Take Off

(January 7, posted belatedly)

Through the airplane window I watch snow lap up over the airport, covering car and airplane etchings on the white ground. After being taxied to the de-icing station and sprayed with Christmas colored solutions over the steel airplane frame, my plane roars and breaks into the sky.

AWEsome. These incredibly heavy machines fly thousands of feet above the earth, to new places so comfortably and quickly. Here I am with my snacks, cushioned seat, movie, and stewardesses pulling snacks and drinks down the aisle. In less than 24 hours I will be thousands of miles away. How could such a heavy object have lifted itself into the air and brought me from here to there?

My grandfather says that this time is magic. His curiosity reminds me of how little the common man (myself) knows about the devices used these days, being limited to user interface, buttons, or wheels (unless you’re Tron and you’re actually IN the COMPUTER). He was curious about my digital camera and computer, asking how they work, to which I replied…

“Pixels.”

…not to be confused with Pixies. What about airplanes? Aerodynamics/Pixy Dust. Computers? Microchips/Special Lava. Cars? Combustion/Prayer. The Internet? CSS/ Html/001110101110/It’s-a-mystery.

Technology has cut/stripped distance between people; connection is absolutely instant; we can have it NOW (5 seconds is too slow). Nowadays, we have Internet Explorer. Google provides pictures and tours of areas all over the world. Famous architecture, cities, and terrain can be seen by each and every one of us through the inter-web!

But an entire profession has been lost: a true explorer. As said to Truman (The Truman Show) when desperately wanting to leave the island, “Actually, everything has already been explored.”

What must have it felt like to unlock the treasures of the Louisiana Purchase for the first time? Or, to saddle up and drag your family out west? Or, to hop on a boat and end up in the cold winters of New England? To go to the jungles of Africa? These people were CRAZY and willing to risk their lives to see something new and live a different life. People drew beautiful maps speculating how the world must look. Now we have views from the (freaking) moon.

You don’t have to be insane anymore, or crazy. If you save up some money and get some time off, you can go. You can do it.

Between airplanes and the Internet alone, it’s amazing how much of a genius man can be.

***Airport Interlude ***

On a very different note, one knows they are in the Houston airport when one spots a Fox News themed gift store not far from middle aged adults grouped with youth and carrying backpacks (a.k.a. MISSIONS TRIP). At this very moment I’m watching their Jansported backs walk away from me. Earlier I was searching for kiosks and stores at which to break down my $20 bills into smaller bills and was asked by a friendly kiosk-man,

“You must be going out of the country. Where are you going?”

“Ecuador.”

“Is it a mission?”

To botch up a quote from Elf, “What’s a mission? I want one!”

***Airport Interlude: End; Enter Airplane Thoughts ***

The sky just pulled back to reveal the blue Mediterranean sea below my plane. I hadn’t been expecting it so soon. There was a tiny opening act of Texas farmland followed by smog before our cloud floor dropped out. It’s beautiful up here. Our captain is rotating between Spanish and English. There is a Chinese couple sitting next to me and they were asking how to count in Spanish. I’m worried for them, looks they they’re in for a rougher language ride than I.

There’s only four hours between me and America del Sur. I never purchase wine alone when traveling through airports or on airplanes, but I just did.

Bostonian Eyes on New York City

(January 5th, posted belatedly)

Whenever I travel through New York City someone is always there to greet me, asking for money. Penn Station is the headquarters, hosting people just waiting for a young college kid or business person to pass their way. My Northface pink (cherry) jacket must say something about my seeming kindness or maybe it’s my bangs and friendly reddish hair. Or does my large Osprey backpack or black side bag screams ATM?

I should be kinder, $1.00 or $.50 from my wallet isn’t really a big deal, but having worked in the world of Social Work I tend to say “no”. Knowing all the social work organizations available, it’s the principle that bothers me. Also, after commuting through Boston for over 2 ½ years and only being asked for money once or twice, it is incredible and almost humorous that the few times I’ve traveled through Penn Station this past month I’ve been questioned.

After my clash with a money-asker, I sat and stared with my Bostonian eyes at the New Yorkers as I waited for my train to Monclair, NJ. A group of high school boys were buying train tickets for their friends, arguing with thick Jersey accents over the price. Businessmen yawned and grimaced, racing by with their side bags, one man chomping on a huge soft pretzel. Young giggling girls sprinted to their train, one colliding with a sleepy man walking casually through the station. I noticed a woman with a green knitted hat resembling some kind of animal with 2 googily eyes, while more business people invaded the corridor. As I went to my train, everyone seemed to be racing me down the stairs, flying by. A little girl with a shiny golden winter coat whirled herself down the train aisle, gripping her father’s hands as he guided her to her seat.

The train conductor collected tickets from us,

“Hey, everybody good?”

“Yeah, how you doing?”

“That’s what I’m talkin about. They had a fatality on here around 4:00. Hopefully they got it cleaned up - Upper Monclair.”

In Boston, the person may have responded, “Hanging in there” and the conductor may not have casually mentioned a fatality. Commuters stand respectfully at North Station staring into space, waiting for their respective trains. They march down and up the stairs to their subways. They wear dark pea coats, solid colors or tartan and don’t normally accessorize with googily eyes or shiny gold.

However, when I first arrived to New York City on my Bolt Bus I was hit by energy somewhat absent in Boston. Heading into the long glowing skyline strikes up inspiration in me – those ginormous buildings loaded with people and lights. The moment I stepped off the bus there was the Empire State Building down the street to my right, lit up in red and green. Billboards 6 or 7 stories high lined 34th street advertising Foot Action and Forever 21. Like a younger sibling New York City flashes its charming teethy grin and presses your buttons, containing a youthful energy not replicated anywhere else.

Just don’t come asking me for money, okay?

An Opportunity

When your eyes are open just enough you finally see an opportunity rise out of the ground, on the horizon. Majestic and powerful, he will take you with him, lifting you out of the routine you've lived in for so long. Here he comes with his big wings spread, get ready to jump into his claws. He's not going to hurt you, but he may scratch you a bit because his claws are not very soft. Up you go, higher than an airplane or a rainbow, or a dream, he takes you, soaring through cumulus clouds and spots of orange sunset light.

Ah! His furry claws tickle a little bit, causing you to laugh as the adrenaline speeds through your veins, to your fingertips. You are almost flying yourself, yet helpless without his powerful wings navigating the sky. And he is beautiful, this creature that you had never imagined because your mind can't create to the extent that it ought to. His wings are bright blue with a stunning palette of shades, muddled with gold speckles and green splotches burning like embers in a passionate fire. The undercoat of his wings are all you see above you. His golden claws grip you and you hang, legs dangling like flower petals or leaves. you don't know what you did to deserve this ride, astounded by the new perspective you now have on the land. Its vastness overwhelms you, and how small it makes you feel, but how exciting is it all! You even let out a loud cry to the bird, attempting to communicate joy in the way you know best.

Hello world! How big you are! I am discovering you in every direction and all I can see are areas unknown to me.

And you don't want to close your eyes because the landscape is so glorious.

Turns out the opportunity has a destination in mind, unfortunately you can't be in the sky forever gripped in his royal hand. After awhile the ground begins to come towards you. The houses and people settle around you and you need to leave the opportunity's claws. Now the investigation begins. What is this new place and why does it feel so strange? What is strange about it? The adventure stops and you realize you have so much work ahead of you. Now you have to comprehend your surroundings as if it were a research project.

Where am I? Where was I taken? All I see are Xs and Ys and I can't seem to do the equation very well and don't know the answers.

And like research, you must be proactive and study. Set a hypothesis and find evidence or clues. Set goals.

As you live in this new place you find you are growing taller and you're surprised by how many sections of your brain had never been explored. You can feel them become alive like a lite-brite, forming different pictures of what you'd like to be, solidifying convictions.

All around you has become new and although you hadn't recognized it, you let it take you.

Scotlandia

I am now enclosed inside a time warp with my grandparents in Scotland. They’re talking in the living room while I’m in the kitchen here, dwelling. I can hear my grandfather commenting negatively here and there, hollering about this and that. When he came in to grab something he asked me if I had a hair dryer and informed me I would get head rheumatics with wet hair. At the moment I can hear him going on about when people used to have their fires inside the houses and that they were often not very careful. This is a common theme for him, as most people never seem to have their heads on straight. I certainly don’t, for I left my camera on the living room coffee table the other night and someone could’ve broken in to get.

My Gran has a lovely way of telling a story, capped with a little giggle at the end. At the moment she’s recollecting how birds would build nests in the chimney causing the smoke to come inside. Granda compliments the story by talking about the unbelievable amount of tree parts and papers that the birds would manage to find and create their homes with, followed by Gran being reminiscent of how cozy the fire was. She has been making our stomachs feel quite cozy, inundating us with her apple tart, ice cream, meat, mashed potatoes, overcooked vegetables and toast loaded with butter and homemade marmalade. It’s a wonder how her blood pressure can be so healthy, I wonder if her veins are actually strengthened by all the strengthening fat that they receive.

In the way of food, Granda is now asking about the meal that we went out for last night. Apparently, they’ve been forever advertising about eating places in Glasgow. However, trying to explain Persian food is like trying to tell a fish about trees. My mom pursues it, trying to explain Naan, rice and the “creamy sauces” that they use.

“Get away!” says my Granda as my Grandma’s giggle pops the ceiling, “Did you like it?” he asks. His curiosity reminds me of all the things of the outside world that we should try to describe for them. The world has changed so much since they’ve walked around in it.

“Persian….” he says under his breath, allowing the words to slowing melt into his mind.

This is only a brief window of contemplation before the conversation meanders back to other depressing current events, including how people on the internet misuse information and you should certainly never give your personal information over the phone, as they’ve been told.

“The things they’re up to is terrible.” Gran almost gasps.

“Aye, and we don’t know the half of it Sarah… we don’t know the half of it…” Granda solemnly notes.

My grandparents really look stunning for their age, in their thick knitted sweaters always dressed properly for the day. My Gran still wears nylons under her woolen navy pants, though she has to cut them at the knee because half her leg is wrapped in gauze due to a cellulitis infection. She also makes sure to wear her little nylon socks over her wrapped feet. My Grandfather sits regally in his red Celtic suspenders with golden clasps, complementing the striped purple and navy polo t-shirt underneath and thick navy sweater overtop. He wears thick brown slippers, put up on a small soft green footstool as he does his crosswords and reads his books. Both have just the right amount of frailty and health that somehow bring a wise and happy presence. Though their bodies fail them a bit at times, their minds couldn’t be better, hanging on to the stubborn independent thinking that has carried them on for so many years. As a perfect example of this, I can hear my mother yell in the kitchen:

“WE’RE NOT TALKING LOW. YOU’RE GOING DEAF.”

We all can endure their independence with a little humor, satisfied that they are the same as they always have been though accumulated years that are more than twice my lifetime. They continue to exercise their minds with much reading and when we are stumped about some piece of history we can certainly ask my grandfather, who will give us a wonderful explanation of the particulars of the situation.

Now I see that the snowflakes have arrived after much speculation. Here they come, softly drifting down from the cloudy sky. Although we may feel a bit enclosed at times, there is a magical quality that exists between the constant commentary and storytelling that I like very much.

Castles and Pockets

Harvard Square magically lights up at night like my old Polly Pocket kingdom.

Inside the heart-shaped plastic case I would find a tiny little castle, lit up streetlights and a princess. Tiny Polly stood in her plastic spot on the “ground”, next to her horse and carriage with the prince positioned into the yonder grass colored plastic.

What a creator I was, moving her around that little kingdom, not to mention her other “pockets”, including a kitchen scene, the beach, and a couple other house-like or neighborhood settings. If you google her name, you’ll see what I mean.

Intimate and intricate, these little settings grew an imagination in me. I could control Polly’s movements and create a storyline for her and her friends. One minute they would be in the kitchen, proceed to the living room, suddenly it’s bedtime, or perhaps a boy would knock on the door unexpectedly catching all the day’s plans off guard. Two friends might even get into a disagreement over who gets to ride the horse (whose stable happens to reside in the house as well).

But I no longer create a world for this plastic princess.

In my current world, I hit Harvard station at 8:21 and step on an escalator for 53 seconds, remaining to the right so the esca-walkers can pass me. At the top, a man with a weathered face offers me a Metro “newspaper” which advertises tragedy and gossip everyday. The two seconds it takes to reach out and grab it is too much. A second escalator lifts me out of the underground, focusing Harvard Square for me. Is it raining up there?

Raindrops sometimes sleep on the skylights above, snoozing off rising into the sky again. Sometimes the flaky snow is flirting with the wind, forcing me to bundle my jacket more tightly and ignore their careless dancing, though the romance makes me feel warmer inside. Other times, the morning light gently pulls up the corners of my mouth. Brick escorts my feet, while also holding up a homeless man and his dog, college students and magazine vendors. In the winter, Peacoated and North Faced people walk by me, while side bags and backpacks are hugging the backs and shoulders in the same way that children cling to their parents or ride their father’s shoulders.

Harvard University lights up like a scholastic castle once the sun has set again.

It’s one world that I see and at the end of the day I return home to another one. I tromp through the grass in the square in front of the Post Office. Far away from the scholastic castle I find rest in this place I’ve learned to call home. But for how much longer will that still be true. Both will be dropped soon, left behind as soon as I step on that plane.

The lid will be pulled down on both, with a strong clicking sound.

Language Logic

I know a man who has one friend.

Does he honestly just have one friend, or does he have a friend? Maybe he really does have one friend (which would make him one/a lonely man). The misuse of a, an, the or one are pandemic among students, resulting in unfortunate shifts in meaning. Even more, if we want to talk about the man (that we just mentioned) a second time, we must specify by using the to point him out.

Prepositions are also complicated, as well as using count and noncount nouns. For example:

I brush my hair, not my hairs. I always enjoy milk in my coffee, not a milk, along with some sugar, not many sugars. My house has a couch, not just couch, and even more, that man up there - he doesn’t have friend, he has a friend (and maybe just one friend).

I hadn’t known those terms before I began teaching. Little do you know, but I just used the past perfect tense (had + past participle) which consistently blows students’ minds. I had eaten breakfast this morning and then I had gone to the train. Now, in that sentence the tense is misused, for we can only use it before another action that happened in the past. It’s more complicated than you had thought (right?). Perhaps it was more complicated than you had thought before you realized it was complicated. But more likely you just hadn’t thought it was as complicated as it is.

Often I find mistakes such as:

She have a sex mouth.
I am boring in class.
You went to the movies, weren’t you?
After Boston I come back to my country.
I am living in the Boston.

Have you ever thought about how “everyone” is considered singular? Or, why can we say “I go home” but can’t say “I go school”? How do we automatically know the difference between “it could be”, “it might be”, “it should be” and “it has to be”? How do we immediately know that “I considered to go” is wrong and that “I considered going” correct?

We also know that “read” in the past is pronounced like the color, yet “read” in the present is pronounced like the plant. We know that we ARE 26 years old, we don’t HAVE 26 years old. And even more astonishing, we can state perfectly that we are interested in, excited for, and are thinking about. We can recollect that we went to bed at 11, we didn’t necessarily sleep at 11. Moreover, we know that we can break up with a boyfriend, break out in a rash, break in new shoes, and even take a break when we’re tired. We also know that we’re tired, not tiring.

Modals, gerunds, infinitives, and the future perfect were all terms that I had no knowledge of before teaching grammar. But now I can confidently spew out all sorts of grammatical terms that would make any English speaker zone out. It’s like learning the inner workings of the human body, a car, or even mother nature.

But the major problem is that language is only mostly consistent. Students desperately desire to label grammar rules with “always” or “never”, but there are always exceptions and always things that they will never be able to express from their own language.

“We just don’t say it that way in English.”

That is all I can offer them, for any language must be learned purely as is. Constant translation only leads to frustration, as one tries with all their might to punch that language into the way they are most comfortable thinking. This is why children are the language prodigies. Their minds are so eager to absorb everything around them, the wires in their brains still malleable.

Each language is so closely tied to its culture and the unique way that each society thinks about things. English pops with so many different kinds of words that capture the tiniest contours and shifts in meaning. I could say that I am happy, or I could say that I am elated, excited, content, well-pleased, joyful, merry, cheerful or satisfied. Each would connote a different meaning and require an appropriate tone or context. Why do we have so many slightly different words for things? And as people have often noted, why only one word for love?

But even more than this, some things, in some ways, can often be more appreciated when taken as is. Rather than try to translate people or events into our own language of how we view life, and what they ought to mean, it is more meaningful to open the mind to possibility. Not flippantly, but in a way that helps release a creeping anxiety about the direction of our lives and the illusion of control. Sometimes life works differently than our limited understanding of it.

Yet, it’s difficult to be open when you believe that if you could figure out the rules, then things would click. In some ways, the rationalizing just needs to be turned down a bit.

An end. One end.
The end.

The Entrance

The train ride lasts for 40 minutes, clicking and gliding northward along the coastline, between marshland and smoky cities, chugging itself through towns speckled with painted wooden houses, windows televising contented families with decorated living rooms; tailored window treatments, hemmed at the bottom, hanging peacefully next to a bright bay window dissected into four or eight sections. Retired chimneys are bricked upside the house or through the center, patched up and no longer smoking. On the front, sides, and back, porches have been stitched on, waiting for company. Yet winter quiets the streets, sweeping conversation inside around kitchen tables and putting people away into their living rooms, finding them curled up in blankets and next to their heaters. Meanwhile, the characters of nature take their place for the new season, directed to their appropriate corners and dots on the floor of the earth, some suspended in the air. Autumn drops her leaves until Spring can hang them back on the branches. Winter wanders in, staring at Summer falling asleep in the right corner. All things on the stage freeze as Winter takes a breath to speak.