Planes in the Night

I was thinking the other day about someone I met the last time I was on a plane.  I was on my way home from a family wedding, but though I was flying with my brother and sister, they were across the aisle from me, so I was sitting between two strangers.  On my right was a young woman who kept her hood up and her headphones on the whole flight, adhering to the usual policy of ignoring your seatmate on a plane.  On my left, however, was a man who apparently didn’t believe in that policy.  He was tall, not a big man, but someone who seemed to take up a lot of space nonetheless.  Some people are like that.  He was in his thirties, I’d guess, wearing baggy clothes and a stiff-brimmed cap, but contrary to the conclusion I’d drawn from his clothing, he carried a stack of books onto the plane with him.  One of them was a journal, which immediately caught my attention.  Like me, he spent most of the flight writing.  We talked a little bit about it, and it wasn’t the usual banal small talk that makes me cringe.  I never learned his name, but I will always remember him.

There have been others I’ve met on planes who have stuck with me.  On my very first flight, as a seven-year-old flying to Houston alone to visit my aunt and uncle, I sat next to a businessman—late forties, suit and tie, receding hairline.  He played tic-tac-toe and hangman with me in his leather-bound notepad.  On the way home a college student had the window seat, an Asian-American girl with sleek hair cut like a bell around her face.  She talked to me about college, what she was doing, and what I liked to do or might want to be when I grew up.  When I flew to (or from) Europe the first time (or the second time) there was a German family behind me, flying with their young baby.  By now, that baby will be at least six, maybe eleven years old.  I still remember the faces I made through the seats at him, a secret from his parents to make him laugh.  Does he remember, too?

It’s strange to me to think about these people now.  I’d like to thank them for their compassion and my memories, to express my appreciation that they let down their barriers for a while.  I’d like to tell them that I’m grateful they didn’t pretend that we are all strangers, that they were willing to dive into the common ground we all share as human beings.  I’d like to, but I don’t know any of their names, nor where they are now or what their lives are like.  We crossed each other’s paths for the barest moment, and the chances we’ll get back are infinitesimal.

But this world has a lot more miracles than we think.  Maybe one or all of these people will find this blog someday and remember the tiny girl with big hair and big eyes, talking about stories and dreams.  Maybe they stop to think about me occasionally too, and wonder what I’m doing with my one life.  Because at one point we flew together, and that should be something worth remembering.

Be Vewwy Quiet

Job hunting is hard.

For those of you who don’t know (which is probably most of you), I just recently lost my job.  I was working for a corporate restaurant, and the corporation decided to close my restaurant.  We didn’t have very much warning, which is sad, but that’s life, I suppose.

It’s not a crisis.  I have a bit of money put away, enough to keep me fed and housed for a month or two at least.  I’d like not to have to dip too much into my savings, though, and so I am on the hunt.  Let me tell you something: as hunters go, I’m kind of at the bottom of the pile.

First of all, I haven’t done this very much.  I’ve only had a handful of jobs, and most of them I got through people I know.  My dad, a soccer coach, got me into refereeing for little kids’ soccer when I was sixteen or so.  A year later, I took my first summer job babysitting for a lady at my church.  Throughout college I had the same work-study position, and my summer camp jobs I got through a friend of mine.  When I graduated, I got the job I’ve had for the past four years by going around to different restaurants and asking for applications. 

In my opinion, the internet doesn’t make the search any easier.  You tend to get lost in the sea of candidates and opportunities.  And a job description only tells you so much about the job; usually it says nothing about the people who work there, the customers or clientele you might have to deal with, or whether your boss will be an asshole. 

(Side note: I’ve either been very lucky or very unlucky with bosses, not much in between.  I’ve had creepy no-idea-what-personal-space-is bosses, funny talk-in-bad-accents-and-give-everyone-a-nickname bosses, and then there was the one who used to come and have serious conversations with me while wearing a banana costume.)

Then there’s the whole etiquette issue.  What am I supposed to wear to a meet-and-greet that might be an interview and might not?  If my handshake is weak, does that mean I won’t get hired?  Everyone says a potential employer decides whether or not to hire you based on the first thirty seconds, which strikes me as very unfair, honestly.  What if I trip and fall on the way into the room?  Do I try to be polite and professional, or is it more important to seem friendly and genuine?  What is the balance?  It’s  a social nightmare of reading half a dozen cues a minute, trying to figure out how to say what the interviewer wants to hear without lying.  Good thing I have a BA in BS—all those papers in college taught me how to put the right spin on anything.

All in all, I feel that I make a good impression, but nothing is certain.  It’s hard to find the right fit with the right atmosphere, hours, salary, and benefits.  And while I maintain that money is not the most important thing, it is pretty important, and it starts to seem more so after a few weeks of paying bills out of a diminishing savings account.  The only advice I have to people who might be in the same boat is: hang in there.  Keep trying.  Don’t take the first thing that comes up if you know you’re going to hate it—the stress and anxiety of a job you dread going to isn’t worth the money.  But don’t hold out for something perfect, because let’s face it, your chances of finding perfection are never good.  Try new things, because you never know what you might enjoy.  And if you do spot a good opportunity, don’t wait!  Positions don’t stay open forever.

One more thing that I wish someone had told me when I was a kid: you don’t have to find all of your happiness in your job.  It’s important to be comfortable, but it's impossible for everyone who works to find soul food and spiritual fulfillment in their 9 to 5.  So do what you love, even if it’s only in your hours off the clock.  That’s what I’ve been doing for the past four years, and what I will probably doing for the next four.  And that’s okay with me.  When you really love something, you make time for it.  You make it work.

The Right to Question Everything, Even Rights

I rather like to be challenged.  Opposition brings strength to my character and my beliefs.  I learn more about myself and about what I believe in when someone else questions either one, or else they express a belief that is different from my own.  Often, I take for granted that what I know about the world is all there is to know, and so it’s enlightening and exciting to learn otherwise.

I’m being challenged a bit right now in reading Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari.  It’s a fascinating book that looks at the biological and evolutionary history of our species, trying to explain in purely scientific terms why we humans—and not any other kind of humans—have made it to the top of the food chain.  I’m enjoying it immensely, but frequently the author will express opinions that run counter to my own viewpoint.  One of the things that jars me is the fact that Harari writes from an atheist viewpoint.  It makes sense for a scholar, but it makes me realize just how much my Christian background informs my worldview.  I would bet that it informs your worldview, as well, even if you’re not a Christian.

Take, for example, the passage that I just read this morning, which explores the Christian influence on the Declaration of Independence.  Harari takes a look at the first line, that famous “We hold these truths” quote.  Many of us who went to school in the United States will know that one by heart.  But Harari’s take on it is a bit different.  Try “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men evolved differently, that they are born with certain mutable characteristics, and that among these are life and the pursuit of pleasure” (110).

Huh?  What is that all about?  Well, Harari points out that in the version we know, there are many phrases that have nothing to do with biological reality.  He claims that without a Creator to demand equality, equality itself is a myth.  And in biological terms, he’s right—survival of the fittest means that there are those who are more fit to live, and those who are less.  That is how our race has come to this point.  Equality and liberty, says Harari, are created realities to help our society function in the way that we want it to, much like religion, politics, and economics.

I can see where he’s coming from, but I have to admit, it’s a little depressing to think about.  We already are having enough trouble holding to those “self-evident” truths.  If the myth of equality fades away, the structure of our society could crumble away into chaos.  But then, Harari talks about how powerful myths are, changing the form and scope of society across thousands of years.  Myths—or in other words, ideas that we can believe in—are what have brought us together, made it possible for thousands or even millions of people to work towards the same goals.  It’s going to take a little bit more than a single scientific mind to change the subjective reality of equality.

I would submit to you, and to Harari, that humans have evolved beyond the purely biological.  We have created, if you will, a new reality of the mind.  So many people have put so much energy into ideals and dreams over the centuries, and energy cannot be created or destroyed, can it?  Even though things like love and faith and peace cannot be touched, does that really mean they aren’t real?  I think—I know—that there are things in the world that science cannot explain.

There is something else that Harari said that intrigues me.  In his dissection of the Declaration’s first line, he denies the existence of rights, saying that biology has no room for such things.  “Birds fly not because they have a right to fly, but because they have wings” (109).  Now, despite the fact that this line was used in a critique of ideas that have informed my life and education, reading it gave me something of a thrill, because I took it an entirely different way.  It points out that no one gave permission for birds to fly; they were made for it—or else they became what they needed to be in order to do it.  Within the analogy Harari has constructed, what does that mean for humans?  It means we don’t have a right to equality or freedom—that’s what we were made for.  That’s what we have become.  And that, I think, is more true and real than anything Harari is criticizing.  The evolution of our minds, the thoughts and ideas that we have created over the centuries, are not a prison of false realities.  Rather, they are little by little setting us free, as we were meant to be.

All of my thoughts today are based on chapter six, "Building Pyramids".  Don't be surprised if I bring more of my interpretations to this blog as I continue my reading.  I would very much encourage you to read the book yourself and would love to hear what you have to think.  Find it on Amazon here.

Keep the Receipt for that Pity

Today, I am going to my very first birthday party.  For the purposes of this post, I define ‘birthday party’ as a premeditated gathering of friends for the sole purpose of celebrating my birthday.  That this is my first may not seem strange to most of you, unless you figure out somehow that I am well into my twenties.  I myself am aware that it might seem surprising.  I’ve told a few friends that I never had a party for my birthday when I was a kid, and they were shocked.  “Not even once?” they asked.  “That sucks.” 

Well, I am writing this post to reply to that righteous outrage.  Gratefully, kindly, lovingly, I have only two words to say: Stop that. 

Stop feeling sorry for me because I never had something you took for granted.  When someone feels sorry for me, I tend to take on that emotion and start feeling sorry for myself.  And I don’t like feeling sorry for myself, because I am not a sorry person and my life is not a sad one.  Yes, maybe I did have four brothers and sisters and we couldn’t all have yearly birthday parties.  Yes, maybe my birthday was in summer and it was hard to get all of my friends together for a celebration while they were out and about on vacation.  (This was the pre-facebook era; invites would have needed to go out by phone or by mail.) 

But I remember every birthday growing up having been a wonderful one.  I always got great presents, and I can’t even remember whether they were expensive or not.  My siblings were nice to me on my birthdays (or at least they tried to be), and I had great cakes.  For a few years, when my dad was working at the local public library, he brought home specialty cakes made by a coworker, beautifully decorated on request.  Then there was the year I made my own, a mound of crumbs with frosting dripped on top—I still laugh when I think of that one.  And I did have a few birthday sleepovers, which were that much more fun because they were reserved for a few true friends.  Even as a child, I never felt deprived because I didn’t have raucous, chaotic gatherings of kids I wasn’t related to and didn’t really know.

And now that I’m an adult, I’m realizing that I don’t much like parties anyway.  My actual birthday passed earlier this week with no more notice except a few good wishes and a day of taking care of myself.  The “party” tonight is really just a gathering of a handful of my very best friends.  Do I appreciate their desire to celebrate me?  With all of my heart.  But I refuse to let the thought that this is the first time be anything but joy.

I have no complaints about my life thus far, and if I don’t choose to remember the things that might have been lacking, don’t point them out.  Everyone has different ideas about what makes happiness, and if they can find it, great.  Don’t feel sorry for me; be happy with me.  It’s much better that way, trust me.

Lucky Number 26

I had a birthday this week, meaning a part of the way I define myself has changed.  I am no longer 25, but 26, which one of my friends pointed out in mock horror is now my late twenties.  Gasp!  I don’t mind, however.  For one thing, I don’t ever want to be afraid of aging.  The way I see it, making it this far in a crazy world is something I can be proud of.  For another, 26 is my lucky number, so I have high hopes for this coming year.

I’ve told a few people this, and they’re usually surprised.  Apparently 26 is a strange number to consider lucky.  This in turn surprised me, because I was unaware that there are standards that judge the luckiness of numbers.  Isn’t it a decision based on personal observation?  For example, my father’s lucky number is 5, because he was born in 1955.  Mine is 26 because I was rookie number 26 in marching band years ago, and it’s stuck with me. 

But I’m willing to play along.  What makes a number lucky?  I googled it, and most of the results involved number games—“add up the numbers in your birthdate to get your lucky number”.  Well, I tried it, minus the zeroes: 7 + 1 + 1 + 9 + 9 is 27, and 2 + 7 is 9.  Okay.  As far as I can tell, though, 9 hasn’t ever done me any good.  I tried a second generator which asked me to put in a set of numbers, from which the lucky number would be chosen based on my first name and my birth date.  I gave the generator 2, 6, 8, 12, 13, 14, 16, 26, 48, and 52.  Guess what it gave me?  26.  Of course, it may be biased, because all of my choices were somehow derived from 26 to begin with.  Still, isn’t it interesting that it picked the one that I was going for?

Then I polled Facebook to see what others had to say.  Three different friends told me their choices were arbitrary, while several others had choices based on their birthdays.  One friend chose 9 because she liked the shape of it; another picked 3 because it groups well.  Everyone seems to make different associations with certain numbers and gravitate towards the positive associations.

Of course, there are certain associations that we share.  The first number to spring to mind when we ask about lucky numbers is 7.  Makes sense—7 days in a week, 7 seas, 7 continents, 007.  As a fantasy writer, I can tell you that that genre loves 7: the 7^th son of a 7^th son is always imbued with magic, not to mention the 7 dwarves.  What makes 7 so special?  Coming from my own Judeo-Christian education, I remember once being told that traditionally, biblical scholar associated 7 with perfection, as 3 was heavenly (the holy Trinity) while 4 represented earth (4 corners, right?).  Maybe that has something to do with it.  (There’s an article about 7 here which offers a few more theories).  Conversely, 6 is considered unlucky in the same tradition—almost perfect, but not quite.  I remember when I was a kid being told that I couldn’t have 6 as my favorite number because it was the devil’s number—666.  Maybe the inclusion of a 6 in my current favorite is a kind of perverseness.  Finally, there’s that most famous of the unlucky numbers, 13, which has its own word to describe the fear of it—triskaidekaphobia.  Try spelling that without spell check, I dare you.  What’s wrong with 13?  Is it because Death is the 13^th card in the Tarot deck, or because Judas was the 13^th apostle?  Does it have to do with knights Templar, or can we just credit it with 13 not being 12—again, almost perfect, but not quite?  Probably all of these things have contributed to it.  (And it hasn’t escaped my notice that 26 is two 13s.  I continue to be perverse even without realizing it.  For more about 13, check this out.)

In the end, what does luck really mean?  I think luck comes from the energy that we put into it.  We associate certain things with certain numbers, and so we notice more when those associations turn out to be true.  Does that mean that luck is all in our heads?  Well, yes, but isn’t everything else?  It’s comforting to have something to fall back on to help us make decisions.  Humans are subjective thinkers; we can’t help it.  So we adopt favorites—numbers, colors, songs, quotes—and use them to help guide us through this crazy world.  It makes the chaos of the many choices before us a little bit easier to navigate.

Don't Say It if You Don't Mean It

The radio was telling me a few days ago about an attack on an Istanbul airport.  So many dead, so many injured, so many in serious condition—I don’t remember the details, and I don’t particularly want to, because we are so inured to wanton devastation these days that those details may not mean as much as they should.  What stands out in my memory is one fact: that at the time, no one had “claimed responsibility” for the attack.

I hate that phrase.  It’s used nearly every time something horrible happens: who will “claim responsibility” for this new nightmare?  Clearly, these violent people have a different idea of responsibility than I do.  To me, “responsibility” involves some idea of the consequences of your actions.  Are these terrorists going to pay for the damages to buildings and infrastructure?  Will they pay for those put out of work by their actions?  Will they provide medical care to those injured?  Will they acknowledge in any way the lives that were destroyed? 

To be responsible is not just to know one’s fault, but to do what one can to correct it.  There’s no responsibility after these events, only a careless boasting that grinds salt into our wounds.  Bad enough that we have suffered; now the guilty want to pretend that there is a good reason for our suffering.  It all makes me see red.  It’s not responsibility; it’s guilt.  And the least we can do is call it what it is.

Without a Sound

The world is not quiet.  Even on a day when nothing much is happening, like today, I can hear the clock ticking, and birds singing, and down the street that kid playing with his model airplane yet again, and the air conditioning kicking in, and my cat’s stomach rumbling.

But sometimes, when I’m not paying such close attention, all that fades into the background and the silence wraps around me like a blanket knitted by a friend.  Time doesn’t stop, of course—it never does—but it stops glaring at me for a little while.  And I sink into the silence and rest in the absolute peace of it.

Sometimes, silence grates, like a noise that won’t stop, making me need to get out, to do something, to fill it with words or music or nonsense.  But sometimes silence is exactly what I need, and at those times it is more beautiful than music.