Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Invasion of the 3D classics-snatchers

Me, looking at the "Freeform's 25 Days of Christmas" viewing guide card that came in my CVS bag: Disney's A Christmas Carol?  What's that?  I didn't even know Disney had a version of it.

My fiancé, Jonathan: Yeah, I don't know.  They have the Muppets version*, but I don't think that's what it's referring to.

Me: It's probably some Jim Carrey adventure extravaganza.  In 3D.

J [laughing]: That would be hilarious.  It's probably true.

Me: ....Gosh I hope not.  Dickens in 3D.  As an action adventure movie.  How ugsome.  Can you imagine the pitch for that?  "And for the poster we'll have Jim Carrey daringly flying through the air on a magic rug at supersonic speeds! While making a classic Jim Carrey face that lets viewers know exactly what this movie is and isn't!"

J: Sad. But possible.

Me: .........Okay, now I have to look it up [taking out phone].

Me [Laughing hysterically and showing him the search results on my phone]: I'm laughing... but really I'm crying.
 
*The Muppets version is the best version of A Christmas Carol EVER, and one I think Dickens would have quite enjoyed. And it's definitely not just for kids, though it encourages children to actually read the book and has more language directly from the book than any other version with which I'm familiar.  Plus there's the whole discussion between Gonzo and Rizzo about what an omniscient narrator is.... And that just tickles me pink every time....

Thursday, November 24, 2016

Thanksgiving

Last night my dad told me he has Parkinson's disease.  For someone who talks a lot and writes a lot, I am perhaps oddly usually at a loss for words when it comes to anything intensely personal in my life. This was no different.  I knew as soon as he said, "Do you have a moment?" he was going to say something serious, and my ability to find words disappeared.  What I did have is a hug.  I'm good at hugs. 

A lot of advances have been made in recent years in Parkinson's, and my dad is on the right medication now and doing great.  This post isn't about Parkinson's.  In fact, perhaps contrary to initial impressions, this post isn't about anything sad.  This post is about being thankful.  I am so thankful for my parents, and I love them with all my heart.  I am thankful for their love, their support, their unending belief in me and my success even in the face of obstacle after obstacle.  I am thankful that my parents, my brother, and I are all at home -- the home I grew up in -- today for the first time in over 5 years.  I am thankful that while I'm home in Indiana for Thanksgiving, a re-connected childhood friend of mine has opened her New York home to my didn't-want-to-travel fiancé -- who was otherwise planning a solitary day by himself in our apartment.  I am thankful that when I wouldn't stop leaping around our family room as a 4- or 5-year-old, my parents enrolled me in gymnastics and ballet and let me take my passion for dance as far as I wanted -- a passion that fills my soul, that I indulge every day of my life, and that I can't imagine my life without. 

As I sit down at their grand piano to play The Piano Guys' version of Can't Help Falling In Love, which I taught myself over the past few weeks in my apartment on the piano they got me a couple Christmases ago, I am thankful that my parents encouraged me to take piano lessons as a child with an excellent teacher and that my mom helped me with my practice every day, always letting me find my own love for the music and the artistry of it.  As I have a discussion at dinner with my parents about the neurons in octupuses' (yes, octopuses, not octopi -- it's not of Latin origin) brains, I am thankful that my parents put me in a school that encouraged my intellectualism and told me it was cool to be a nerd, not something to hide.  As I write this, I am thankful for my dad's biweekly emails a couple years ago repeatedly declaring, "Start a blog!" -- for it has allowed me to deepen my love of writing and critical thinking, forced me to engage intellectually and emotionally every day with the world around me, and allowed me to express myself more precisely and more in depth than I have other outlets for.

I am thankful that while a scroll through Facebook tells me so many people are indulging their bitterness and anger and resentment and other negative feelings about the state of our country's politics, I have a wonderful family full of positive light and love.  And hugs.  I love my family, and I am so thankful for them. 

I hope everyone reading this has something just as wonderful to be thankful for, today and every day.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Judging fashion

Can someone please explain to me the current trend of ladies wearing pants that are several inches too short with boots?  I'm sitting in the walkway between terminals at the airport with a delayed flight, watching the people walking by and coming out of the Sky Club, and at least half the ladies have several inches of bare skin between their pants and their boots.  I understand capris or rolled cuffs in the spring or summer with sandals or sneakers or heels... but if it's cold enough to wear boots, isn't it cold enough to wear socks and pants that don't, you know, look like you bought them in the fifth grade? (I say this as someone who still wears a pair of jeans from the fifth grade and many of my middle school clothes....  But then, I haven't grown since then.)  Perhaps my problem here is that I don't understand trends.  I was, after all, a big fan of cozy long sweaters with colored skinny jeans as a child and, with the help of my mom's wardrobe, rocked that look all through lower school despite it being as far from on-trend as could be.  I remember that the black-with-white-stripes Adidas were a big thing at my school. All the cool girls wore Adidas.... Why?  Were they comfortable?  Did they go with more things?  I thought they looked a lot like my grandma's orthopedic shoes and wore my rose-print-covered fake Keds instead.  The only trend I remember jumping on board with was bike shorts under my skirts.  Because duh, clearly that made sense.  How's a girl supposed to hang from the monkey bars without bike shorts??

But the too-short pants with boots thing... Really don't get how this became a thing.  Is it like air vents for your knees?  Is it an evolutionary thing where by displaying that the woman has outgrown her pants, she is signalling her growth genes?  This must be it, right?  Because it violates the cardinal sin of women's fashion by chopping up the leg line weirdly, so it's not about making women look better, and surely thousands of women don't buy too-short pants either just because they were in some runway show or because when some company got in an order of their imported pants from China they discovered they'd been manufactured in Chinese sizing and didn't want to waste them and so declared it a trend....  Right?

No, surely they're both comfortable and practical.  I'm going to go with the air vent and evolutionary growth genes answers.  But I'll also continue to look silly and off-fleek ("on fleek" is the trendy term for "trendy," right?  Or is "on fleek" off-fleek by now?) with my 32-inch-inseam pants.  There's probably some girl writing a blog judging this choice right this moment....

Sunday, November 20, 2016

The mysterious case of the missing two syllables

"Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! .... How may I live without my name?  I have given you my soul; leave me my name."
~John Proctor, in Arthur Miller's The Crucible 

I like my name.  Jessica.  I think it is both pretty and strong, and though it's based on a biblical name meaning "to behold," it has the very cool distinction of being reinvented in its current form by William Shakespeare.  Plus I think it fits me.  

However, I do not care for being called the name "Jess" -- never have, never will.  There's nothing wrong with it, and it's a perfectly lovely name for people who go by it....  But it's simply not my name.  In lower school there was another Jessica in my grade, and teachers always wanted to know if they could call us nicknames to distinguish us.  The other Jessica relented and agreed to "Jess" but wanted to alternate with me which of us got to go by "Jessica."  I didn't think it was our fault or our problem that teachers couldn't handle two girls with the same name -- there were two Adams and no one's life seemed any harder just because "Ad" isn't a thing.  To me it's a basic right to be called by your name, and I said we could both go by Jessica because that was our name.  I stubbornly refused to let anyone call me Jess.  I remember one teacher trying to coerce 8-year-old me into accepting the monosyllabic shortening; she learned I was as stubborn as I was quiet.  My name is Jessica.  It's my name. 

I managed to keep all three syllables of my name through college -- always fighting hard for those final two that people discriminate so unfairly against -- but when I moved to New York City and entered a profession where I'm constantly meeting new people, I found that "ic" and "a" were under fiercer attack than ever.  For one thing, people in Indiana tend to ask if they can shorten names, while most people I meet in the city respond to "Hi, I'm Jessica" with "Hi, Jess."  (I assume this is because the pace of the city is so fast that New Yorkers are too utterly exhausted to go for those extra two syllables.  Either that or the constantly blaring honking horns at red lights and gridlocked intersections have caused a profound amount of hearing loss among the city's pedestrians.)  This meant that I was always correcting people rather than simply answering their question of what I go by, and I never figured out a gracious way to correct people without them thinking I was being uppity about it.  Compounding my fight for "ica" was the fact that I work in an industry where I meet new people all the time rather than ever settling in with the same group of coworkers for an extended period -- and to correct everyone I meet proved exhausting. 

I tried going by the nickname my family calls me, thinking perhaps if I took a great weight off everyone's shoulders by cutting out one of those troublesome syllables myself, people I meet wouldn't feel the need to further shorten it...  but even if I introduce myself as "Jessa," more often than not the "a" still just proves too cumbersome for people.  Or they tell me they just don't like "Jessa" and would rather call me Jess.  Which reminds me of this skit -- because I'm pretty sure your opinion on someone's name doesn't actually give you a say in whether it's still their name or not....  And adding to my problem with going by "Jessa" was the fact that I've always loved it as the type of nickname that's born out of affection, familiarity, and closeness -- surrendering it as a true nickname by friends and family to instead be used by those who couldn't be bothered to use my full name in the first place made me feel like I was losing both "Jessica" and "Jessa."

So I've been fighting a losing battle for my name ever since moving here.  Most people call me Jess within five minutes of meeting me, most of my good friends call me Jessa, and once in a blue moon someone calls me Jessica.  But fortunately, not once since I was about five has anyone tried to call me Jessie.  Because I really, really, really hate being called Jessie....

And then there was today.  This morning, after being called "Jessie Wessie" once and "Jessie" two more times, and racking my brain for how to tell someone older and more experienced and outranking me that that was like nails on chalkboard to me and not my name, the issue was forced by the fact that there were two of us named Jessica, and when the woman said "Jess" we both turned around....  So once again the issue arose of how to distinguish multiple Jessicas.  But unlike in lower school, "Jessica" -- ya know, our name --  was not presented as an option for either of us.  We were to choose between Jess and Jessie.  We both immediately responded, "I'm not a Jessie," much to the woman's surprise. "Well then how am I going to distinguish between your names?" she replied, looking totally flummoxed.  

"What about Jess and Jessica?" I suggested.  And she replied, completely seriously and slightly perturbed, "I have to say the whole name?  All three syllables?"  I smilingly assured her it didn't take too long to say....  However, though "Jessie" was fortunately nixed for both of us, "Jessica" still failed to make it into the day's vocabulary either.

I fear I'll never quite understand the prejudice "ica" faces every day.  My fiancé's name, Jonathan, is also three syllables, and people rarely shorten it to Jon.  Do women's names get shortened more than men's?  Is it specific names that get shortened?  I know an Eliza and I've never heard anyone try to call her Liza or Liz -- three syllables isn't too much in that case.  Do the demeanors of certain people invite name shortenings?   My acquaintance named Eliza is three or four inches taller than I am -- do shorter people invite shorter names?....  I might never understand why I have to fight for my name.  But I will continue to do so.  Because it is my name.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Give a friend a hug today

Today I got a text that made my day.  It was from a friend (also in theatre) who I haven't seen in a couple months, and it simply said, "I'm outside your rehearsal door can I give you a hug?"  

It turned out that actually wasn't my rehearsal room (I have a name twin who books space in the same rehearsal facility I do), so there was no hug to be had... but sometimes it truly is the thought that counts, and a sweet text from a good friend asking if she can give me a hug is almost as good as the real thing.

So since the radio and the malls and retail stores and television have all decided that Christmas season is already upon us -- and Christmas is, after all, about spreading good will and joy and warm feelings -- let's make its early presence and influence more widely felt than just in our spending/viewing/listening habits.  Give a friend a hug today -- virtual or physical -- and brighten their day.  Because sometimes the tiniest thoughtful connection on a cold day can be a ray of warm sunshine.  

(...But if you see someone's name on a door, maybe make sure that it's the right person before barging in....) 

Saturday, November 12, 2016

From the archives: What Freedom Means To Me

A day late for Veterans Day, but one more ever-timely and relevant years-old piece I wrote: My 11-years-old self's opinion on Freedom, as written for the Sertoma Club's "What Freedom Means To Me" Essay Contest when I was in the sixth grade:

As Americans, all of us... old or young, black or white... share equally in a richness more valuable than gold.  Though we often take it for granted, our special richness is the envy of people all over the world.  Our richness is precious and grows as we use and respect it.  America's very unique and special richness has a name.  It is called Freedom.

Freedom is such a natural part of our lives that we often forget its value.  We do not often really think about the freedom that allows us to worship wherever and however we choose.  Yet for centuries and still today there are people all over the world who do not have religious freedom.  We sometimes ignore the freedom to vote for positions of our choice, and we often forget that it is our society's freedom that allows us to take open and even strong positions in opposition to the government without fear of persecution. Yet in many countries, the price of opposition is death.  It is America's free society that allows us to read books and see plays without censorship, to attend open schools, to share in a responsible legal system.  Throughout history, many civilizations had none of these freedoms.

Like all great riches, the freedoms that we Americans enjoy have had a heavy cost over the last two centuries.  From the first shot of the Revolution to the fields of Gettsyburg and Shiloh, to the shores of France or the jungles of Vietnam, American men and women have defended and won the rights we enjoy today.  Yet even hard-won riches require continued attention from us.  For freedom to mean anything, it requires us to respect one another, to show tolerance, and most of all to understand that with freedom comes responsibility.

A few years ago I asked my uncle, who years ago had been severely wounded in Vietnam, if he was bitter about what happened to him.  I will never forget his answer.  He told me that he had enjoyed the freedom of being an American, and that keeping that freedom meant behaving responsibly within the law, being prepared to give back, as well as take.  He said that freedom without responsibility was only chaos, and not freedom at all.  It is that sense of freedom, with respect and responsibility, that has made America the great nation that it is, and that has preserved the freedoms we enjoy today.

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Red vs Blue

In college I wrote for The Hoosier Review, a now-defunct unofficial alternative to the official university paper that the School of Journalism put out.  I mostly wrote for the Arts & Entertainment section, but below is an article I found that I wrote for the main section.  It got some online traction at the time, and as someone born in Indiana who lives in NYC (and as someone who has never labeled myself either a "Hoosier" or a "New Yorker"), I still think of it periodically when people react to learning my home-state by assuming it's the bastion of unsophistication and I must have been so relieved to get out.  So on a day that's sure to be full of a lot of animosity between red and blue states, perhaps it's worthy of a reprint:

The “Red vs Blue” state rubric that keeps popping up in popular culture is beginning to aggravate me.  A few years ago, a family friend who was born, works, and has lived her entire life in New York City visited my parents in our small town in Indiana -- a town with a red brick road as the Main Street, the obligatory small-town water tower, and lots of parks and walking trails.  Although the friend is a world traveler and has great stories about wild cats on Greek Islands, “antiquity salesmen” on the streets of Cairo, and getting lost on Greek hillsides, she had never visited the American Midwest, and the culture shock, for her, seemed almost overwhelming.  She was amazed and unsettled by the acres of undeveloped land as her plane approached the airport.  She seemed dumbfounded that there were actually museums in Indianapolis, incredulous that there was a symphony, live theatre, or dance productions, and simply refused to believe that local movie theaters had current first-run films.  She was extremely angry that drivers here seemed too ignorant to understand they should stop before merging onto freeways, and she was intensely unsettled, if not intimidated, by the overly friendly smiles and greetings she got from complete strangers, not to mention the fact that Hoosiers seem unfamiliar with the fact that direct eye contact between strangers should be avoided at all times.  She had known my parents from other, more sophisticated times and places, and made it clear that she was appalled that they had decided to settle in the wasteland of Indiana.

Presumably in an attempt to be amusing, Sunday’s Indianapolis Star printed a Red vs Blue “Survey,” purportedly intended to help readers decide where they might stand on the political/ideological map.  The article implies that liberal spots like Bloomington are culturally more advanced, “islands of blue” in red states.  By extension, non-liberal areas (like the rest of Indiana) are culturally bereft.  The survey assumes, for example, that when making TV choices, brain-challenged Red Staters would opt for NASCAR and “Hoosier Millionaire,” while erudite Blue Staters would choose to watch CNBC and “Frontline.”  Probably as a result of watching too many NASCAR races, folks from red states are also, according to the survey, grammatically challenged, and would say, “I never seen a horse like that before,” while the cultured blue-state folks would comment, “I have never seen such a magnificent steed before.”  Surprisingly, the survey assumes the red-state folks can indeed read -- but would pick up a copy of Guns and Ammo for browsing, while the Blue Stater would pick up Architectural Digest.  You get the drift.  Though the article was a puff piece intended to be lighthearted, it was clear that the writer had made some bizarre assumptions about red-state voters.  Though most of the choices would have been too silly for either red or blue-state voters, whoever put the survey together felt that the “correct” answers for the red-state voter should define him clearly as a rube, a hick, a dolt, or something worse.  Despite its goal of humor, the piece nevertheless reinforced a stereotype -- clearly held by people like my parents' friend -- that those of us who might live in Indiana or other "red" states can be assumed to be unsophisticated and uneducated.  And aren't lighthearted, humorous takes on subjects one of the most effective methods of disseminating an opinion?  Isn't that the key behind the success of Jon Stewart's The Daily Show?

The line between humor and mockery can be very thin, and I must admit I'm getting weary of the popular propensity of classifying and categorizing people according to where they live, assuming that a certain stupidity aura surrounds those in the middle of the country.  The fact is that ignorance is not a function of where you live; being “liberal” or “conservative” is no definer of intransigence or open-mindedness; and being “red” or “blue” does not translate into smart or dumb, or right or wrong, or good or bad.  Labeling as such might be an easy way to pretend to analyze what went wrong, and it allows people to dismiss and mock those who disagree.  But in terms of establishing a national dialogue, not just between parties but among the citizenry, it is also counter-productive.

Monday, November 7, 2016

Reunion



This photo was taken last night in New York City, over 700 miles from the Indianapolis area where we all grew up, where each of us now lives (as a tenure-track college professor, a social worker, an improv actor, a lawyer, and whatever the heck I am).

Everyone in this photo met each other between 1st and 7th grade.  Before getting together to see the improv actor's show, I'd last seen them ranging from as recently as the 2nd Presidential debate to as long ago as 8th-grade graduation.
 
The ladies in this photo comprise 25% of the girls in my graduating 8th-grade class and the five of us about 15% of the entire graduating class.

Three of them also went to the same high school I did.

One of them happens to live on the floor above me in the same apartment building.

Life's funny.

Oh, and the bar conversation included a comparison of 600-plus-page Nixon books (and one purchase of one of them over an iPhone), touched on the transcripts of the Kennedy administration's Bay of Pigs Invasion discussions and the primary source documents of the Gideon v. Wainwright case, and revealed that art work is available for loan from the Indianapolis Public Library.  Nerds know how to do a reunion.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

As close as I'll get to a political post

I believe social media is hardly ever an appropriate place to sound off on politics.  All it does is spur people to say things more vicious than they would ever say in person, and, without an in-person connection, no opinions are ever swayed, defenses go up higher and stronger, and little of substantial, interesting intellectual conversation can take place.  Political posts on Facebook seem to inevitably dissolve into a string of comments where one person says "LOL" and "ROFL" a lot because they can't think of an intelligent reply, and the other person keeps saying "clearly you can't actually read what I wrote" -- and both throw out insults.  This benefits no one (and is the LOLer ever really laughing? Because I get the feeling it's more likely that his blood is boiling...)

The other day I saw just such a comment thread on Facebook.  The principal argument was between the original poster of a "If you believe such-and-such unfriend me now" post and a commenter, but a third person chimed in calling the original poster indoctrinated (and announcing that he would do as asked and unfriend the poster, since he disagreed with him on the issue in question).  So the poster posted a new Facebook post calling that third person "one of the most indoctrinated people I know."

Frustrated, saddened, and angered by the original poster's continued intolerance and (increasingly throughout the years) demonstrated unwillingness to consider other points of view as anything but dumb, I was tempted to chime in.  I decided not to... but not before writing the following.  So I suppose instead, I will post it here, as food for thought in this extraordinarily vicious political era, and particularly for anyone of either side who unfriends those who disagree with them rather than have a conversation, who considers those who disagree with them politically automatically stupid or evil, who vehemently jumps on a bandwagon without being able to explain why, and who resorts to name calling when they discover not everyone thinks the same way they do:

Hi *****,

As someone who's never had a real conversation with you, your post makes me curious about your perspective on several issues.   I would love to know your thoughts on:

- What is your working definition of "indoctrination?"
- Do you consider yourself to be open-minded?
- Do you ever listen to someone who disagrees with you completely and deeply on an issue, but you nevertheless listen to them respectfully with a consciousness and willingness that you might at the least broaden your perspective and understand where they are coming from? 
- Do you consider a sheltered life to lend itself less to indoctrination or more? I.e, is the strength of several small, unchallenged positions working as a force on a person more likely to indoctrinate, or are varied, unfiltered, wide-ranging opinions more likely to indoctrinate? Which more accurately describes your life at this point?
 - Do you consider a respectful discourse to be a hallmark of an open-minded person or of an indoctrinated one? Can a person be well-informed and form opinions based on independent thought without respectful discourse with those who differ in opinion?  If so, what is that process?

- And the dictionary definition of "indoctrinate" is not actually subjective.  It carries no judgment with the word, though in common vernacular, the word connotes a lack of independent thought.  Would you rather someone be indoctrinated to think like you, or disagree with you through independent thought?  Which do you consider more dangerous?  Which creates a more enjoyable, easy conversation?  And how do you decide if someone who disagrees with you has reached their position though indoctrination or through independent thought?