness you'd think I was turning 58. Not good.

So, that's why its time to abandon my home village once again and head downside...not back to the city that never sleeps, but a whole new one altogether...where I can wander the streets with eyes a-glow hunting down new and plentiful opportunities like the girls of a tiny village called Korphe who went downside and saw their dreams come true.


I'll miss the comforts and familiarity of this tiny village, but its time to ride into the sunset.

Small talk

Art teachers are often the rejects of the teachers' lounge...as in life, many times...but I digress...at school we miss daily drama of constant classroom behavior, rarely dish out homework and thereby suffer no angst over failures on the part of our students to complete, return, or submit their homework, and cycle through a lot more kids in a lot less time; we don't have the benefit (?) of that classroom intimacy found in academics. Consequently, we have little drama to share in the teachers' lounge, at the water cooler, or anywhere else in the work place and probably a lot less interest in hearing it as well. Additionally, I venture to guess most art teachers are far more antisocial than your average educator.
Thus, in substitute teacher land, I really just like to stick to my home base, my "safe zone", the room to which I was directed at the start of the day, and the desk from behind which I monitor monotonous tasks performed by frustrated students all day long.

Unfortunately, one cannot go a whole day without a visit to the restroom.


As soon as I abandon the safety of my sub placement safe zone and go out wandering, hunting a child-free lavatory or trying to locate the "lunchroom" to heat up my highly delicious highly nutritious Campbell's condensed, I am inevitably captured, like the four-legged victim of a deer-spotter's utility light shone from an inappropriately obnoxious utility vehicle, in a moment of smalltalk with a colleague. Said colleague usually initiates our awkward meeting with some benign and unoriginal phrase such as "is everyone eating lunch in their rooms??" while standing before the microwave line awaiting their turn at warm Campbell's and leering over an empty lunch table. Or, "are they giving you too much trouble today??" while passing my quaint and quiet post during planning periods. Or, my personal favorite, flicking their emerald green sub ID and grinning, "who you in for???". Within two words I can tell my converse-er is not a teacher at the school. It's another substitute. The insincerity in their voice is like a lighthouse beacon in the night; imposing, unmistakable. Dawning wide and eager eyes the common substitute, I've learned, throws out one cliché quip after another, evidently seeking some approval, acceptance or other justification. The whole experience is like watching the behavioral instincts of an exotic animal. Here it seems the imposer's target audience is the "in" crowd at school, in substitute-teacher-land this being the real and permanent staff. The actual teachers. Perhaps they think I am...but then my green substitute badge flickers in the overhead fluorescent light...

Their fall-back plan: some underlying drive for substitute bragging rights (sounds like: "...come here often? I sub here every day.") to move oneself, in one's own eyes, up the substitutes' hierarchy. And this is where my conversation heads- ridiculous competition, bad soup, insincerity, evoking faint memories of my high school experience, impending ill-timed introspection ( I hand-wrote this blog on standard lined notebook paper while watching the execution of inane age-appropriate school work at my substitute post) .

As I walked my luke-warm soup back to the safety zone it dawned on me: inevitably, even for the adults in a school, its always a popularity contest.

Tracing the Outline of Myself as a Child

...literally. this morning I awoke astonished and confused, with obligations to open the coffee house...and a moment prior I had been living in my dreamworld (as Rilo Kiley likes to say) and was just beginning the act of
Tracing the Outline of Myself as a Child. It sounds very Dali-esque. But what does it all mean?

Myself as a child was maybe three years old. I had short cap sleeves and short short hair, and I was tracing myself's left side. Which to my contemporary self was on the right. I anticipate that has got to be a crucial detail. I had only arrived at the specific and delicate curvature of the cap sleeve when the alarm ruined my life...or the life I was living as I traced the outline of myself.

Usually when I can't sleep (most nights) or wake from a dream and think "what the F?". I can associate the experience with something that is or has been occurring in my waking life. But here at the cap sleeve and the three year old me, I am at a loss. On a hunch I will venture a guess on antisocialism. Historically, realistically, three me was silent; morbidly shy. The comfort of having limits, guidelines, outlines I suppose, in the graphic sense, was reassuring...a parameter to fit into. To translate it to the present, I return full-circle to the forced socialism that exhausts my daily interactions as teacher and customer-server. These situations mimic a sort of outline, traced over and over again through repeated work routines. They have familiarity, guidelines, still circumventing a certain innate introversion.

But maybe now in adulthood I have been fortunate enough to have found my voice and a little bit of confidence, I have shed the outline of myself and am free to exist in any vague, symbolic and non-literal way I please.

Kickstand

(n.) allows to be kept upright without leaning against another object or the aid of a person.


I am one who likes to sit on things a while. I'm not talking chairs...I mean ideas and opinions; core beliefs that make me, me. I work it out in my head-space while life is going on around...and then proceed to evaluate why I let such things carry that impact on my formation. It must be part of my INFJ diagnostic personality (see previous post "the nature of forced sociability") . I've been working one inter-personal topic out for the greater part of this week. And prior to that, for the greater part of my mature life. If you are out there and reading, this one's for you:

My resolve, my most conclusively conclusive conclusion, for modernity, is that my introvert's solitary side supersedes the desire to be validated by friends. Because for me the latter inevitably fails. My F, my feeling side, is attuned to the nuances of self-centered-ism....I can see eyes drift up and to the right while I indulge myself in verbalizing a personal story, opinion or insight on an infrequent but trusting whim. I can anticipate another selfish request, favor or expectation amidst the heat of a guest's re-run outward self-attestation and hopeful receipt of substantiation. I clam up at being cut-off by a listening party neglecting their role. And those tell-tale signs dig right into my F.
Rather than surrounding myself with company who will validate, not hear but listen, make me feel like I am valued as an individual, respected for my struggles and perseverance, considered as "intelligent" and "capable" (as I strive to do for others), I am most often only made to feel like I might have the unfortunate powers of invisibility. Regrettably, I am only seeking a 50/50 scenario. I would negotiate 60/40. How hard could that be?

Occasionally I reach the bottom-out point and really crave some socialization. I think, "it sure would be nice to have a worthwhile conversation with someone my age/frame of mind/ mentality/ social status/etc." to reflect on things I've been working through or developing in my mind, and see if others are working through said things too...then go seeking such interaction. The unfortunate thing is that inadvertently I always seem to wear my blasted invisibility suit; thusly a conversation, as between two or more, is like a three-legged dog: lopsided. So I go home wondering whether I have some dysfunction. It's perpetual.

While my ode to the label of kickstand may sound piercing, directed or conniving, to the aforementioned reader, I offer gratitude...communication, as between two, is always achieved...(sometimes my answer is best received with a few days thought, vocab, and the assistance of editing and refining abilities).

But, generally, I have come to this: if my inevitable role is to bolster the bike, I'd rather stay in the garage.













A final deep thought: as a provider of support I should really take all the safety precautions, so as not to get lost.

Free to be You and Me (?)

Today under midday sun I decided on a mini road excursion to the lovely town of Palmyra. The hills were rolling, quiet. Snow's leftovers glistened in fields and open spaces. The peace before me provided a moment of impartial appreciation for the beauty of my hometown state and a sense of hopeful calm about this day within the world. Perhaps something positive would happen. Glass half full.
I was on a mission, though ironically not in the formal sense, with the interest of procuring some vintage military garb. As I pushed open the door to the "Top Gun" store (its true name) I anticipated a greeting presented with the formalism of Sergeant's orders. Instead I went seemingly unnoticed to browse through sweat- stained tees and uniforms with last names on the lapel, old canisters, packs, gas masks, polar gear and other accoutrements. It felt a bit like stepping backwards through time: garments stained with lingering smells of weeks' long journeys on foot for the sake of strong beliefs conjured an emotional coloration of war. I got lost inside the gory nuances of the collective experience that soldiers had/did/do face.
A moment later I turned to face the door through which I entered to see a Baby-Boomer in full garb accompanied from behind by a duckling-row of miniature soldiers, also dressed to the nines. One soldier dad, three soldier sons. The oldest of the boys couldn't have been more than 15 in my opinion. I am almost certain one donned braces. Judging by their shopping goals this day though, I could only conclude that they were preparing for their respective post-high-school military service agendas and needed the right gear for the future. I was only wondering whether impending service was a diplomatic choice or paternal expectation.
As the boys searched up and down rows of green wool and polyester, the sound of eight high-laced military boots clodding through uniform-laden aisles penetrated deep into my psyche. The boys' answers to father's questions were with the rote precision of trained officers.

"Yes. Sir".

A chill ran down my spine. I found myself suddenly feeling like an intruder in the midst of some secret operation. Then I remembered that this was the conversation between family members.

And most of them were still children.

My glossy hope goggles shattered. All too quickly I was catapulted back to the severity of the American situation. The land of the free; a land that prides itself on individuality, acceptance, opportunity and innovation, is overstuffed with individuals who refuse to accept or enforce individualITY (primarily among their flesh and blood) or to see that one traditional familiar way is not often the right one.
We millenia generation liberals have pipe dreams that the nation under our influence will be one of acceptance, peace, and positive impacts. Through a life of worldy travel, quality education and cohesive experiences we believe that we can break down walls and forge global bonds. We gather in cities and march peacefully to this end. But we forget that we are the periphery and there are masses who conform to convention.
While I observed the tension between this neo-nazi-esque brood I couldn't help to wonder which pristine little duckling would show his "ugly" colors first. What kind of life includes jamming great portions of oneself (homosexuality, pacifism or liberalism per say) into little subconscious holes beneath that woolen brocade, lest he be ostracized by papa bird for daring to be himself? Unfortunately the life of many a "free" young American it seems.



"If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children. "
Mohandas Gandhi

If you're EVER in New Mexico visit the Black Hole near the nuclear testing site in Los Alamos (photo of exterior above). Talk to the old fella there and ask to watch his videos-he defies all odds to assert his individualISM, and rightfully so.

And the point I was getting at:

...Last night I was watching a PBS documentary on a twenty-something who has asperger's, a high functioning form of autism. The asperger's individual is the most fascinating of all people to me. Generally asperger's kids are very intelligent and intuitive, have great language and verbal skills, but somehow lack the innate capabilities for "appropriate" social interaction. In short they are more like the ISTP individual than the INFJ. In fact, in the doc an asperger's support group member shared that he is obsessed with TV because he uses television drama as a set of rules for real life social interaction. Whereas I just take of running with my gut instinct and heart on my sleeve, there are those that need a set of rules to dictate whether that sort of behavior is appropriate or not. Its a case of the F versus the T. In a sense even the most basic daily interaction with others seems to be forced sociability for the aspies...kind of like I am experiencing in my controlled work environment, only for them its a constant free-for-all.
My mother said the other day, in response to my introverted need for a moment's silence post required-sociability, that its the same with having kids. There becomes the constant need to repeat oneself in simple terms, to hug and hold and pick up and wrestle, so that by the end of the day the last things a mom wants are conversation or physical contact.
Ironically I had just been thinking to myself that day how much I have been craving physical contact. Not of the intimate sort, though I think physical contact of all levels has some intimacy underlying...
As a dancer though, I have led a life accustomed to touching other people, feeling their body weight on mine, touching their sweaty salty skin, using myself as a tool to aid in stretching, lifting, shaping, weight sharing and receiving the same from my fellow dancers. Having left that world of flesh on flesh there has been a lacking in physical connection to other people and I have become acutely aware of the "rules" of physical engagement...similar to the rules of social engagement the aspergers individual was seeking. But still somehow to me it seems much more appealing, and normal, to drape my sweaty torso over a complete stranger in a proper setting than to give a dear friend a hug.

The nature of forced sociability

INFJ. According to the Myers Briggs personality test (loosely based on Jung) I fit into the following four boxes, if its a black-or-white sort of classification: intuitive, introverted, feeling, and judging...I.N.F.J. As far as grid-like breakdowns of human nature are concerned, I feel this is satisfactorily accurate in describing "me". I work from the gut, I function from the heart, I trust too much, love too hard, think that people are more often "good" than not, hold grudges when someone lets me down, believe that everyone CAN find fulfillment in work, and live with the expectation that if I just wait long enough I will find mine. I think a lot and talk only when prompted or when I feel I have reached my own conclusion or state of comfortability with my standpoint. When I was a child I was SO shy I refused to answer questions like " what is your name?" or " how old are you?" and wouldn't commit to any academic answer I wasn't one hundred percent certain of.
Funny then, that I should choose teaching as my profession. The teacher is always on display, always performing, needing to be on key and quick-witted, able to improvise and exhibit unconditional patience and genuine interest. I often think about how I morphed my INFJ personality into that of an enthusiastic teacher. I know first-hand that it takes a great deal of energy that must be brought to the table every day, and requires a certain degree of commitment to this end.
I never verbalized this concept, but it all became clear quite recently by the words of my uncle, a fellow educator, and is essentially this (and I paraphrase) :the nature of the career (of teaching) is one of forced social interaction on a daily basis. At the end of a long day of teaching, the last thing the educator wants to do is talk or socialize.
Ironically I'm only now realizing that the task of coffee wench-ing for the socialites is quite a parallel task. All day long I am forced to socialize, accommodate, bolster egos, and appreciate. I absorb idiotic flattery from men three times my age, smile patiently when women demand, object, and belittle.
Then I get home and shut myself in my own introvert's hole. And I wonder, does forced socialization allow the introvert to feign relationships and/or interaction? In forced social situations are people ever able to connect with others? Does this sort of interaction detract from the motivation to form real and deep relationships?

To be continued....