The conversation begins with six envelopes filled with a single letter of recommendation, one incomplete essay, and sealed high school transcripts. Contact information is indistinguishable.
I think you've missed the deadline.
Well, the difference is that you'd be eligible for scholarships for Africans, whereas someone not born in Africa wouldn't.
Do you have your financial aid document?
I hope you chose the school based on more than distance from your mother.
What do you think your mother's going through, with her baby graduating and moving out?
There's probably not a fridge in your dorm.
There is cable, but you have to bring your own tv.
Do you know the racial demographic at the college?
I'm not saying people will "go racial on you."
I'm just saying a school that is 88% white will be different from where you are now.
If your roommate is gay, he isn't going to rape you.
On that note, rapists are not synonymous with gays.
Starbucks is a type of coffee.
No, you don't have to drink coffee.
Yes, you have to buy a meal plan.
I don't know if they have Chinese.
But I'm pretty sure they'll have rice.
No, you can't have my number.
My email?
Yes.
4/23/2009
4/10/2009
por un trabajo pesado
C— has a PBR in one hand and a plastic cup with a shot of whiskey in the other. “It’s a recession special—seven bucks,” he says, and gestures wildly, nearly knocking the man behind him. “Oh, sorry, man,” C— says loudly. “Did you go to UT, too?” We’re at a University of Texas alumni happy hour in Manhattan—forty-five students are spending their spring break in New York, visiting offices and meeting internship recruiters. The man behind C— looks unsettled. “No, I just live around the block,” he says, and turns away.
C— doesn’t notice. We are discussing driving in the city, and the PBR is punctuating his thoughts. “People here don’t have cars! That’s, like, not normal,” exclaims C— He’s talking loudly, and the man from around the block can’t help but overhear. He gives C— a disapproving glance. “I think owning a car isn’t normal,” he says. “The suburbs—that’s abnormal to me.”
“Well, I’m trying to imagine if I could handle it here, without a car,” says C—. He’s planning to apply for a marketing internship in the city next year. “I imagine myself driving in a car, with the windows down, driving to the Best Buy—you can’t do that here.” C— says he wants to get into advertising—“I’m a slogan man!”—and he explains his latest idea, for Bud Lite: Por un trabajo pesado, se necesita una cerveza lijera—“For a heavy job, you need a light beer.” He writes it down, scratches out a line. “You’ll have to check the grammar for me,” he says.
Three of C—’s classmates wander over to the bar. They’re heading out, in search of a bar near their Times Square hotel. “This place is for Texans,” says one. “We’re in New York!” The bar is filled with Texas kitsch. A Lone Star flag hangs from the ceiling. Cowboy hats and cattle horns dangle on the walls. The band is playing a Willie Nelson cover. Cowboy’s ain’t easy to love/and they’re harder to hold...
C— tells me he’s always wanted to live in the Northeast. He’s lived all over—the military—and now he’s 28 and finishing up a degree at UT. “You know what turned me around? I read the Hobbit. First book I ever read in my life. From the first page to the last page—I didn’t skip nothing at all. It kept me intrigued. Bilbo! Fucking J.R.R. Tolkien shit.”
Why the Northeast, I ask. He looks at me incredulously. “I sweat a lot,” says the slogan man. “Seriously. I’m a hot individual.”
C— doesn’t notice. We are discussing driving in the city, and the PBR is punctuating his thoughts. “People here don’t have cars! That’s, like, not normal,” exclaims C— He’s talking loudly, and the man from around the block can’t help but overhear. He gives C— a disapproving glance. “I think owning a car isn’t normal,” he says. “The suburbs—that’s abnormal to me.”
“Well, I’m trying to imagine if I could handle it here, without a car,” says C—. He’s planning to apply for a marketing internship in the city next year. “I imagine myself driving in a car, with the windows down, driving to the Best Buy—you can’t do that here.” C— says he wants to get into advertising—“I’m a slogan man!”—and he explains his latest idea, for Bud Lite: Por un trabajo pesado, se necesita una cerveza lijera—“For a heavy job, you need a light beer.” He writes it down, scratches out a line. “You’ll have to check the grammar for me,” he says.
Three of C—’s classmates wander over to the bar. They’re heading out, in search of a bar near their Times Square hotel. “This place is for Texans,” says one. “We’re in New York!” The bar is filled with Texas kitsch. A Lone Star flag hangs from the ceiling. Cowboy hats and cattle horns dangle on the walls. The band is playing a Willie Nelson cover. Cowboy’s ain’t easy to love/and they’re harder to hold...
C— tells me he’s always wanted to live in the Northeast. He’s lived all over—the military—and now he’s 28 and finishing up a degree at UT. “You know what turned me around? I read the Hobbit. First book I ever read in my life. From the first page to the last page—I didn’t skip nothing at all. It kept me intrigued. Bilbo! Fucking J.R.R. Tolkien shit.”
Why the Northeast, I ask. He looks at me incredulously. “I sweat a lot,” says the slogan man. “Seriously. I’m a hot individual.”
3/17/2009
spiced ham
Seeing as I've been working on a particularly unwieldy [read: unpublishable] piece on the death of note passing in the classroom--it's much simpler to send a text message--I was delighted to meet two high school-aged boys who don't even own cell phones.
One has an email address, but he doesn't really use it for correspondence, although he gets a lot of emails.
I was incredulous. His friends send emails but he doesn't write back?
No, he said. People email me--do you know about it? I think it's called Spam?
One has an email address, but he doesn't really use it for correspondence, although he gets a lot of emails.
I was incredulous. His friends send emails but he doesn't write back?
No, he said. People email me--do you know about it? I think it's called Spam?
3/05/2009
teacher school
"What's another word for initiative? Initiative...initiative..." mumbles one. She spends her evenings in master's classes, plans her lessons during lunch.
"Use the thesaurus," says the other.
"I know, but I don't know how to get it on this computer." She types in initiative, hesitating over the i-n-i-t-i-a...t-i-v-e.
Two sets of hands fumble with the mouse.
"Click on the word. Right click," says the other.
"Oh! Right click!" She clicks. Scans. "Inventiveness... originality... ingenuity! That's what I want. Ingenuity." She selects the word, replacing initiative with ingenuity. "I don't want to plagiarize," she says, with parentheses.
She types a few sentences and clucks. "Man, this essay is supposed to be 15 pages. I'm at 12. I'm going to have to puff it up a bit. Fifteeeeen pages." She saves her 12 pages and goes off to teach her next class.
"Use the thesaurus," says the other.
"I know, but I don't know how to get it on this computer." She types in initiative, hesitating over the i-n-i-t-i-a...t-i-v-e.
Two sets of hands fumble with the mouse.
"Click on the word. Right click," says the other.
"Oh! Right click!" She clicks. Scans. "Inventiveness... originality... ingenuity! That's what I want. Ingenuity." She selects the word, replacing initiative with ingenuity. "I don't want to plagiarize," she says, with parentheses.
She types a few sentences and clucks. "Man, this essay is supposed to be 15 pages. I'm at 12. I'm going to have to puff it up a bit. Fifteeeeen pages." She saves her 12 pages and goes off to teach her next class.
2/04/2009
Sunday best
A Sunday morning rises slowly, regally, distinct from weary weekdays and worldly Saturdays. Perhaps it is the thud of the thick Sunday Times on cement stoops, or the velvet suspension of alarm clocks. Perhaps it is the emptiness of mailboxes and agenda books, the luxury of champagne brunches and “and that’s a first down at the 30-yard-line.”
Or perhaps it is the rustle of shampooed hair laid damp across the pillow on Saturday night. Perhaps it is the sheen of patent leather, the rigid crease in a starched shirt, the stretch of dark nylons and the murmur of slips. Perhaps it is the rhythm of eight, or ten, or twelve Miss Mary Mack buttons climbing up a dress’s back.
This is the whisper of Sunday best: arms bent into long winter coats, hair tucked under brims and bows, hands clutching cracked leather Bibles, hearts bound for the sweeping harmonies of the cloaked and clapping Brooklyn Tabernacle choir. The songs may speak of miracles, as may the parishioners—they number 10,000—a seemingly prodigious tree of prayer and passion, for what was once a handful of churchgoers has blossomed into one of the city’s largest churches, home to a Grammy-winning choir and a stone-facade building that fills the better part of the block. Tourists, whether religious or curious or both, ask for their pictures to be taken at the church’s entrance: THE BROOKLYN TABERNACLE is chiseled in the wall behind their heads.
“The sermon was about light—how Jesus brings light into our lives,” says a girl from Korea. “And boy do I need that light.”
Perhaps a Sunday wakes separately from the rest of the week because she laden with ritual and religion—centuries of Hail Marys and Hallelujahs and wine sipped from communal cups. Perhaps things are different because, as is oft observed, Sunday mornings are our most segregated moments, our most divisive hours, where we, believers and non-believers, practice our respective vocabularies: heretics and heathens, puritans and posers.
After Sunday services, the doors open on two streets, smiles and laughter vaulting against the interior halls. The churchgoers speckle the sidewalks of downtown Brooklyn, crowding into the restaurant around the corner for a late lunch or wandering the Fulton Street Mall in their furs and heels. A man in a blue plaid jacket and blue pants and blue shoes [not suede] and a blue hat and—of course—a blue handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket leans against the building. He grins at a group of ladies who walk by, swishing, in their Sunday best.
Or perhaps it is the rustle of shampooed hair laid damp across the pillow on Saturday night. Perhaps it is the sheen of patent leather, the rigid crease in a starched shirt, the stretch of dark nylons and the murmur of slips. Perhaps it is the rhythm of eight, or ten, or twelve Miss Mary Mack buttons climbing up a dress’s back.
This is the whisper of Sunday best: arms bent into long winter coats, hair tucked under brims and bows, hands clutching cracked leather Bibles, hearts bound for the sweeping harmonies of the cloaked and clapping Brooklyn Tabernacle choir. The songs may speak of miracles, as may the parishioners—they number 10,000—a seemingly prodigious tree of prayer and passion, for what was once a handful of churchgoers has blossomed into one of the city’s largest churches, home to a Grammy-winning choir and a stone-facade building that fills the better part of the block. Tourists, whether religious or curious or both, ask for their pictures to be taken at the church’s entrance: THE BROOKLYN TABERNACLE is chiseled in the wall behind their heads.
“The sermon was about light—how Jesus brings light into our lives,” says a girl from Korea. “And boy do I need that light.”
Perhaps a Sunday wakes separately from the rest of the week because she laden with ritual and religion—centuries of Hail Marys and Hallelujahs and wine sipped from communal cups. Perhaps things are different because, as is oft observed, Sunday mornings are our most segregated moments, our most divisive hours, where we, believers and non-believers, practice our respective vocabularies: heretics and heathens, puritans and posers.
After Sunday services, the doors open on two streets, smiles and laughter vaulting against the interior halls. The churchgoers speckle the sidewalks of downtown Brooklyn, crowding into the restaurant around the corner for a late lunch or wandering the Fulton Street Mall in their furs and heels. A man in a blue plaid jacket and blue pants and blue shoes [not suede] and a blue hat and—of course—a blue handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket leans against the building. He grins at a group of ladies who walk by, swishing, in their Sunday best.
1/18/2009
overheard at the met
A girl of eight, in coral jeans and boots, walks from one room to another. "Oh, here's that guy again!" she exclaims, pointing to thick paint and swirls.
Farther down the gallery, the straw-hatted man is a glimpse of blue and gold--too far away to confirm if that was a smile hovering around his lips.
Farther down the gallery, the straw-hatted man is a glimpse of blue and gold--too far away to confirm if that was a smile hovering around his lips.
12/09/2008
demography
As I wait for the train, at that time that is both early in the morning and late at night, two young men who look like they should still have bedtimes sit down next to me. The one with a skateboard is white, his friend is Hispanic. Both have piercings that suggest awkward a bit more than they suggest hip.
"Did you see that one chick I made out with?" asks the boy who is white.
His friend shrugs.
"She was white, I think," says the first. He proceeds to list off the night's conquests by race: four white girls, two black girls, one Asian chick [at this point I begin to doubt his reliability], and, to top it off, a few Hispanic girls.
I remain in a quandary of mirth and horror. What astonishes, one top of everything else, is how accurately his demographics mimic the nation's.
"Did you see that one chick I made out with?" asks the boy who is white.
His friend shrugs.
"She was white, I think," says the first. He proceeds to list off the night's conquests by race: four white girls, two black girls, one Asian chick [at this point I begin to doubt his reliability], and, to top it off, a few Hispanic girls.
I remain in a quandary of mirth and horror. What astonishes, one top of everything else, is how accurately his demographics mimic the nation's.
12/06/2008
Revelation 19:16
Signing for packages at a certain New York publication, the delivery man points to my bare upper arm (the offices of the publication are excessively warm) and says I should get a tattoo there. I sigh and explain that I can never decide what to get.
"Get this," he says, lifting his shirt to reveal a life-sized handgun tattooed over his breastbone.
"Now how did you decide on that?" I ask.
"I was in a gang in L.A.," he tells me. "It was a long time ago."
The tattoo is slightly gray, as old tattoos go. He heads out to his next delivery. I turn back to my computer, editing a podcast about the legality of torture, a podcast about the science of loneliness.
"Get this," he says, lifting his shirt to reveal a life-sized handgun tattooed over his breastbone.
"Now how did you decide on that?" I ask.
"I was in a gang in L.A.," he tells me. "It was a long time ago."
The tattoo is slightly gray, as old tattoos go. He heads out to his next delivery. I turn back to my computer, editing a podcast about the legality of torture, a podcast about the science of loneliness.
11/22/2008
Epiphany
Fact: on any given day, at least sixty percent of the people at my local branch library will be in a bad mood.
Having braved the grumps of Epiphany to check out Gilead and The Art of Fiction (thanks Ms. Nosneb), I was disgruntled to discover that someone has, at least throughout the preface, penciled in an s in front of every he. I am an advocate of marking--in pencil--sections of interest, but this I cannot abide. It seems to me that any person reading The Art of Fiction should have the good sense to know that this exercise in silliness isn't really doing anything for the state of women other than distracting them with ugliness.
Having braved the grumps of Epiphany to check out Gilead and The Art of Fiction (thanks Ms. Nosneb), I was disgruntled to discover that someone has, at least throughout the preface, penciled in an s in front of every he. I am an advocate of marking--in pencil--sections of interest, but this I cannot abide. It seems to me that any person reading The Art of Fiction should have the good sense to know that this exercise in silliness isn't really doing anything for the state of women other than distracting them with ugliness.
11/19/2008
the short answer
This seems to be a week of channeling ire toward standardized testing. Perhaps it's just a reflex; this is the time of year where, if I was still teaching, the districts would bring out the benchmark tests--practice tests written in-house, which guaranteed two things: a badly written test that provided no helpful results, and a squandered week of school. After November benchmarking, it was time for December review and polishing. Rest up on winter break, because when you burst into the classrooms in January, it's time for the the six week sprint before state testing. In many ways, the approach mimicked the activities of a person hoping to be in shape for a Spring Break cruise: curse yourself for all those years of overeating and then employ all sorts of desperate tactics--starvation, colon cleanses, exercising in plastic--to make up for lost time. Don't worry--keep it up and I'm sure you'll look great next year.
Actually, this is a terrible metaphor. For more productive information, read this piece by someone who's graded standardized test essays for the last 14 years. I have some pity for him for doing this (it must be a mind-numbing task) but, hey, he's writing a book about it, so my jealousy balances that out.
Actually, this is a terrible metaphor. For more productive information, read this piece by someone who's graded standardized test essays for the last 14 years. I have some pity for him for doing this (it must be a mind-numbing task) but, hey, he's writing a book about it, so my jealousy balances that out.
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