Friday, August 10, 2012

Nectar of the Gods

Dana and I went to visit a friend in San Diego a couple years ago. It's a 40 hour drive from Minneapolis to San Diego, so we stopped in Iowa to pick up our friend's dad. Val is a great traveling companion.

We took the drive in two days. We slept for a couple hours in Texas, and drove another 20 hours the next day. It was awful. I will never look at another Nutrigrain bar without feeling a bit nauseous.

We stayed almost a week with Laura in her SoCal house with her SoCal friends and her SoCal beach. It was pretty great. The last full day we spent with Laura, we went to Balboa Park.

Lets start at the beginning of that day, though. Laura worked early that morning, so Dana had to prepare the picnic. I probably should have helped, but I didn't wake up early enough to go to the store with her. Then, when I got out of the shower, Val and I started talking about the trip. Dana was making sandwiches and salads.

I went into the kitchen and said good morning. I gave her a kiss and asked if the coffee was ready.

Bad idea.

No, actually, the coffee is not ready because there is no coffee to get ready. And then I saw a side of Dana that I had not yet met. The side of her that probably instigated the nickname Dana-saur. The side that shouldn't be asked if the coffee is ready when there is no more coffee left.

We walked to the tram silently. Val is a morning person. He loves to chat and tease and enjoy the morning. I was trying to keep up with his chatter, but I also was feeling the effects of driving coffee-less. Dana was scowling. I shouldn't have left her to get us ready like little boys needing to be sent off to school, but I didn't want to chop the peppers! I wanted to hang out with Val!

We met Laura at Balboa Park. We were a little late, despite Dana's efforts to get us out the door on time. Laura had just finished her shift at the coffee shop and was feeling just as chipper as her dad.

Dana and I tried to enjoy the park. It was built when the World Fair was hosted by San Diego, so there were a lot of interesting nooks to it. People were allowed to set up little shops inside to sell food, artwork or whatever other craft they set their hands to. It was pretty cool.

Yet Dana couldn't smile. She was interested, but she didn't join in the conversation or pictures. She just looked royally pissed.

Val asked, "Dana, can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Oh, it's ok. I don't need coffee, I'll be fine. I can buy my own, too, you don't need to..."

"Here. And one for you, too, Benj," as he handed us our paper cups.

It was still too hot for Dana to take a sip, but she took the lid off and smelled the brew.

Something sparked. I was watching her very closely, because I thought I saw something flash in her eyes. Yes! There it goes again! Something was definitely taking place. Her brow was less furrowed. Her chin seemed a bit more relaxed. And wait... Dear Lord! I think it is!

She smiled! She laughed! She started bantering with Val and talking with Laura! She held my hand! It truly looked like she had come out of Lazarus' tomb to join the land of the living once again.

The rest of the day was amazing. Arguably the best day we spent with Laura that week. Never underestimate the power of a cuppa.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Seven Minutes of Rushing

Every night I leave my cube and go to the basement garage where my bicycle is parked. There are special doors I have to go through to get to the garage. Only one person can enter or exit at a time.

Every night, a little after 5pm, I see the same girl running from her car to the door. There are windows. One of us ends up waiting for the other to go through the door first. It has become such a routine, that we've taken to saying hello to each other. She is a cleaning lady coming in for her evening shift. I am a cube rat trying to get home to my wife. We smile and pass each other. Every night.

Her accent tells me that she's from Africa. I'm not sure where in Africa, of course, but that's not all I've noticed. Every night she is running - literally running - from her car to the doors. And it's never before 5 that I see her. Always six or seven minutes after 5.

These few details of my new friend have gotten me very curious as to what her story is. I don't believe I will ever hear it, so I decided to write one for her. Meet Adimu (ah-DEE-moo):

Adimu, which means unique in Swahili, is 22 years old. She comes from a country in east Africa, I think Ethiopia. She grew up going to school at a Catholic mission where she learned English and got a high school education. Her parents didn't have much money, but the priest was very helpful in finding resources for them and their community.

Adimu has two older brothers, an older sister and a younger sister. They have always been very close. Literally and figuratively. They grew up in a two room hut. Mom and Dad got the second room. They all went to school together. They did everything together. Not only the siblings, but the entire community.

There was so much love among the neighbors. When one family was hurting, the people came together to mourn with them. When another family was rejoicing, the community was there to party. A little different than the lifestyle we attain to in America. Not better or worse, just different.

When high school was over, the mission got a grant to send some kids to America for a college education. A few colleges across America were giving scholarships to help these kids get through school and have a little extra for living expenses while here. There was a raffle to see who would be able to go. There was only enough money to send five kids from the village, so all of the eligible students put their names in the drawing.

As Adimu brought herself to the table to submit her name, her mind was fluttering with fears and excitement. She wanted to go to make a way for herself and perhaps bring her family if she worked hard enough after school. She wanted to stay because the thought of leaving her siblings and community was too much to bear. In the end, she submitted her name because it was the only hope of building a better life for her family.

Her older brothers were too old to put their names in. Her older sister had already put in her slip of paper. Her younger sister was still in high school.

And then came the dreaded wait. Adimu joined her family in the audience and waited until the priest came out to address the crowd. He made a speech about how blessed the community was to have this opportunity to send a few of their kids to college. Adimu didn't hear a word of it. Her stomach was in knots. She didn't know what she hoped for. Any outcome would be treacherous. Any outcome would be exactly what she wanted. She just had to wait and let the fates decide.

Adimu was the second name called. Everyone started cheering. Her family was hugging her. Every eye was damp with tears. She felt ecstatic. She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. She couldn't talk. She just cried and hugged her mom. "What's going to happen to me?" she thought.

She prayed that her sister would be called, too, so that she wouldn't be alone, but that didn't happen. After the last person was called, people stuck around to congratulate her and tell her how much they would miss her. She just smiled and nodded. No words came to her mind. Pictures were taken and slowly people filtered out.

A month later, Adimu and four others from her village were boarding the plane for America. Some were going to New York, one to California and one to Kansas. Adimu was placed in Minnesota. The little she had read about Minnesota was that there was something called snow, which was supposed to be very cold, and that everyone was Lutheran.

She had the toughest time with the cold part. The Lutherans didn't seem to make themselves known. School was difficult. She had to work to keep herself fed and send some money back home for her family. Everything was so expensive that she had to pick up another job while studying full time.

She quit sleeping so she could keep eating. The grant money covered most of rent, but not all of it. Transportation and groceries were extra. She worked at the university library, where she could study, and an overnight job cleaning big buildings downtown. There are three sections to a day: school for 8 hours, work for 8 hours and sleep for 8 hours. Adimu had to fudge the numbers a little bit to make ends meet. School kept its 8 hours, but work demanded at least 12. That left about 4 for sleep. Amidu has kept plugging along and this May it will all pay off with a shiny new degree from the University of Minnesota.

She hasn't seen her family in almost 4 years, but they talk constantly. They are saving some money so her mom can come for the graduation ceremony.

Adimu is planning on staying in the States for now to pay off the little bit of debt that has accumulated and get some experience in her field. She's thinking about grad school, but wants to spend some time with her family before pursuing another degree.

For now she will continue to rush into work immediately after finishing at the library. Her manager is very forgiving, even though she shows up 7 minutes late every day.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Reinstate Playtime!

What happened to play time?

Children have the life, don't they? They wake up and play with their toys and mom makes them breakfast. They go to school and play with their friends. They run around like yahoos reeking havoc on the playground; screaming to their little hearts content. And what do they have by form of responsibility? Sometimes they have to clean their rooms. Maybe feed the dog. That's about it!

They chase each other. They tickle each other. They play board games together. They make up games together. They tell stories together, which usually make no sense, but are funnier than anything I could produce. They've got it made!

Then they get old. Some will hold summer jobs in high school. Many go off to college and get real jobs afterwards. Whatever a "real job" is. And somewhere along the way, playtime stops.

"Don't tickle me. That's childish."

So?! Children understand, so says my philosophy, how to accept people different than themselves; how to love their friends (because they don't know what an enemy is); how to be decent human beings to one another. We adults have so much to learn from them!

Politics don't rile children. Economics don't keep them up at night. Religion is truth to them, and questioning it doesn't seem to cross their beautiful minds.

I'm not saying that responsibility is a terrible thing, though there is a delightful chant my friend Lalei and I say to each other when it seems too heavy a burden to bear. Without going into specifics, we say "Hang it all!"

With responsibility being a necessary evil, such as money and politics and oil changes, we've allowed it too much power over our leisure time. Responsibility requires a mature brain. It does not require a stiff attitude, though. Be mature, but let a childlike spirit be your outlook. Don't talk to strangers. Rather, talk to friends you've not yet gotten to know. Talk to people as though they were neighbors. Treat them with respect, but allow the conversation to be playful. Make someone laugh when they are frustrated. And not in a malicious way.

I believe we can find a happy medium between playtime and responsibility. I don't believe they have to be distinct from one another. I think if everyone adopted my philosophies, the world would be a better place. But, maybe that's my inner child talking. He still thinks the world revolves around him.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

You may need ear plugs for this one.

AT WORK I WRITE SERVICE REQUESTS IN ALL CAPS. IT'S JUST THE SYSTEM WE USE. WHATEVS.

BUT THEN I FORGET TO TAKE MY KEYBOARD OFF CAPS LOCK AND BEGIN TO WRITE BLOG POSTS. I LOOK UP THREE SENTENCES LATER TO REALIZE WHAT I'VE DONE. THIS TIME I THOUGHT, TO HELL WITH IT! I'M JUST GOING TO WRITE IN ALL CAPS!

THEN IT DAWNED ON ME THE IMPLICATIONS OF SUCCUMBING TO THE DREADED CAPS LOCK CURSE.

IT STARTS WITH FORGETTING WHAT YOU'RE WRITING. IT'S JUST A CONSTANT YELL BEING PUT FROM FINGERS TO SCREEN. SPELLING ERRERS INCUR, BUT YOU DON'T NOTICE, BECAUSE EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE IT'S SPELLED INCORRECTLY.

THEN PUNCTUATION BEGINS TO LOSE IMPORTANCE. INSTEAD OF USING THE FULL STOP, EVERYTHING ENDS WITH AN EXCLAMATION MARK! WHICH SEEMS RATHER REDUNDANT WHEN EVERY WORD IS SCREAMING OFF THE PAGE ANYWAY!

THE REAL PROBLEM COMES WHEN THE CAPS LOCK VIRUS INFECTS YOUR COMPUTER. IT'S ALMOST AS IF THE KEY IS STUCK ON, AND NO MATTER WHAT, YOU ARE UNABLE TO TAKE THE CAPS LOCK OFF. YOU'VE HIT THE BUTTON NEARLY A HUNDRED TIMES, BUT THE LETTERS ARE STILL CAPITALIZED.

AT THIS POINT, THERE IS NO USE FIGHTING IT ANY LONGER. THE CAPS LOCK VIRUS HAS ALREADY TAKEN OVER YOUR COMPUTER AND WIPED CLEAN YOUR HARD DRIVE. IT WILL SEND ELICIT MESSAGES FROM YOUR EMAIL TO PEOPLE WHO AT ONE TIME THOUGHT BETTER OF YOU. PEOPLE LIKE YOUR GRANDMA AND YOUR IN-LAWS.

IT WILL TAKE OVER YOUR FACEBOOK AND CONTACT YOUR EX-BOYFRIEND OR GIRLFRIEND. IT WILL GIVE HIM OR HER YOUR NEW PHONE NUMBER ASKING DESPERATELY FOR A PHONE CALL AT HIS OR HER EARLIEST CONVENIENCE.

THE VIRUS WILL THEN USE THE MAGNETICISM FROM YOUR COMPUTER TOWER AND REACH OUT TO SCRATCH ALL YOUR FAVORITE CDS THAT ARE SITTING INNOCENTLY ON YOUR DESK.

IT WILL LEAVE HALF-FULL GLASSES OF MILK ON YOUR COUNTER TO SOUR OVER NIGHT. IT WILL LEAVE ITS DIRTY SOCKS ON YOUR COFFEE TABLE. IT WILL LEAVE THE TOILET SEAT UP.

IT WILL SQUEEZE THE TOOTHPASTE TUBE FROM THE MIDDLE!

THIS IS SERIOUS, FOLKS. IF YOU DON'T FORWARD THIS TO AT LEAST 67 PEOPLE IN THE NEXT 14 SECONDS, YOU TOO WILL EXPERIENCE THE IRREVOCABLE CONSEQUENCES OF THE ALL CAPS VIRUS.

Dark Circles

While I was finishing my Associates degree, I was trying to figure out what I wanted to major in for a Bachelor's. I was into photography and I was thinking about doing photojournalism. Luckily for me, there was a class being offered on that very topic. So I signed up.

I then needed to figure out what to do about my final class. I noticed there was an opening for Film Photography, black and white. Sure. Why not?

My photojournalism class was a digital based class, so I bought a Nikon. My film class obviously required a film camera, so I bought a Phoenix.

I learned how to use Photoshop in my digital class and a dark room for my film class. The two are polar opposite from one another. I believe the dark room ruined me for digital. Something about the dark room just clicked with me, and the teacher was incredible. Her teaching style catered to my learning style in a way my photojournalism teacher couldn't compete with. I couldn't figure out how to adjust my digital work, but I could spend hours in the dark room without even realizing it; I loved being there.

It takes a lot of time to print a quality photograph in a dark room. I would look at my clock and think, hey! I've got a couple hours. I can print my assignment for next week's class and have time to see some friends before bed.

I would then proceed to spend upwards to 6 hours in the dark room thinking I had a lot of evening left to do other homework. I would pop in my iPod and get lost in the dim red glow and chemicals swirling around the air. My pictures turned out pretty good, but the rest of my homework was pushed to the back burner.

Now that I don't have a dark room at my disposal, I miss it terribly. I still shoot with my Nikon, but I've lost the affinity to shoot film if I have to let someone else print it for me. I probably could find a dark room somewhere in Minneapolis, but my schedule just doesn't allow for it. Maybe when I'm rich and famous I can build a dark room in my mansion on top of a hill. I'll keep you posted on how that works out for me.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Accents

I am reading Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots and Leaves.

She is a British author who writes in the deadpan wit that stems from a gloomy climate. Her comedic style is so dry it's almost sticky.

They joy of reading a British author is imagining them reading it aloud. I often have an almost pretentious accent of ongoing monologue in my head while I'm reading. When I put the book down, it often comes out in my speech.

I have been told on more than one occasion that when I get nervous, usually when talking in groups of people whom I don't know, I will feign an English accent. I wonder if it's a defense mechanism? "If I don't wow these people with my stories, they'll think I'm cool anyway because I talk British!"

It doesn't often work, but it's worth the shot, right? No? Oh well.

The other interesting thing about this book is the fact that the description of the book found on the back cover has a detailed story of a panda on a murderous rampage in a cafe. Not to mislead the reader, the book is about punctuation. Not about panda bears, or murder. There's not a lot of mystery in the meat of the book.

Nonetheless, it is a delightful read for cynical writers such as myself.