I am the prize dork of all time. See "Who Says I'm a Dork?," below. It’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s an honorable tradition in my family. My father and my brother Michael were; my brothers David and Ron are too. Their sons, Christian and Casey, respectively, will carry on the family tradition also. Ron’s second son, Andrew, is only six weeks old at the time of this writing, so it’s too early to make a call on him.
For the uninitiated, there is a difference between a nerd and a dork. A nerd is someone who’s one-dimensional, and tends to fade into the background. Sort of like an accountant. Dorks have presence. For better or worse, you know we’re there. You can usually count on us to say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time. Consequently, we tend to be socially awkward and less than desirable to the opposite sex. In my case, even if I did manage to elicit any sort of female interest, I was often oblivious to it, and even if I had not been, would not have known what to do anyway.
A year ago, my wife met a female high school classmate of mine, who for some reason told Dawn that she had a crush on me when we were in high school. She averred, correctly, that she didn’t think I was aware of it. I hadn’t the slightest idea. The prize dork of all time.
As you might imagine, this did not bode well for my social life. Throughout my high school years, I didn’t date anyone, spent lots of time alone, and didn’t hang with a crowd. For the most part, the groups I did spend time with tended to be all male. As I was to learn, this caused my mother some concern.
I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I think it was during my Senior year of high school. I recall being seventeen at the time. It was a Sunday morning, and as was my custom, I was at the stove cooking some scrambled eggs. I was just about six feet tall at the time, and weighed a whopping 155 pounds. My mother, who stood five feet four in heels, walked over to me, and stood perhaps a centimeter away from me. I guess the time had come for her to get an answer to the question that had been eating at her for God knows how long.
She looked up at me, batted her eyes a couple of times and asked, with utmost sincerity, “Ed, you do like girls, don’t you?”
I was so taken aback I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, which is probably just as well, because if I had even joked about being gay, she would have had a heart attack on the spot. I assured her that I do, indeed, ‘like girls,’ and we never spoke of the matter again.
For the record, I am happily heterosexual, and no, I’m not going to provide references. The best thing to come out of this was that when I finally did start dating, she was so relieved that I was bringing home girls, and that they were white, that I didn’t have to worry about her disapproving of my girlfriends.
I remember her query as one of the great missed opportunities of my life, but when you’re a dork, you can’t always come up with the ideal punch line. I am biding my time though. One of these days, I plan to try this out on Christian and Casey.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Anatomy Lesson
My mother’s family is Lebanese. When we were growing up, that meant two things to “the kids.” First, we had lots of great food. Second, when our parents didn’t want us to know what they were talking about, they spoke Arabic.
It’s difficult to render in English some of the words we learned. Arabic is a much more musical language than English. “God willing” is “Uzzha Allahruud.” Uzzha has the u-sound like ‘up’ and the zzha sounds like ‘Zsa Zsa,’ as in Gabor. Allahruud starts with the same ‘up’ sound, and you have to kind of roll the r into the uud, kind of like you’re saying “rood.” I know a few more words in Arabic, but aside from the words for grandmother and grandfather, nothing you’d use in polite company.
Then there’s the Z-word, Zubra. We learned the word when I was in college, and started calling each other zubra all the time. My brother David became the Big Zubra, and Ronnie became the Little Zubra. It was a convenient and stealthy way to call each other dicks without anyone else knowing what we were saying.
The anatomy lesson came the day before I graduated from college. David showed up at my fraternity house on the morning of the day before graduation. He came with my brother Michael and his friend Mitch. They had my friend’s pickup truck; the plan was for Michael and Mitch to go to Dickinson, my college, get my belongings, and return home. They were to leave David with me. We would later be joined by my mother, Ronnie, and her two sisters, Aunt Phil and Aunt Esther. The Aunts, as they are known to the entire family, are textbook maiden aunts. They love the hell out of all their nieces and nephews, but they also have high standards for us. They found it hard to tolerate any sort of misbehavior, and have, I think, lived their entire lives believing sex is dirty and disgusting. All the time, not only when you’re doing it right, as Woody Allen put it. They therefore didn’t like us throwing the Z-word around.
Aunt Esther, now retired, took up one of the three options that were available to women who grew up at the time she did. She became a nurse. The other options were teaching and the convent. She eventually ended up teaching at the nursing school of a nearby hospital and taught religion for her parish’s Confraternity of Christian Doctrine program. That’s about as close to the Trifecta as you can come.
Aunt Phil had a number of administrative/clerical jobs and was the family enforcer. When we were kids, we were all terrified of her. She was our parents’ ultimate threat. Whenever we’d start to get out of line, somebody’s mom or dad would order us to straighten up or they’d send in Aunt Phil. After that, you could hear a pin drop.
To get back to the story, the afternoon before graduation, my mother, the Aunts, and Ronnie showed up to my fraternity-house room. Ronnie was wearing a jacket his team had been awarded for winning the Pop Warner football championship. Like all little brothers, Ronnie was terrible for stealing my clothes. His two rationalizations were a) “I never see you wearing it,” (Of course not. I’m usually 200 miles away at college). And b) “It fits me good,” as if that entitled him to have it. I once tried walking into a department store and leaving with a Hart Shaffner & Marx suit. I was all prepared with the “It fits me good,” argument. I made it out of the store. The suit didn’t.
I remarked on how nice the jacket was, and tried it on. I turned to David and said, “Look, Zu, it fits me good.” Ronnie kind of smiled, but my mother and the Aunts just looked disgusted. It was such a pleasure to see my brothers that we carried on in our usual manner for much of the time, annoying the Aunts, and my mother, who tended to be much less tolerant of us when her sisters were around. We were scheduled to go to dinner that evening with my then girlfriend, but David didn’t have a belt to wear. I don’t know why it was so important, but we had to get him a belt. As I drove to the J.C. Penney store at a mall in Carlisle, Pennyslvania, David and Ronnie were giving each other their usual hard time.
By this point, the patience of the three women in the car was just about gone. The final straw came when one of them punched the other on the arm and drew the response, “You zubra!” That was too much for Aunt Esther. “You boys! You use that word, zubra, and you don’t even know what it means.” Obviously, she was angry, because otherwise she would have known this was exactly the wrong thing to say to David.
“So tell me, Aunt Esther, what does it mean?”
“That’s your penis and your scrotum.”
I almost wrecked the car. Even my mother laughed.
We eventually made it to dinner, and Ronnie and David were well behaved throughout the meal, probably out of fear. My mother and the Aunts were charming. My girlfriend passed inspection; she and I eventually went our separate ways.
I’ll never forget how and when I found out the true meaning of the Z-word. Someday, I’ll pass that bit of knowledge on to my brothers’ boys. After all, what are uncles for?
It’s difficult to render in English some of the words we learned. Arabic is a much more musical language than English. “God willing” is “Uzzha Allahruud.” Uzzha has the u-sound like ‘up’ and the zzha sounds like ‘Zsa Zsa,’ as in Gabor. Allahruud starts with the same ‘up’ sound, and you have to kind of roll the r into the uud, kind of like you’re saying “rood.” I know a few more words in Arabic, but aside from the words for grandmother and grandfather, nothing you’d use in polite company.
Then there’s the Z-word, Zubra. We learned the word when I was in college, and started calling each other zubra all the time. My brother David became the Big Zubra, and Ronnie became the Little Zubra. It was a convenient and stealthy way to call each other dicks without anyone else knowing what we were saying.
The anatomy lesson came the day before I graduated from college. David showed up at my fraternity house on the morning of the day before graduation. He came with my brother Michael and his friend Mitch. They had my friend’s pickup truck; the plan was for Michael and Mitch to go to Dickinson, my college, get my belongings, and return home. They were to leave David with me. We would later be joined by my mother, Ronnie, and her two sisters, Aunt Phil and Aunt Esther. The Aunts, as they are known to the entire family, are textbook maiden aunts. They love the hell out of all their nieces and nephews, but they also have high standards for us. They found it hard to tolerate any sort of misbehavior, and have, I think, lived their entire lives believing sex is dirty and disgusting. All the time, not only when you’re doing it right, as Woody Allen put it. They therefore didn’t like us throwing the Z-word around.
Aunt Esther, now retired, took up one of the three options that were available to women who grew up at the time she did. She became a nurse. The other options were teaching and the convent. She eventually ended up teaching at the nursing school of a nearby hospital and taught religion for her parish’s Confraternity of Christian Doctrine program. That’s about as close to the Trifecta as you can come.
Aunt Phil had a number of administrative/clerical jobs and was the family enforcer. When we were kids, we were all terrified of her. She was our parents’ ultimate threat. Whenever we’d start to get out of line, somebody’s mom or dad would order us to straighten up or they’d send in Aunt Phil. After that, you could hear a pin drop.
To get back to the story, the afternoon before graduation, my mother, the Aunts, and Ronnie showed up to my fraternity-house room. Ronnie was wearing a jacket his team had been awarded for winning the Pop Warner football championship. Like all little brothers, Ronnie was terrible for stealing my clothes. His two rationalizations were a) “I never see you wearing it,” (Of course not. I’m usually 200 miles away at college). And b) “It fits me good,” as if that entitled him to have it. I once tried walking into a department store and leaving with a Hart Shaffner & Marx suit. I was all prepared with the “It fits me good,” argument. I made it out of the store. The suit didn’t.
I remarked on how nice the jacket was, and tried it on. I turned to David and said, “Look, Zu, it fits me good.” Ronnie kind of smiled, but my mother and the Aunts just looked disgusted. It was such a pleasure to see my brothers that we carried on in our usual manner for much of the time, annoying the Aunts, and my mother, who tended to be much less tolerant of us when her sisters were around. We were scheduled to go to dinner that evening with my then girlfriend, but David didn’t have a belt to wear. I don’t know why it was so important, but we had to get him a belt. As I drove to the J.C. Penney store at a mall in Carlisle, Pennyslvania, David and Ronnie were giving each other their usual hard time.
By this point, the patience of the three women in the car was just about gone. The final straw came when one of them punched the other on the arm and drew the response, “You zubra!” That was too much for Aunt Esther. “You boys! You use that word, zubra, and you don’t even know what it means.” Obviously, she was angry, because otherwise she would have known this was exactly the wrong thing to say to David.
“So tell me, Aunt Esther, what does it mean?”
“That’s your penis and your scrotum.”
I almost wrecked the car. Even my mother laughed.
We eventually made it to dinner, and Ronnie and David were well behaved throughout the meal, probably out of fear. My mother and the Aunts were charming. My girlfriend passed inspection; she and I eventually went our separate ways.
I’ll never forget how and when I found out the true meaning of the Z-word. Someday, I’ll pass that bit of knowledge on to my brothers’ boys. After all, what are uncles for?
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Who Says I'm a Dork?
Actually, I do; all the time. I often stake my claim to being ‘the prize dork of all time.’ It’s time to document the incident that will settle the debate permanently.
In 1985 I was director of Employee Relations for the county government of Beaver County, Pennsylvania. My staff and I were in the midst of installing a new Payroll, Benefits, Position Control and Budgeting system. It was a huge undertaking, requiring lots of weekends and late nights. It happened on a weeknight in September or October. We were in the Employee Relations office, me, some of my staff and people from the Data Processing department.
As I recall, we were knee deep in paper, validating data. I was in my office, and everyone else was in the outer office. Someone came and knocked on my door. “Ed, there are some people here to see you.” I walked out into the office and saw my former girlfriend, Molly, and her roommate, Mercedes. At the time, they were undergraduates at West Virginia University, in Morgantown, West Virginia some 90 miles from where I was, in Beaver Pennsylvania. I was able to collect myself well enough to say hello and invite them into my office. On a lark, they had driven from Morgantown to my parents’ house with the idea that the three of us would go somewhere to for drinks. They visited with my parents for a while, then drove to the Court House to see me.
There I was, in my office with two attractive co-eds, who wanted to go to a bar with me, and had driven nearly a hundred miles to do so. It was the first time I met Mercedes. She was gorgeous, and Molly was nothing to sneeze at either. I knew enough to realize I couldn’t leave everyone else working and go out with them. I suppose I could have sent everyone home and then gone out. My favorite bar was right down the road. But I was 25 years old, and trying to make a name for myself as a guy who could get things done. Our target for full implementation of the new system, ‘going live,’ was January 1, 1986. I made my apologies and sent Molly and Mercedes away.
It’s now 23 years later, and just last night, I was driving home and realized what an idiotic choice that was. Two hot chicks in my office asking me out. That just doesn’t happen to guys like me. Me and the two of them. Alcohol. Freedom. I even had a credit card. The possibilities were endless. The legendary ménage a trios was not out of the question. It could have been the greatest night of my life, up to that point. I sent them away, stayed and worked.
I am the prize dork of all time.
In 1985 I was director of Employee Relations for the county government of Beaver County, Pennsylvania. My staff and I were in the midst of installing a new Payroll, Benefits, Position Control and Budgeting system. It was a huge undertaking, requiring lots of weekends and late nights. It happened on a weeknight in September or October. We were in the Employee Relations office, me, some of my staff and people from the Data Processing department.
As I recall, we were knee deep in paper, validating data. I was in my office, and everyone else was in the outer office. Someone came and knocked on my door. “Ed, there are some people here to see you.” I walked out into the office and saw my former girlfriend, Molly, and her roommate, Mercedes. At the time, they were undergraduates at West Virginia University, in Morgantown, West Virginia some 90 miles from where I was, in Beaver Pennsylvania. I was able to collect myself well enough to say hello and invite them into my office. On a lark, they had driven from Morgantown to my parents’ house with the idea that the three of us would go somewhere to for drinks. They visited with my parents for a while, then drove to the Court House to see me.
There I was, in my office with two attractive co-eds, who wanted to go to a bar with me, and had driven nearly a hundred miles to do so. It was the first time I met Mercedes. She was gorgeous, and Molly was nothing to sneeze at either. I knew enough to realize I couldn’t leave everyone else working and go out with them. I suppose I could have sent everyone home and then gone out. My favorite bar was right down the road. But I was 25 years old, and trying to make a name for myself as a guy who could get things done. Our target for full implementation of the new system, ‘going live,’ was January 1, 1986. I made my apologies and sent Molly and Mercedes away.
It’s now 23 years later, and just last night, I was driving home and realized what an idiotic choice that was. Two hot chicks in my office asking me out. That just doesn’t happen to guys like me. Me and the two of them. Alcohol. Freedom. I even had a credit card. The possibilities were endless. The legendary ménage a trios was not out of the question. It could have been the greatest night of my life, up to that point. I sent them away, stayed and worked.
I am the prize dork of all time.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Hiding From Sister Mary Audrey
Some years ago, my cousin was in the intensive care unit of a local hospital. She had a history of asthma, and had developed pneumonia, which progressed to Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome. It finally killed her. My Aunt and Uncle were at the hospital constantly. By this time Audrey was on a ventilator, and heavily sedated to keep her from fighting the ventilator.
It was a Saturday, and my wife, Dawn, and I were in the family waiting area trying to give my Aunt and Uncle some support. My cousin Mary and her husband Joe were there too. The family waiting area was two rooms, in an L pattern. My Aunt and Uncle were in the room closest to the corridor. Dawn and I and Joe and Mary were in the rear room. While we were there, two of the nuns from my Aunt and Uncle’s parish came to visit. I didn’t know one of them, but the other was frighteningly familiar. Sister Mary Audrey.
I had Sister Mary Audrey when I was in fifth or sixth grade at St Titus School, the school that is part of my Aunt and Uncle’s parish. Sister Mary Audrey hated me. She was always on her moral high horse, lecturing us about our shortcomings as human beings. In what I now consider an anticipation of Yoda’s admonition that anger fear and aggression lead to the Dark Side of The Force, Sister Mary Audrey condemned sneakiness. In her mind, being a sneak led to being a thief, and if one was a thief, one inevitably had to lie about one’s thievery. The triple crown was becoming a sneak, a thief and a liar. One of the wittier guys in the grade ahead of me asked if I had yet been admitted to Sister Mary Audrey’s Sneak, Thief and Liar Club. Feeling somewhat ashamed, I admitted I had. He gave me a look of commiseration, suggesting I was in good company.
I’m not entirely sure why Sister Mary Audrey disliked me, but at over 30 years’ remove, I can now think of several valid reasons. First, I didn’t work at anything near my ability. I didn’t want to. Second, I had become a bit of a class clown. Once I discovered I could get laughs, it was all over but the crying. One of my favorite approaches was to provide a running commentary to whatever we were hearing from our teachers that day. I could get my friends to giggle, and my parents were told I was slick enough to avoid being caught red handed, but there was always ‘that undertone.’ Finally, at age 13, most of the boys were beginning to experience the awkwardness and confusion of puberty. It’s well known, at least to cynics like me, that nuns in Catholic schools take out their own sexual frustrations on their male students, and the nuns at St. Titus were no exception. They were not above smacking us with their rulers or any other weapon that was at hand. Most of us hated them back.
For some reason, they didn’t seem to mistreat the girls as they did the boys, even though some of the girls had developed obvious breasts and were not above using their newly acquired feminine wiles to get us boys to do all manner of stupid things. Perhaps the nuns held out hope that some of the girls would enter the convent. Obviously, no member of the Sneak, Thief and Liar Club was material for the priesthood. The girls even called Sister Mary Audrey “S.M.A.” with something like affection. I didn’t get it. Bottom line, Sister Mary Audrey hated me (or so I believed) and I hated her right back. There’s something about an old, celibate woman with a ruler tucked up her sleeve that didn’t sit well with me.
Fast forward 20 years to the family waiting area outside the ICU. My Aunt and Uncle were glad to see the two nuns and conversed with them for some time. As soon as I saw ‘S.M.A.’ I made sure Dawn was between me and her at all times.
Dawn, who is no one’s fool, caught on quickly, and soon cornered me and said “You’re hiding, aren’t you?”
“You’re damned right I am!”
I don’t know if Sister Mary Audrey saw me, or if she did, whether she recognized me, but I sure saw and knew her. And I was afraid. I was thirty odd years old and in the prime of life, and she was a frail old woman, but I was afraid.
I’ve heard she has since passed on, and I hope she has reaped her heavenly reward. God knows she suffered enough in this life, what with students like me, celibacy, and all. I promise you this, however. If I see her in the next life, before I say hello, I’ll make sure she’s not packing a ruler.
It was a Saturday, and my wife, Dawn, and I were in the family waiting area trying to give my Aunt and Uncle some support. My cousin Mary and her husband Joe were there too. The family waiting area was two rooms, in an L pattern. My Aunt and Uncle were in the room closest to the corridor. Dawn and I and Joe and Mary were in the rear room. While we were there, two of the nuns from my Aunt and Uncle’s parish came to visit. I didn’t know one of them, but the other was frighteningly familiar. Sister Mary Audrey.
I had Sister Mary Audrey when I was in fifth or sixth grade at St Titus School, the school that is part of my Aunt and Uncle’s parish. Sister Mary Audrey hated me. She was always on her moral high horse, lecturing us about our shortcomings as human beings. In what I now consider an anticipation of Yoda’s admonition that anger fear and aggression lead to the Dark Side of The Force, Sister Mary Audrey condemned sneakiness. In her mind, being a sneak led to being a thief, and if one was a thief, one inevitably had to lie about one’s thievery. The triple crown was becoming a sneak, a thief and a liar. One of the wittier guys in the grade ahead of me asked if I had yet been admitted to Sister Mary Audrey’s Sneak, Thief and Liar Club. Feeling somewhat ashamed, I admitted I had. He gave me a look of commiseration, suggesting I was in good company.
I’m not entirely sure why Sister Mary Audrey disliked me, but at over 30 years’ remove, I can now think of several valid reasons. First, I didn’t work at anything near my ability. I didn’t want to. Second, I had become a bit of a class clown. Once I discovered I could get laughs, it was all over but the crying. One of my favorite approaches was to provide a running commentary to whatever we were hearing from our teachers that day. I could get my friends to giggle, and my parents were told I was slick enough to avoid being caught red handed, but there was always ‘that undertone.’ Finally, at age 13, most of the boys were beginning to experience the awkwardness and confusion of puberty. It’s well known, at least to cynics like me, that nuns in Catholic schools take out their own sexual frustrations on their male students, and the nuns at St. Titus were no exception. They were not above smacking us with their rulers or any other weapon that was at hand. Most of us hated them back.
For some reason, they didn’t seem to mistreat the girls as they did the boys, even though some of the girls had developed obvious breasts and were not above using their newly acquired feminine wiles to get us boys to do all manner of stupid things. Perhaps the nuns held out hope that some of the girls would enter the convent. Obviously, no member of the Sneak, Thief and Liar Club was material for the priesthood. The girls even called Sister Mary Audrey “S.M.A.” with something like affection. I didn’t get it. Bottom line, Sister Mary Audrey hated me (or so I believed) and I hated her right back. There’s something about an old, celibate woman with a ruler tucked up her sleeve that didn’t sit well with me.
Fast forward 20 years to the family waiting area outside the ICU. My Aunt and Uncle were glad to see the two nuns and conversed with them for some time. As soon as I saw ‘S.M.A.’ I made sure Dawn was between me and her at all times.
Dawn, who is no one’s fool, caught on quickly, and soon cornered me and said “You’re hiding, aren’t you?”
“You’re damned right I am!”
I don’t know if Sister Mary Audrey saw me, or if she did, whether she recognized me, but I sure saw and knew her. And I was afraid. I was thirty odd years old and in the prime of life, and she was a frail old woman, but I was afraid.
I’ve heard she has since passed on, and I hope she has reaped her heavenly reward. God knows she suffered enough in this life, what with students like me, celibacy, and all. I promise you this, however. If I see her in the next life, before I say hello, I’ll make sure she’s not packing a ruler.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Uncle Henry's Wings
One of the many things I learned in college is that I’m a Sand Nigger. Growing up in a multi-ethnic neighborhood in Western Pennsylvania, I’d heard my share of slurs, but not until my time at an institution of higher learning did I hear that appellation. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Dickinson College was, and probably still is, very much a white, upper middle-class school. Many of the students at Dickinson didn’t have any use for anyone not like themselves, so that if you were ethnic, black, gay or otherwise non-standard, you could expect to be reminded of your outsider status from time to time.
Don’t get me wrong, Sand Niggers were several steps higher on the taxonomic ladder than ordinary Niggers, what the politically correct now call African-Americans. For the record, my mother’s family is Lebanese, and my father was half Polish and half Serbian, a combination that could only have occurred in Western Pennsylvania. I have the olive skin and (used to be) black hair of my mother’s people. From my father’s side of the family I got the Polish nose. The Serb is in there somewhere, but my appearance is definitely Arabic. I’m usually spotted by others of Lebanese descent, or the in-laws of other Lebanese. At Dickinson, I learned to dress and act like a respectable white, middle class American, but absent a Michael Jackson skin-bleach job, I look like what I look like. I never thought it was a big deal.
Then September 11th happened. I was in my office, talking with a supervisor when he got a call on his cell phone saying that terrorists had just flown an airplane into to World Trade Center. My initial reaction was that some nut had flown a Cessna into the tower, and aside from a small fire and a few casualties, there wouldn’t be much to it. Obviously, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It was one of those ‘Where were you?’ moments. As in “Where were you when Kennedy was shot, when the Challenger exploded, or on a happier note, when Maz hit the home run? I was just over a year old when Maz hit the home run, I was in my office at the Beaver County Court House when the Challenger blew up, and I don’t know where I was when Kennedy was shot, but I do seem to remember my mother crying about the President being dead. I know I’ll never forget looking at Nick when his phone rang, and hearing about what Stephen Jay Gould would later describe as the real beginning of the 21st Century.
The rest of the day is mostly a haze. I remember telling my wife that “this is only the beginning,” and being irritated with a man in line in front of me at the gas station for his inability to operate a gas pump. I especially remember returning to the office after going out for a walk, or to St. Peter’s church to pray, I don’t remember which, and seeing a group of people in the lobby clustered outside a room containing a TV as they watched a tape of one of the towers collapsing. “We ought to put all the fucking Arabs in camps, like we did the Japs in World War II,” someone said. I didn’t ask anyone to define ‘we’, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out it didn’t include me.
That sentence, spoken in anger and stupidity, had a profound effect on me. For the first time in my life, I was afraid. Not of anything in particular, but of being the victim of misdirected anger and violence. Everywhere I went, I thought I could feel people’s eyes on me. I imagined them thinking, “He’s one of them. Let’s do something about it.” It reached its nadir when I was in a meeting at work with a group of people I consider friends, and I still couldn’t make the fear go away. It drove me back to therapy. The therapist was understanding, but she almost lost patience at my response when she asked me what I wanted. I told her I wanted a letter from President Bush assuring me that I wouldn’t be sent to an internment camp. I’m still waiting.
Eventually, I got over my fear, but in the process I learned some unsettling things about America, things I would rather not have learned. And I know, that when, God forbid, Osama and his savages strike again, I’ll have those same feelings. I’m not looking forward to it.
One of the things I inherited from my mother when she died was a set of her brother Henry’s wings. He was in the Air Corps during World War II. I think he was a crewman on a B-24. I know for certain he was a radio operator and a gunner. The wings are silver, and I polished them as September 11, 2002 drew near. They’re beautiful. I didn’t wear them; I don’t think that’s something I should do. Uncle Henry earned those wings, I didn’t. I did carry them with me all day, however. I like to think they protected me.
If you’re ever in London, go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. It contains a book with the names of all the Americans based in England who died during the war. One of those names is that of Henry Kanfoush, United States Army Air Corps.
I believe America is a construct of the mind. An idea, if you will. In spite of what I heard in my office on September 11, 2001, I am part of the American “We.” I’m part of the society that put Japanese Americans into internment camps during the second world war, and I am one of the Japanese Americans who spent the war in those internment camps. I am the Sand Nigger who lost his life in the skies over Europe all those years ago, and I am the man who planned to go underground in the fall of 2001 before the local constabulary came looking for me.
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.”
One of the distinguishing characteristics of America is its heterogeneity. There never was a clearly defined “We.” “We” changes daily. I’m part of that.
Don’t get me wrong, Sand Niggers were several steps higher on the taxonomic ladder than ordinary Niggers, what the politically correct now call African-Americans. For the record, my mother’s family is Lebanese, and my father was half Polish and half Serbian, a combination that could only have occurred in Western Pennsylvania. I have the olive skin and (used to be) black hair of my mother’s people. From my father’s side of the family I got the Polish nose. The Serb is in there somewhere, but my appearance is definitely Arabic. I’m usually spotted by others of Lebanese descent, or the in-laws of other Lebanese. At Dickinson, I learned to dress and act like a respectable white, middle class American, but absent a Michael Jackson skin-bleach job, I look like what I look like. I never thought it was a big deal.
Then September 11th happened. I was in my office, talking with a supervisor when he got a call on his cell phone saying that terrorists had just flown an airplane into to World Trade Center. My initial reaction was that some nut had flown a Cessna into the tower, and aside from a small fire and a few casualties, there wouldn’t be much to it. Obviously, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It was one of those ‘Where were you?’ moments. As in “Where were you when Kennedy was shot, when the Challenger exploded, or on a happier note, when Maz hit the home run? I was just over a year old when Maz hit the home run, I was in my office at the Beaver County Court House when the Challenger blew up, and I don’t know where I was when Kennedy was shot, but I do seem to remember my mother crying about the President being dead. I know I’ll never forget looking at Nick when his phone rang, and hearing about what Stephen Jay Gould would later describe as the real beginning of the 21st Century.
The rest of the day is mostly a haze. I remember telling my wife that “this is only the beginning,” and being irritated with a man in line in front of me at the gas station for his inability to operate a gas pump. I especially remember returning to the office after going out for a walk, or to St. Peter’s church to pray, I don’t remember which, and seeing a group of people in the lobby clustered outside a room containing a TV as they watched a tape of one of the towers collapsing. “We ought to put all the fucking Arabs in camps, like we did the Japs in World War II,” someone said. I didn’t ask anyone to define ‘we’, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out it didn’t include me.
That sentence, spoken in anger and stupidity, had a profound effect on me. For the first time in my life, I was afraid. Not of anything in particular, but of being the victim of misdirected anger and violence. Everywhere I went, I thought I could feel people’s eyes on me. I imagined them thinking, “He’s one of them. Let’s do something about it.” It reached its nadir when I was in a meeting at work with a group of people I consider friends, and I still couldn’t make the fear go away. It drove me back to therapy. The therapist was understanding, but she almost lost patience at my response when she asked me what I wanted. I told her I wanted a letter from President Bush assuring me that I wouldn’t be sent to an internment camp. I’m still waiting.
Eventually, I got over my fear, but in the process I learned some unsettling things about America, things I would rather not have learned. And I know, that when, God forbid, Osama and his savages strike again, I’ll have those same feelings. I’m not looking forward to it.
One of the things I inherited from my mother when she died was a set of her brother Henry’s wings. He was in the Air Corps during World War II. I think he was a crewman on a B-24. I know for certain he was a radio operator and a gunner. The wings are silver, and I polished them as September 11, 2002 drew near. They’re beautiful. I didn’t wear them; I don’t think that’s something I should do. Uncle Henry earned those wings, I didn’t. I did carry them with me all day, however. I like to think they protected me.
If you’re ever in London, go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. It contains a book with the names of all the Americans based in England who died during the war. One of those names is that of Henry Kanfoush, United States Army Air Corps.
I believe America is a construct of the mind. An idea, if you will. In spite of what I heard in my office on September 11, 2001, I am part of the American “We.” I’m part of the society that put Japanese Americans into internment camps during the second world war, and I am one of the Japanese Americans who spent the war in those internment camps. I am the Sand Nigger who lost his life in the skies over Europe all those years ago, and I am the man who planned to go underground in the fall of 2001 before the local constabulary came looking for me.
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.”
One of the distinguishing characteristics of America is its heterogeneity. There never was a clearly defined “We.” “We” changes daily. I’m part of that.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Be Yourself
I’m all for people being who and what they are. Here in America, we are relentlessly taught that we are ‘a nation of immigrants.” Of course, status seems to accrue to people whose ancestors have been here the longest (except to those we call “Native Americans”). So regardless of where in the world your ancestors came from, you are who you are. Personally, I am the child of a mother of Lebanese ancestry and a father who was half Polish and half Serbian. It’s a combination that could only happen in western Pennsylvania. Obviously, this line of thinking applies to religion, sexual orientation, political convictions, whatever. Be who and what you are. Accept it, then embrace it. Whoever, and whatever you are, chances are it’s pretty good. Run with it.
I respect smart people who know they’re smart, and to be a bit unkind, dumb people who realize they’re dumb. I can’t stand dumb people who think they’re smart. You know the type, people who use impressive sounding words they don’t know the meaning of, or who use them incorrectly. My favorites are people who don’t have a clue what they’re saying, but want you to believe they’re brilliant.
I used to work with such a person. She was of average intelligence, but was always eager to impress, which led her into some embarrassing moments. I was the Human Resources Manager at this company, and the woman I’m describing did a lot of data entry. She began to experience wrist pain, and sought medical care. So far, so good. At one point, she showed me the bottle that contained the medicine she was taking for inflammation. She was holding the bottle and told me she was taking 10 (Em Gees) twice a day. I thought she was stealing British sports cars, but when I looked at the bottle, I saw the dosage she was taking was 10 milligrams, twice a day. She didn’t know that “mg” is the abbreviation for milligram. So she took her ten Em Gees.
On another occasion, she asked about her eligibility for medical insurance. At the time she was on her husband’s plan. He worked at a local hospital. They were about to go through some staff cutbacks, commonly called lay-offs, or what we in the HR trade euphemistically call a Reduction In Force. No matter what you call it, some people are going to lose their jobs. She told me the hospital might be having a rift. I guess that means all the clinical people were going to stop speaking to the administrative types. When she said her husband might lose his job, I realized she meant to say RIF. I chuckled for days about that one.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m cruel to make fun of another person’s foibles. Perhaps I am. My rationalization is that it’s the pretentiousness I’m making fun of. Big picture, it doesn’t much matter if you don’t know the difference between a milligram and a Morris, or a rift and a RIF. Be who you are, not someone you aren’t. I promise, there will always be someone nearby to figure out that you’re faking it.
I respect smart people who know they’re smart, and to be a bit unkind, dumb people who realize they’re dumb. I can’t stand dumb people who think they’re smart. You know the type, people who use impressive sounding words they don’t know the meaning of, or who use them incorrectly. My favorites are people who don’t have a clue what they’re saying, but want you to believe they’re brilliant.
I used to work with such a person. She was of average intelligence, but was always eager to impress, which led her into some embarrassing moments. I was the Human Resources Manager at this company, and the woman I’m describing did a lot of data entry. She began to experience wrist pain, and sought medical care. So far, so good. At one point, she showed me the bottle that contained the medicine she was taking for inflammation. She was holding the bottle and told me she was taking 10 (Em Gees) twice a day. I thought she was stealing British sports cars, but when I looked at the bottle, I saw the dosage she was taking was 10 milligrams, twice a day. She didn’t know that “mg” is the abbreviation for milligram. So she took her ten Em Gees.
On another occasion, she asked about her eligibility for medical insurance. At the time she was on her husband’s plan. He worked at a local hospital. They were about to go through some staff cutbacks, commonly called lay-offs, or what we in the HR trade euphemistically call a Reduction In Force. No matter what you call it, some people are going to lose their jobs. She told me the hospital might be having a rift. I guess that means all the clinical people were going to stop speaking to the administrative types. When she said her husband might lose his job, I realized she meant to say RIF. I chuckled for days about that one.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m cruel to make fun of another person’s foibles. Perhaps I am. My rationalization is that it’s the pretentiousness I’m making fun of. Big picture, it doesn’t much matter if you don’t know the difference between a milligram and a Morris, or a rift and a RIF. Be who you are, not someone you aren’t. I promise, there will always be someone nearby to figure out that you’re faking it.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Tunnel Policies and Procedures
I live northwest of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and work to its southeast. This means I drive from my home in Beaver County to my place of employment in Munhall. To get to Munhall, I drive the Penn-Lincoln Parkway, known simply as The Parkway, on its western and eastern legs. The Parkway West reaches from the area around Pittsburgh International Airport to downtown. The Parkway East starts downtown, and heads toward the eastern suburbs.
The primary bottleneck on the Parkway West is just before the mouth of the Fort Pitt Tunnels. Just before the Tunnels, the two lanes of the Parkway join the two lanes of Banksville Road, which comes toward town out of the South Hills. The two right lanes become exits onto route 51, which runs perpendicular to the Parkway. The Tunnels accommodate two lanes of traffic, so one is faced with two lanes expanding into four, which in turn narrow down to two. This becomes a bit of an adventure when drivers in the rightmost lane want to get into the leftmost lane, and vice versa. Inevitably, people postpone their lane changes as long as possible, so there’s all sorts of jockeying for position in the last eighth or quarter mile before the entrance to the Tunnels.
I’ve only been doing this for almost two years now, and have noticed some tendencies, and unwritten rules. The first rule seems to be that like standing in line at the bank or supermarket, the lane you’re in is always moving more slowly than the others. I usually adopt a far left lane strategy, but there’s no guarantee the left lane will be the right choice on any day. It’s a bad idea to get behind a tractor-trailer. The drivers of those trucks are understandably cautious as they approach the Tunnels. They’re usually carrying a lot of weight down a slight grade, and they have to be on the lookout for rush hour drivers cutting in front of them. I’ve done it a time or two myself. It all adds up to tractor-trailers advancing toward the Tunnels slowly. If you’re in the first car behind one of them, you’ll move at the same pace.
The lane changes, from left to right and right to left are more interesting. Some people are aggressive, and simply throw their cars in the direction they want to go. I suppose they assume that if they’re reckless enough, people will get out of the way. Others, usually women, play for sympathy. They turn and look back toward oncoming traffic with a ‘please help me’ look on their faces and hope someone will be courteous to let them into their desired lane. Others resort to intimidation. Some turn and look mean, hoping they can scare people out of their way. Others use the mass of their vehicles as a threat, the ‘might makes right’ school of merging. If you’ve ever been in a Toyota Prius next to a Ford Excursion in traffic, you know what I mean.
I try to be courteous when I change lanes, using my signals and waiting for a gap in the line of cars. But I have been known to turn toward other drivers with f**k you eyes. Sometimes it’s fun to mess with somebody early in the morning.
I’ve also developed rules for whom I let into my lane of traffic. Drivers of Honda and Acura vehicles get first preference. Between my wife and me, we’ve owned six Hondas; we currently own three. Accordingly, anyone driving a Honda or Acura is family, after a fashion, so they get a certain level of consideration. BMWs and Audis also receive some courtesy, mainly because I like their cars. Someday, I may even be able to afford one of them. Pickup trucks in particular, and American vehicles in general, don’t stand much of a chance. American car manufacturers have done such a lousy job for so long, I don’t have any respect for them at all. I hear people whining about how every car General Motors builds contains $1500 in employee benefits, but guess what fellas? I don’t care. The reason American car manufacturers are losing market share is that their vehicles suck. American manufacturers just don’t get it. Their cars are poorly designed, use old technology, and drive like pigs. If/when an American manufacturer builds a car as good as my Hondas, I’ll consider buying it. I don’t expect it to happen soon. Here’s a news flash for the bean counters at GM. If you build good cars, people will buy them. And that employee benefits cost, which is a commitment you made to your employees, and are now trying to welsh on, won’t be an issue any longer. But I digress.
Pickup trucks are another bete noir of mine. At the hour of the morning when I’m on the road, the trucks are being driven by plumbers, roofers, carpenters and other working people on the way to their jobs. I respect working people. I’m a child of the working class myself. The problem comes in when the trucks they’re driving are often not their own. It’s too easy for a person to get careless when he’s driving the boss’s truck. If the truck is banged up, and has a bed full of tools rattling around, so much the worse.
If I see a pickup, or any vehicle flying the confederate battle flag, that driver has no chance of me allowing him/her to merge in front of me. I have this thing about ignorant rednecks, and whether they are ignorant northern rednecks or ignorant southern rednecks is immaterial. Anybody who thinks there was anything in the antebellum south worth celebrating, or even remembering is either a racist or delusional. Either way, he’ll not get waved into the space in front of me.
In fact, politics plays a part in whether a person gets waved into my lane. Anything that suggests a driver is a Republican means he doesn’t have a chance to be let into my lane. That applies even to Honda and Acura drivers, and a Santorum sticker is the kiss of death. I’ll go to extraordinary lengths to prevent a person sporting that kind of pornography from getting into my lane. Yes, I’ll cut him off, give him my best mean look, or even resort to the finger.
Cadillacs are at the bottom of the heap. I’ve always been of the opinion that Cadillac drivers think they own the road. And young people in Cadillacs give me the willys. And if that Cadillac is sporting a Bush/Cheney sticker? That’s when I wish I had a 105 mounted on top of the car.
The primary bottleneck on the Parkway West is just before the mouth of the Fort Pitt Tunnels. Just before the Tunnels, the two lanes of the Parkway join the two lanes of Banksville Road, which comes toward town out of the South Hills. The two right lanes become exits onto route 51, which runs perpendicular to the Parkway. The Tunnels accommodate two lanes of traffic, so one is faced with two lanes expanding into four, which in turn narrow down to two. This becomes a bit of an adventure when drivers in the rightmost lane want to get into the leftmost lane, and vice versa. Inevitably, people postpone their lane changes as long as possible, so there’s all sorts of jockeying for position in the last eighth or quarter mile before the entrance to the Tunnels.
I’ve only been doing this for almost two years now, and have noticed some tendencies, and unwritten rules. The first rule seems to be that like standing in line at the bank or supermarket, the lane you’re in is always moving more slowly than the others. I usually adopt a far left lane strategy, but there’s no guarantee the left lane will be the right choice on any day. It’s a bad idea to get behind a tractor-trailer. The drivers of those trucks are understandably cautious as they approach the Tunnels. They’re usually carrying a lot of weight down a slight grade, and they have to be on the lookout for rush hour drivers cutting in front of them. I’ve done it a time or two myself. It all adds up to tractor-trailers advancing toward the Tunnels slowly. If you’re in the first car behind one of them, you’ll move at the same pace.
The lane changes, from left to right and right to left are more interesting. Some people are aggressive, and simply throw their cars in the direction they want to go. I suppose they assume that if they’re reckless enough, people will get out of the way. Others, usually women, play for sympathy. They turn and look back toward oncoming traffic with a ‘please help me’ look on their faces and hope someone will be courteous to let them into their desired lane. Others resort to intimidation. Some turn and look mean, hoping they can scare people out of their way. Others use the mass of their vehicles as a threat, the ‘might makes right’ school of merging. If you’ve ever been in a Toyota Prius next to a Ford Excursion in traffic, you know what I mean.
I try to be courteous when I change lanes, using my signals and waiting for a gap in the line of cars. But I have been known to turn toward other drivers with f**k you eyes. Sometimes it’s fun to mess with somebody early in the morning.
I’ve also developed rules for whom I let into my lane of traffic. Drivers of Honda and Acura vehicles get first preference. Between my wife and me, we’ve owned six Hondas; we currently own three. Accordingly, anyone driving a Honda or Acura is family, after a fashion, so they get a certain level of consideration. BMWs and Audis also receive some courtesy, mainly because I like their cars. Someday, I may even be able to afford one of them. Pickup trucks in particular, and American vehicles in general, don’t stand much of a chance. American car manufacturers have done such a lousy job for so long, I don’t have any respect for them at all. I hear people whining about how every car General Motors builds contains $1500 in employee benefits, but guess what fellas? I don’t care. The reason American car manufacturers are losing market share is that their vehicles suck. American manufacturers just don’t get it. Their cars are poorly designed, use old technology, and drive like pigs. If/when an American manufacturer builds a car as good as my Hondas, I’ll consider buying it. I don’t expect it to happen soon. Here’s a news flash for the bean counters at GM. If you build good cars, people will buy them. And that employee benefits cost, which is a commitment you made to your employees, and are now trying to welsh on, won’t be an issue any longer. But I digress.
Pickup trucks are another bete noir of mine. At the hour of the morning when I’m on the road, the trucks are being driven by plumbers, roofers, carpenters and other working people on the way to their jobs. I respect working people. I’m a child of the working class myself. The problem comes in when the trucks they’re driving are often not their own. It’s too easy for a person to get careless when he’s driving the boss’s truck. If the truck is banged up, and has a bed full of tools rattling around, so much the worse.
If I see a pickup, or any vehicle flying the confederate battle flag, that driver has no chance of me allowing him/her to merge in front of me. I have this thing about ignorant rednecks, and whether they are ignorant northern rednecks or ignorant southern rednecks is immaterial. Anybody who thinks there was anything in the antebellum south worth celebrating, or even remembering is either a racist or delusional. Either way, he’ll not get waved into the space in front of me.
In fact, politics plays a part in whether a person gets waved into my lane. Anything that suggests a driver is a Republican means he doesn’t have a chance to be let into my lane. That applies even to Honda and Acura drivers, and a Santorum sticker is the kiss of death. I’ll go to extraordinary lengths to prevent a person sporting that kind of pornography from getting into my lane. Yes, I’ll cut him off, give him my best mean look, or even resort to the finger.
Cadillacs are at the bottom of the heap. I’ve always been of the opinion that Cadillac drivers think they own the road. And young people in Cadillacs give me the willys. And if that Cadillac is sporting a Bush/Cheney sticker? That’s when I wish I had a 105 mounted on top of the car.
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