ouain's Xanga

Call for responsibility

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 10:03:57 GMT

I need that pressure, that deadline, that oh-so-close-but-just-in-the-nick-of-time feeling to get me motivated to do unpleasant academic business--namely, grant proposals and conference papers. Hard deadlines are not as numerous for me being in grad school, just mainly the big ones: qualifying papers and methods requirement. But even then, actual protocol in the department is generalizable in one simple gesture accompanied by a gutteral sound: a shurg and an "ehh" or "whatever." Ever since the wedding from last week, I've been playing this game of catch up with course work and the grant proposal that I haven't been writing but that I knew was lingering somewhere. For coursework, my seminars had me reading another difficult reading about theorizing culture and me presenting in the other seminar. The reading for the first seminar wasn't that bad, it just took me an eternity to finish the twenty-some odd pages. Basically, locating culture is difficult since it is in this liminal, in-between space between the observer/interpellator and the agent of focus. As for the presentation, that got placed on the backburner on the weekend since I had to fill out the grant application. It's a real long-shot, I proof read it once, shown it to no faculty or anyone else. I didn't know writing six pages of what I think I want to study and my own life would be so time consuming. I always find writing a self-relfecting story the most difficult because I don't want to sound like the pretentious prick who knows everything and deserves special privilege. But that's what the grant was about, privileging one segment of the population over others. The presentation was worst-case scenario: me trying to rehash the articles that I did not read as closely as I should have. Prof. Smiles helped me out with her her stories and her direction of how the presentation should have been structured, however somehow the clock ran out of time and that was over. Of the all the chaos, I did grasp her own article that she assigned and I offered no critiques of it whatsoever; surprisingly, she offered some shortcomings of her own work. Meanwhile, in applying for that grant and putting-in a half-assed effort, I had to ask for letters of recommendations from faculty. I hate that part: begging, waiting for confirmation/rejection, and then not knowing what they wrote. I asked my old undergrad advisor, she said yes and then suggested that I apply to a conference held next year in Texas and then mentioned to form a panel if possible. On top of contacting faculty, now I have to contact random strangers to see if our topics match or if they don't, how well one can bullsh*t the panel topic to somehow tie in all the panelists. I think I know why academics are (usually) comfortable talking about themselves: because they have to apply for these grants which probably demands personal statements and apply to conferences which force them to network and continually reintroduce and explain themselves. The sad part about that is what if you, the applicant for the grant or the conference, begin to the believe the garbage you submit. Then you might begin to believe in your written descriptions of your inflated-egoistic self. which I find most disturbing.

Sneaking

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 07:37:54 GMT

Plane ticket in hand, I was able to escape Pleasantville for the (extended) weekend. With wedding bells ringing for one of my cousins, I had to miss colloquium of the first mock job talk of the academic year. I wasn't able to see the end result of something that I had a small part in, but at least I got to leave home temporarily. Taking the red-eye flight, we arrived just before 6am. The flight was fine, I just couldn't sleep. For me, home is not a conducive place to work. Productivity escaped me, the readings for Prof Smiles and my other seminar were put on the back burner. The next day was the wedding in the 'burbs of the City. Maman being Maman, we were running late to the wedding ceremony. We just snuck in before the ceremony finished. The whole complex had a greenhouse-like ceiling, allowing sunlight even from a rainy day to permeate the room. The room was intimate where you can see everyone and everyone could see you. The minister, cracking jokes, proceeded and the couple was wed. Upon exiting, the wedding party followed. Then the family saw my family and then the problems of remembering who was who with what name began. Immediately after, hors d'oeurves were served next door. I remembered the bride's family (duh) and what they looked like and a few others, but everyone else either looked familiar or similar. Some of the uncles and aunties looked exactly the way I remembered them, unfortunately I could only remember a handful of their names. I had to pester one of my other cousins to ask what so-and-so's name was that I would later jumble up. They apparently remember my name, I had to go with a generic "uncle/auntie" title. Apparently, I have nephews and nieces, making me feel really old. Maman said that one of the uncles had extensive contacts in the motherland since he was a "big shot." I didn't know how to talk to him, so when the party ended, I talked to him to ask if he knew anyone back there and snuck in a business card. He was very reserved. However his wife was very open and optimistic and said yes, they knew people. Networking at a wedding, yuck. Meanwhile, Maman was looking to sneak over to the dance floor with the other aunties. The ceremony ended at 6, but saying goodbyes extended our stay at the reception. Leaving the reception in the torrential rain, sneaking out was a slow process with the flooding and the detours directed by the GPS. I'd fly out the next day, getting through security relatively fast, and eventually sneak in back to campus to quickly get back into work. Monday was fast approaching on me and little time to catch up.

So many holidays, so many choices, so little cash

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:35:59 GMT

In this society, mothers have a few special days to laud their existence and importance. Mothers' Day is a day to celebrate motherhood and is primarily dedicated to those women who are parents, naturally. This holiday in May is all their own, not shared with fathers (Fathers' Day) or grandparents (Grandparents' Day) or trees (Arbor Day). Additionally, many families celebrate the birthdays of these mothers. Birthdays, just like Mothers' Day, place the celebrant as the center of attention, to be praised, thanked, and celebrated. Birthdays are celebrations that typically you don't have to share with another person (unless you decide to have a joint-party). For those who celebrate an annual gift-giving holiday sometime in the winter, that is a holiday which often times the entire family celebrates. At least for my Mom, she has another day of celebration: my birthday. Why are birthdays in this society centered around the person born? I didn't do any of the work involved--from planning to execution. I see my birthday as the complement to Mothers' Day. Thus, my Mom has four holidays where I have to produce some sign of loveappitude (love, appreciation, and gratitude). If Mom was an egalitarian person, perhaps she would throw me a bone and "donate" one of her holidays to back to the calendar with the rest of the non-holiday bunch. But Mom isn't and her soft power--primarily nagging and inflicting guilt--are very effective. So, thank you, Hallmark, for making my wallet go on a diet; and thank you, materlialism, for equating gift-giving with loveappitude.

So, what do I give Mom? Each year, Mothers' Day happens in the middle of the year with the remaining three holidays scrunched together in the tail-end of the year. I'm running out of photos that I typically cobble together and repackage in various medium--albums, posters, collages. That's been done. But Mom's tastes are too expensive for my budget. When Mom visited me in France for Turkey Day on year, we went to the Galleries Layfayette to visit Louis Vuitton. Spending hours at the boutique and seeing the exorbitant prices and the hordes of tourists who were primarily from Eastern Europe and from Asia, our ideas of fun were not congruent. I can't afford that nor would I want to splurg on that. So what tangible item do I give a person that I can't afford? And how do I vary the gifts between now and Xmas? Blaming "culture" will not resolve my double problem of a lack of money and a lack of ideas; but blaming our skimpy salaries is very therapeutic.

[Sidenote: I decided to buy Mom a bouquet of flowers < http://products.proflowers.com/flowers/JoyfulBouquet-41213?viewpos=12&trackingpgroup=iri&ref=organicgglbrand&pagesplit= > and some perfume from Yves Saint Laurent < http://www.yslbeautyus.com/womens-fragrance/c36/index.html >. Apparently, there is a hierarchy of perfume: eau de toillette, eau de cologne, and eau de parfum. I opted for the more concentrated choice - eau de parfum. So I bought four different versions that I think she never tried before but I hope she'll like at least one of them: Opium, Elle (Her or She in English), Nu, and Cinema. Secretly, I'm hoping that she doesn't enjoy the Opium perfume too much for I'd be mortified if I got Mom hooked on Opium.]

Second time around

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 06:26:14 GMT

No longer a first-year, second-year of grad school has been a lot more bearable and enjoyable. Getting the rules of the game (of grad school) down, check. Figuring out what seminars to take and which crazy faculty to avoid, check. Knowing people the in the department and the school in generally, check. Last year, I had vague memories of some of the grad students from recruitment upon arrival in late September. Lugging those malettas and trying to find my new apartment were troublesome. Getting used to "reading" academic literature was at times painful. Trying to remember how to write a paper quickly was arduous. This year, there was no big move, skimming literature replaced reading it, and I accepted that I can't write papers in a timely manner anymore, so instead I have to plan to write earlier. The summer here on campus was peaceful, virtually stress-less, and devoid of people. Once the first day of classes rolled around, people were to be seen, greeted, and feted. This feels like returning back to France for the second time: the novelty of crossing over the Pond is gone, but the familiarity of landing at CDG-Roissy and knowing how to navigate the SNCF and métro took precedence. My return to France was also easier: I knew what to expect of the culture (the joie de vie), the language (the grossiétés), and the food (la cuisine exceptionnelle). In Haute-Normandie, I knew how to make a joke and how generally the French function; in Tours, I was still learning the language and learning the hard way that not having a mobile (cell) phone is detrimental to having a social life. Here at school as a second-year, I can look back and smirk at the mistakes and missteps along with the good times, and somehow see them as a humorous time. Seminars are simply repositories of time that can be useful (which is a rarity), but instead are just talking-shops with bull-sh*t wafting in the air. TAing is an exercise in patience and fortitude--its real challenge is to make it interesting and end quickly for yourself. Faculty interaction is the lingering real challenge; how do you get along with these idiot savants? As a second-year, I'm under the radar: the faculty and the grad students are directing attention at the first-years; the faculty are trying to boot out the upperclassmen asap; meanwhile, we just have to produce a glorified term paper eventually. The nebulous unknown of grad school has dissipated, no eyes are on me. Less burdened than last year, more focused this year (I hope).

Stereotypically useless

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 04:50:59 GMT

Field work has had its moments, such as seeing people involved in community work and having their reasons why they continually serve their community. However, not all those allegedly involved in the community are actually involved. I strolled into the offices of an organization purported to be the go-to-organizations of all organizations involved with the community. I spoke with a person who described herself as a vice-president of the organization. She suggested to come back next week and then encouraged me to speak to the random people in the building. The following week, I saw the same woman who told me that the officers were busy talking about a funding raising activity regarding a beauty pageant (typical). The VP wasn't willing to talk about her organization. I asked her flat out if she was busy and she quipped with a "yes" as she laid back in her chair. She was busy watching the door and was too busy not to answer questions about the organization she was involved in. A gentleman that was beside her, possibly a friend or a spouse, verbally prodded her to simply talk to me about the organization or at least get someone in the meeting to meet with me. She chastised him, saying that their work regarding the fund raising pageant was important. I was angry because she didn't bother to tell me that the officers were busy at this time and she didn't want to speak about the organization. Flash forward the following week, I came back to the same place. I sat there, she acknowledges me and tells me that a general meeting with some of the members would be a little late. A gentleman strolls in, happily greets the VP and talk and discuss. The VP, with glee in her voice, tells the new guy about the new, artificial flowers that she got for the organization. Ten minutes later, the new guy acknowledges me; I give him my meager credentials and he invites me to the office that I wasn't allowed to enter last week. We begin talking and I realize that he embodies all the stereotypes about the politics that happens among fellow countrymen: corrupt and shady. The gentleman wouldn't tell me the purpose of the organization, why he and his friends ran for the executive board, and their platform. He was quick to criticize the evicted e-board, but he couldn't tell me about the plans for their term in office. He then asked me for ideas for the organization to get more people involved. I wanted to call them out. They seemed to only look for the title, the fame and all the publicity, but there is questionable motives. Despite its name, that organization, or at least the leadership, was inutile and dirtying the name of the countrymen they supposedly represent.

Free pass

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 03:36:21 GMT

Summer has been enjoyable, relaxing, relatively unproductive--basically a genuine summer. I began going to the City of Angels to do some preliminary field work. Getting there by public transportation is feasible but a little constricting. They do have a train from my area to the City running hourly, about the same type and cost as a TGV; they also have a less expensive, supposedly more regional line virtually running to the City in the morning and only returning at night. The regional line, akin to the TER, is cheaper and has a few more stops. What I initially didn't understand is why do they only run to and from the City (from my place) during rush hour? I boarded the train and saw it virtually empty. I was expecting full seats, some commuters standing; instead, sparse people traffic was apparent. On top of that, the main line and regional line only differed about 20 minutes and they shared many of the stops. On the double-decker train, it reminded me of the TER trains along the PACA line (Provence-Cote-d'Azur) except that there were no vistas of the Mediterranean to stare at. These train tracks cut through the suburbs and smaller cities of this area and eventually through the industrial sites encompassing the City. Not once on the train did the conductor check the ticket (either direction). Is it because that there are hardly any riders that there is no point in validating the tickets? Then why do we even bother buying the tickets? Arriving in the City, the subway was surprisingly free as well. No gates barring free-riders, it was just weird. The metro had the long escalators and roundish tunnels and cleanliness of D.C. mixed with the free access of Berlin.

I felt extremely comfortable riding the metro and the train. I felt less comfortable talking to complete strangers and asking them why they do what they do and so forth. Saying that you're the same ethnicity only goes so far. The planned meetings with people did not go as smoothly as the spontaneous, accidental ones. But, it was refreshing to see these people in their element. I stumbled upon one ground haphazardly looking for another organization. It turns out that that organization was no longer there, but the people were more than willing to entertain questions. By looking at the banner, I though it was a drug recovery self-help organization. However, after poking and prodding, I later found out that they were training to be counselors and they were not the offenders that I originally and mistakenly assumed they were.

I had my business cards ready and my pen and paper. By telling people that I'm a graduate student, I felt that any organization was approachable and that I can somehow finagle my way to talk to someone. As if my business cards removed any inhibitions of approaching people or walking through seedy neighborhoods.

No Donnie, not now

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 03:47:45 GMT

Prof Die Hard and I entered the classroom. I took a seat in the front. A heavy-set student, Meatloaf sat two seats to the right. Lecture began prompting students to copy down notes or type them in one's laptop. I glance over to Meatloaf's computer and see him checking his e-mail accounts and read other websites. I tried being obvious without being vocal by simply staring at the screen instead of the white board. Prof Die Hard noticed and the students directly behind me noticed except Meatloaf himself. Meatloaf would only type notes that Prof Die Hard would write on the board and then switch back to his web browser. I thought for a moment how to get him to stop. Tapping him and then whispering to simply stop may draw too much attention since we were in the front. Staring was not working. So I wrote a short note:

Do you mind not surfing the Internet to read about Donny Darko [sic]? (Especially when one is front and center and sitting next to the TA.)

Now I realize that I misspelled "Donnie" and those parenthesis should be before the question mark. But I was incensed at Meatloaf's behavior of blatant disrespect. I hate it when I am presenting or speaking in front of class and people are happily and busily reading something else on a computer screen or even reading the newspaper. Where is the basic sense of respect to someone who is talking to you? I equate a presentation as to someone speaking directly to me. Wouldn't it be rude for someone who is talking directly to me while I'm reading a book right in front of them, avoiding eye contact because one is occupied with reading the latest e-mail? Is it my fault that you're bored in class? Fine, be bored but why must you have a laptop? It's one thing to be bored and doze in and out with just a pen and a sheet of paper; it's another thing to be bored and to find a suitable substitute to do something else. Having a short attention span and having problems concentrating on lecture doesn't lessen the rudeness you are demonstrating.

I tapped Meatloaf's arm twice and passed the note and then fixed my attention at Prof. Die Hard lecturing meanwhile keeping aware of Meatloaf via my peripheral vision. He read it and tried to hand it back to me; I ignored him like he was ignoring lecture. He placed the note faced up on the seat between us. He closed the Donnie Darko page on Wikipedia but still kept his e-mail accounts open. Whenever we would jump from one country to another (e.g. Indonesia to Burma), he would pull up that respective country's Wikipedia page as if to show me that he wasn't bull-sh*tting on the laptop. I would occasionally glare at his screen when he was checking his e-mail accounts to give a signal to him that I'm still watching. He tried to turn the screen away from my sight and even tried to hide the web browser window, however I always had a good view of the screen and his browsing. We broke midway through lecture and he immediately began surfing online. He got up and threw away the note. I was hoping for Meatloaf to leave it so I can show Prof. Die Hard, but that didn't happen. Will he complain to Prof. Die Hard? If so, what's he going to say? "The TA was rude because he said I shouldn't be surfing online during lecture."

"Beggin'"

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 03:51:50 GMT

"Beggin', beggin' you
Put your loving hand out baby
Beggin', beggin' you
Put your loving hand out darlin'"

--Who's interested in splitting the cost of new software? Any takers for the multi-pack?

"I'm fighting hard
To hold my own
No, I just can't make it
All alone"

--There's no need to buy the multi-pack, there's no limit to installing it from one single disk.

"Beggin', beggin' you
Put your loving hand out baby
Beggin', beggin' you
Put your loving hand out darlin'"

--How much am I willing to rip-off this company that I've been extremely satisfied with since 2006?

"I'm holdin on
I can't fall back
Now that big brass ring
Is a shade of black"

--Selling my soul for five bucks here and there?

The fortnight via the 7

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 05:18:41 GMT

I'd typically make the annual pilgrimage to Flushing, just adjacent to Shea Stadium, the home of the Mets. On the 7, the subway would begin underground in Manhattan and snake its way through above ground through Queens. On the way, various heights of buildings peppered the urban landscape: occasional patches of graffiti; signs written in Hangul displaying advertisements of the local community; billboards at each of the subway stations displaying ads for the US Open.

Shea was to the right; Corona Park and the US Open were to the left. The boardwalk, laced with billboards of the tennis superstars hawking their sponsors: Nike, Heineken, Rolex, Lacoste. This tournament marked the end of summer, embedding Labor Day weekend in its fortnight. I prefer to go later in the first week where you have matches crammed back-to-back with a healthy mix of tennis of all calibers spread out across the whole grounds. On the outside courts, you can see up close and personal the sweat, the glory, the defeat. Television does not do sports justice. Witnessing tennis, or any sport for that matter, is completely different live, in person.

An ideal day would involve queuing up around 10am, lunch and snacks in hand, waiting for the gates to open promptly at 11am. Then, heading directly for the Grandstand court and perching in the front, just behind the baseline. The Grandstand court offers shade to one-forth of the spectators, has a good number of seating, but isn't too large. Everyone has a great seat and you get the intimacy of an outside court. On the Grandstand, night matches are even more electric than their daylight counterparts. If only the main stadium, Arthur Ashe, wasn't so gargantuan, expensive, easily exploitable by scalpers, and prone to nose-bleeds.

For two weeks, tennis headlines the New York Times. Tennis is relevant in the US' sport psyche. These two weeks are also the last time this continent will host a tennis tournament until the following March. Boisterous crowds who happily yell out calls declaring the ball in or out; the flood lights beaming across the grounds, dispelling any shadows lurking around the courts; the 7 subway train continually running non-stop between here and Times Square

Younger, stronger, faster

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 03:02:11 GMT

Public transportation is not automatically a headache for me, I do prefer it to driving most of the times, especially in urban areas. Whether it be a subway train hauling commuters and tourists around a city or a modern TGV train run by the SNCF (in France) traveling between the regions or even within the Continent, traveling by a mode of transport gives me time to do something else. Here in this state, driving is apart of the "culture" of this society. Locals give the same hybrid look of astonishment and peculiarity when you reveal that you do not own a car here, as if it's virtually impossible to have a viable lively life here.

Finally, I have applied for a rental car service that is popular among universities and that has respectable prices to rent a car per hour. Membership is free (for us) and signing up involves logging-on. I had to get my sole tennis racquet re-strung since it popped the previous Friday. I originally had this racquet since studying abroad in Tours five years ago. There, as one of foreign undergrads, I signed up for intramurals and was lucky enough to play on the red clay. I didn't master sliding on the red dirt, though after awhile I would get the hang of it (sometimes). I remember the red clay simply being more demanding on the body than a hard court.

Fast-forward to Pleasantville: I was running laps around the baseball field because I was too get out of bed and hit the gym in the morning. Afterwards, I headed to the neighboring tennis courts to practice serving. [I need to get my feel back so I can actually beat one of the cohort for once!] There, a solo player approached me and asked, "How good are you?" He went on to describe briefly that his hitting partner had been M.I.A. I said I wouldn't mind hitting with him for a couple minutes. A couple minutes turned into a good thirty minutes. This phantom player, a man of little words, had plenty of top spin who glided across the court. I felt amateurish and tried my best to stay in the points. He didn't seem to get tired, which was simply crazy. I was winded many times. Though for a couple rallies, my forehand was becoming somewhat more reliable and dependable. I wasn't sure how much more I could take of this intense workout, but I was relishing the great hitting that was happening. Then I went to hit a backhand and the string popped, prematurely ending the session for him. He wasn't on the school's tennis team, I'm not sure if he's playing in one of the amateur leagues, but he's definitely an avid player. This was reminiscent of one of the times during a hitting session in France where I played someone younger than me who knew the game inside-out. Her placement and movement revealed my lack of fitness, but it was a great to simply hit the ball. Hitting with either of these two opponents--past and present--dashed away any fantasy of me playing on the pro-circuit. The professionals make it so easy; if you're huffing and puffing after the rallies, you can't cut it with the experts on the court.