On the hottest summer days, air conditioners draw more than their allotment of power and lights dim warning of an immanent blown fuse.
Recently, I’ve immersed myself in equations. Developing my mathematical intuition has put a deal of stress on my capacity to speak. As I spend more of my days mentally manipulating geometric objects, mathematical constructs that model physical phenomena, I become more proficient in translating thought into Greek symbols and integral signs.
But, I’m finding that this skill and that of expressing ideas in English multiply to a constant. My linguistic skills are approaching zero asymptotically.
While working, lapses in concentration shift my consciousness from my left brain to the right. The other day when I was studying, it was providing background music: the Garden state soundtrack. Tapping its foot, lip-syncing, playing the highlights. Fine.
I became lost in left brain. A few hours later, something started to irritate me.
As my focus shifted, I realized it was the music.
Baby Beluga
But there are only two stanzas -- barely, so the song was on repeat “Song That Never Ends” style.
“Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea,
Swim so wild and you swim so free
The waves roll in and the waves roll out see the water comin’ out of your spout. . . doot doot doot. . .
BAAAAYBEE-BA-LOOOGA
BAAAAYBEE-BA-LOOOGA
Is the water warm?
Is the da da dum. . . with you so happy. . .
Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea. . .”
For the next three hours, my right brain became an idiot kid I was babysitting, demanding my attention and being as irritating as possible. Regressing.
Until all that was left was:
BABY BELUGA!! BABY BELUGA!! BABY BELUGA!! BABY BELUGA. . .
“Oh, hey, Sarah?”
Another student startles me out of the trance.
Sharp breath. Microwave beeps.
Stretch and a fridge fan begins to whir.
And, ignorant of the elapsed time, my VCR is flashing 12:00.
Reset, I continue my work.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Thursday, February 10, 2005
A Brick to the Head
Twenty-five e-mails, no body, same subject -- to one of the nicest professors I've met.
Frank Hall You Are A Sexist Pig
And one for the department head too.
Jake Brown You Are A Very Fat Sexist Pig
Sent to all faculty and students in my department, the Dean of the school, and a few reporters from the LA Times, by Sally -- "The Victim" -- one of our tenured professors.
First Mate Susanne, recently denied tenure by the department of Economics because of her "horrible personality" (and who is filing dismissal charges against all tenured faculty in Econ because of the denial) is an accomplice. The two flood our e-mail server and argue with the cool logic of Ann Coulter, and Bill O’Reilly.
Sally claims to have won a medal, and the claim is dubious at best. The foundation that gives the award confirmed that she never received it. She retorts that the Dean conveniently tracked down an alternative institution awarding a prize with the same name as the one she did get. But, she is offering no alternative organization to contact. right
The Dean tells her that she needs to issue a retraction to her claim. She won't back down, and Susanne demands that the Dean apologize for doubting the success of a brilliant woman. An excerpt, from "How To Apologize" by Susanne:
Frank Hall You Are A Sexist Pig
And one for the department head too.
Jake Brown You Are A Very Fat Sexist Pig
Sent to all faculty and students in my department, the Dean of the school, and a few reporters from the LA Times, by Sally -- "The Victim" -- one of our tenured professors.
First Mate Susanne, recently denied tenure by the department of Economics because of her "horrible personality" (and who is filing dismissal charges against all tenured faculty in Econ because of the denial) is an accomplice. The two flood our e-mail server and argue with the cool logic of Ann Coulter, and Bill O’Reilly.
Sally claims to have won a medal, and the claim is dubious at best. The foundation that gives the award confirmed that she never received it. She retorts that the Dean conveniently tracked down an alternative institution awarding a prize with the same name as the one she did get. But, she is offering no alternative organization to contact. right
The Dean tells her that she needs to issue a retraction to her claim. She won't back down, and Susanne demands that the Dean apologize for doubting the success of a brilliant woman. An excerpt, from "How To Apologize" by Susanne:
I am a mother of two children, and I spend a lot of time teaching my children how to say sorry when they've hurt someone, you know, like, when they've hit another child over the head with a brick. I have noticed that lots of people teach their children how to say sorry, but then when their children grow up to become academic deans, they (I mean the deans, not the parents) engage in all sorts of indecent acts, and then it turns out they've forgotten how to say sorry. Since I am not merely a mother, but also an educator, I am happy to explain to you how you should say sorry to The Victim.
There are three components to saying you're sorry. First, you need to say that you're sorry to the person you've hurt, and you need to do it graciously. You're not allowed to wait until the person has left the room and only then say "sorry," or mumble the apology into a tissue as you blow your nose, or say "solly" instead of "sorry," or say "sorry" in a nasty sneering tone of voice, or say "sor" now and "ry" six hours later. (Believe me, I've seen it all.)
Second, you need to specify what it is that you are sorry for, and you need to refer specifically to the hurt you have caused. It doesn't count if you say out loud "I'm sorry ...," and in your mind you add, "... that the grass is brown." Another total no-no is for you to say, "I'm sorry I made you feel bad," or (worse) "I'm sorry you feel bad." This non-apology makes it sound like the problem lies with the other child's feelings rather than with what you did to the other child to cause the feelings. It is also important for you not to wiggle around and apologize for some minor by-product of your action, as in, "I'm sorry I spoiled your hair-do," and meanwhile the blood is spilling out of the other child's head and messing up his or her hair.
Third, you need to make good, that is, take corrective action. An exemplary apology would be for you to say, "I am sorry I hit you over the head with a brick. Please can you tell me what I can do to make your head feel better. Here is my t-shirt, and you can use it to tie around your head so the blood stops flowing. How about I ask my mother to drive you to the hospital."
Sunday, January 30, 2005
The Valley
1 – I get on the highway and see I’m a little low on gas, just above the warning zone.
2 – I soon have to get off the freeway to close the hood when my latch becomes disengaged.
3 – I realize I’m now mid warning zone, and it might be a good time to fill up. And – I forgot my wallet.
4 – When getting back on the freeway, I fail to realize that at some point the 101 intersects with itself at ninty degrees. One portion runs N-S, another runs E-W. However, the E-W portion is still labeled N-S, and a direct route to the valley involves traveling on the 101N, and then the 101S. It was 101N when I got on at first, but taking the 101N after my brief turn off actually took me back towards Los Angeles, where taking the 101S at this point, signed “to Los Angeles” would actually continue taking me away from the city. How stupid of me.
5 – After another five miles on the freeway, my hood’s once again flapping in the breeze.
6 – Off the highway again, I evaluate the cost of my navigational mishap: a half gallon of gas. My gas-o-meter is now hitting the bottom of the orange hazard zone.
7 – *pop* exunt the freeway – again
8 – Sans wallet, was able to scrape together 23 pennies, 17 dimes, six nickels, and 20 eurocents. In LA, that’ll buy you .92 gallons, or about 45 minutes sitting in traffic. The cashier at Shell clearly thinks I’m an idiot.
9 – Arrive, borrow money from friend in the valley, fill up the tank, feel fabulous, like I can go anywhere, do anything “as long as my hood doesn’t. . . crap”.
10 – I pull off, again and test the hood this time:
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
*SLAM* the damn thing shut.
Ow! The grill falls off the car, onto my foot.
Fuck
I examine the grate and decide it’s entirely ornamental.
The fact that I live in the land of highway bumper cars and among even the shittiest of shitty automobiles, none I’ve seen lacked grills, almost persuades me to try to put the thing back on.
But I try the hood again, and this time it doesn’t budge. So, I throw the grate in the passenger seat and pray that frontal nudity on a car isn’t something that gets the attention of the LAPD, known for its recent crackdown on jaywalking and double parking.
And me without my license.
2 – I soon have to get off the freeway to close the hood when my latch becomes disengaged.
3 – I realize I’m now mid warning zone, and it might be a good time to fill up. And – I forgot my wallet.
4 – When getting back on the freeway, I fail to realize that at some point the 101 intersects with itself at ninty degrees. One portion runs N-S, another runs E-W. However, the E-W portion is still labeled N-S, and a direct route to the valley involves traveling on the 101N, and then the 101S. It was 101N when I got on at first, but taking the 101N after my brief turn off actually took me back towards Los Angeles, where taking the 101S at this point, signed “to Los Angeles” would actually continue taking me away from the city. How stupid of me.
5 – After another five miles on the freeway, my hood’s once again flapping in the breeze.
6 – Off the highway again, I evaluate the cost of my navigational mishap: a half gallon of gas. My gas-o-meter is now hitting the bottom of the orange hazard zone.
7 – *pop* exunt the freeway – again
8 – Sans wallet, was able to scrape together 23 pennies, 17 dimes, six nickels, and 20 eurocents. In LA, that’ll buy you .92 gallons, or about 45 minutes sitting in traffic. The cashier at Shell clearly thinks I’m an idiot.
9 – Arrive, borrow money from friend in the valley, fill up the tank, feel fabulous, like I can go anywhere, do anything “as long as my hood doesn’t. . . crap”.
10 – I pull off, again and test the hood this time:
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
*SLAM* the damn thing shut.
Ow! The grill falls off the car, onto my foot.
Fuck
I examine the grate and decide it’s entirely ornamental.
The fact that I live in the land of highway bumper cars and among even the shittiest of shitty automobiles, none I’ve seen lacked grills, almost persuades me to try to put the thing back on.
But I try the hood again, and this time it doesn’t budge. So, I throw the grate in the passenger seat and pray that frontal nudity on a car isn’t something that gets the attention of the LAPD, known for its recent crackdown on jaywalking and double parking.
And me without my license.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Research and Leather
Fear the nerd with an ego.
The self-perceived importance of a tenured professor manifests itself most vividly in the teacher-graduate student relationship.
Behold Professor Ackart, a former lecturer of mine. He is in his early 40’s, less than average height. A dark cranberry shirt is neatly tucked into black pants held around a small waist by a stylish belt.
Steve is tall, dark, and if your aesthetic standards have been shaped by years of studying science, maybe even handsome. Angular features and wire-rimmed glasses make him a Clark Kent.
Steve is at attention with a stack of slides in his hands. Our professor is standing just out of reach of the projector.
“Steve – can you put up the NMR slide?”
“Right, now just move it – no, down Steve. Move the slide down. – Too far.”
*whip cracks*
“Now Steve, I’m going to need you to show them the – right, the one on aromatic compounds, and then quickly Steve, switch to the one just below. Perfect.”
Steve obliges submissively.
Really, the mantra of all graduate students is, “Thank you sir, may I have another.”
We seek out advisors will squeeze blood from a stone and who won’t say something is good enough when it doesn’t even meet our self-inflicted standards.
Listen to a grad student complain about the time they spend in lab and it’ll quickly become clear that there’s nowhere they’d rather spend their Saturday night. But the domineering advisor is the only socially acceptable excuse.
The self-perceived importance of a tenured professor manifests itself most vividly in the teacher-graduate student relationship.
Behold Professor Ackart, a former lecturer of mine. He is in his early 40’s, less than average height. A dark cranberry shirt is neatly tucked into black pants held around a small waist by a stylish belt.
Steve is tall, dark, and if your aesthetic standards have been shaped by years of studying science, maybe even handsome. Angular features and wire-rimmed glasses make him a Clark Kent.
Steve is at attention with a stack of slides in his hands. Our professor is standing just out of reach of the projector.
“Steve – can you put up the NMR slide?”
“Right, now just move it – no, down Steve. Move the slide down. – Too far.”
*whip cracks*
“Now Steve, I’m going to need you to show them the – right, the one on aromatic compounds, and then quickly Steve, switch to the one just below. Perfect.”
Steve obliges submissively.
Really, the mantra of all graduate students is, “Thank you sir, may I have another.”
We seek out advisors will squeeze blood from a stone and who won’t say something is good enough when it doesn’t even meet our self-inflicted standards.
Listen to a grad student complain about the time they spend in lab and it’ll quickly become clear that there’s nowhere they’d rather spend their Saturday night. But the domineering advisor is the only socially acceptable excuse.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Forbidden Fruit
I wouldn’t see it that way. I pressed my palms to my ears, pivoted, and walked away whenever anyone wanted to discuss Women In Science. The NSF essay question about “promoting diversity” begged me to Google the stats on female physicists and mathematicians, but on principle, I refused. Instead, I delivered an argument for improved interdepartmental relationships, a need for diverse labs composed of scientists trained in different fields.
I believed that because our mothers burned their bras, there is no longer the need.
But enlightenment is not, as I had thought, an irreversible process and in the present culture war, our opponents are a frightening throwback to the 1950’s.
I expected that the Waxman report on abstinence-based education would reveal scientific inaccuracies, religious bias, and a notion girls have the responsibility to resist; guys cannot help themselves.
I did not expect the following:
Please, the stereotype of a man with an ego that can be shattered with a few suggestions is ridiculous. I will patronize my little cousin and throw a game a Scrabble, but the idea that it’s necessary to do this for some future husband is – I mean, give that man a little credit.
sigh
I can’t bring myself to argue with the story of an apple to convince you that 2+2 is not 5.
I will continue to act like I live in a world that’s as I’d like it to be.
I believed that because our mothers burned their bras, there is no longer the need.
But enlightenment is not, as I had thought, an irreversible process and in the present culture war, our opponents are a frightening throwback to the 1950’s.
I expected that the Waxman report on abstinence-based education would reveal scientific inaccuracies, religious bias, and a notion girls have the responsibility to resist; guys cannot help themselves.
I did not expect the following:
One book in the “Choosing the Best” series presents a story about a knight who saves a princess from a dragon. The next time the dragon arrives, the princess advises the knight to kill the dragon with a noose, and the following time with poison, both of which work but leave the knight feeling “ashamed.” The knight eventually decides to marry a village maiden, but did so “only after making sure she knew nothing about nooses or poison.”
The curriculum concludes:
Moral of the story: Occasional suggestions and assistance may be alright, but too much of it will lessen a man’s confidence or even turn him away from his princess.
Choosing the Best, Inc., Choosing the Best Soul mate, 51 (2003). This book is the latest in the “Choosing the Best” series and was published since the most recent round of SPRANS grants; it was reviewed because the other Choosing the Best books were all among the most popular programs.
Please, the stereotype of a man with an ego that can be shattered with a few suggestions is ridiculous. I will patronize my little cousin and throw a game a Scrabble, but the idea that it’s necessary to do this for some future husband is – I mean, give that man a little credit.
sigh
I can’t bring myself to argue with the story of an apple to convince you that 2+2 is not 5.
I will continue to act like I live in a world that’s as I’d like it to be.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
The Comforts of Home
I knew I was going to hate LA, and the professor’s e-mail describing the head of the department as a “fat sexist pig” made me certain I wasn’t going to do my graduate work there.
But when I met with the faculty, I realized it was the only place in the country with the research I wanted and I had no choice. I went walking through Westwood to try to convince myself that this silicone valley where the handicapped spaces are reserved those with collegian injections could become my intellectual mecca. I soon heard comforting words.
“Spare some change?”
Ah, the familiar. Like fickle weather and games at Fenway, interesting encounters with those who live on the street were a fundamental part of the Boston experience.
A suspecting man would shout: “White woman! I wouldn't sleep with a white woman if she was the last woman on earth!” Friends who were just sober enough to stumble home made out with bums in the street. And there was the time I met our Lord.
I was waiting for the bus at night. It was misting lightly and I was standing in the light of a mercury lamp. A man stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Got a light?”
“Um. . . no, sorry.”
“See that bar over there? They just kicked me out of that bar. I don’t even drink. . . you believe that? I don’t even drink and they kicked me out of that bar.”
Well, it is a classy place. Sometimes, I hear gun shots.
“You know, I’m Jesus Christ. They kicked Jesus Christ out of the bar -- that’s why I don’t drink. Jesus Christ does not drink.”
Right, no wine, just Camels.
“Jesus Christ needs a wife."
Shit.
"Do you think Jesus Christ needs a wife or a girlfriend?”
Retreat! Retreat!
The encounter prevented my trip across the Charles River that night. So, it's strange that I was glad to see that an A-list terminator was no better at dealing with poverty, the mentally ill, and disturbed veterans than the embezzlers and mobsters who ran the east.
A tripping prom queen, LA had a blemish it couldn't conceal.
But when I met with the faculty, I realized it was the only place in the country with the research I wanted and I had no choice. I went walking through Westwood to try to convince myself that this silicone valley where the handicapped spaces are reserved those with collegian injections could become my intellectual mecca. I soon heard comforting words.
“Spare some change?”
Ah, the familiar. Like fickle weather and games at Fenway, interesting encounters with those who live on the street were a fundamental part of the Boston experience.
A suspecting man would shout: “White woman! I wouldn't sleep with a white woman if she was the last woman on earth!” Friends who were just sober enough to stumble home made out with bums in the street. And there was the time I met our Lord.
I was waiting for the bus at night. It was misting lightly and I was standing in the light of a mercury lamp. A man stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Got a light?”
“Um. . . no, sorry.”
“See that bar over there? They just kicked me out of that bar. I don’t even drink. . . you believe that? I don’t even drink and they kicked me out of that bar.”
Well, it is a classy place. Sometimes, I hear gun shots.
“You know, I’m Jesus Christ. They kicked Jesus Christ out of the bar -- that’s why I don’t drink. Jesus Christ does not drink.”
Right, no wine, just Camels.
“Jesus Christ needs a wife."
Shit.
"Do you think Jesus Christ needs a wife or a girlfriend?”
Retreat! Retreat!
The encounter prevented my trip across the Charles River that night. So, it's strange that I was glad to see that an A-list terminator was no better at dealing with poverty, the mentally ill, and disturbed veterans than the embezzlers and mobsters who ran the east.
A tripping prom queen, LA had a blemish it couldn't conceal.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Measure In Cats
“What is life? Life is the battle against sodium.”
Over 70% of the energy we consume is spent by ion pumps working against the passive diffusion of sodium into our cells; which, left unchecked, is lethal.
For those of us who are scientifically inclined, life is a war on our socially backward nature. We become fluent in Blind Date, in Simpsons, and in Friends; we wait to divulge our Star Trek obsession.
But we can’t always win and one November a broken heater and frozen pipes took my will to fight. I surrendered at the Dollar a Pound used clothing store. Someone’s blind great aunt surely had spent months crocheting the sweater I bought that day. It’s large, convex, and features a purple and blue pattern that would make your grandma's afghan cringe.
My friends measured the horror of the sweater in “cats", a scale based on the principle that while a cat per person in a household is fine, more than that quickly becomes. . . not. My purchase weighed in at four -- the equivalent of a cat in my arms, one on each shoulder, and one on my head.
But, I was completely defeated. I could see my breath in the house and in the interest of warmth and comfort, the sweater was layer number five: T-shirt, long-sleeve shirt, turquoise windbreaker, traffic-cop orange fleece, and IT.
With the advent of spring, my strength was restored. The sweater was banished to the bottom of my closet and I emerged once again capable of living within the societal norm.
Over 70% of the energy we consume is spent by ion pumps working against the passive diffusion of sodium into our cells; which, left unchecked, is lethal.
For those of us who are scientifically inclined, life is a war on our socially backward nature. We become fluent in Blind Date, in Simpsons, and in Friends; we wait to divulge our Star Trek obsession.
But we can’t always win and one November a broken heater and frozen pipes took my will to fight. I surrendered at the Dollar a Pound used clothing store. Someone’s blind great aunt surely had spent months crocheting the sweater I bought that day. It’s large, convex, and features a purple and blue pattern that would make your grandma's afghan cringe.
My friends measured the horror of the sweater in “cats", a scale based on the principle that while a cat per person in a household is fine, more than that quickly becomes. . . not. My purchase weighed in at four -- the equivalent of a cat in my arms, one on each shoulder, and one on my head.
But, I was completely defeated. I could see my breath in the house and in the interest of warmth and comfort, the sweater was layer number five: T-shirt, long-sleeve shirt, turquoise windbreaker, traffic-cop orange fleece, and IT.
With the advent of spring, my strength was restored. The sweater was banished to the bottom of my closet and I emerged once again capable of living within the societal norm.
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