Generalizations. I fear tackling a subject so large because I have so many conflicting thoughts, but turning my head & looking the other way doesn’t help either. Strangely, the topic arose because of James Watson’s racist comments – his generalizations about Africans. I was sharing with a friend how disheartening I felt it was to have a respected intellectual such as Dr. Watson speak out of his prejudice (this is my own assessment after looking into what he said, suggesting he would get agreement from anyone who had employed a black person? …suffice it to say that in saying this I don’t think that he was addressing a biological difference in aptitudes for tests measuring intelligence, said tests having a known racial and sex bias.) I was upset that he would make such a statement without noting potential bias of the methods used for these measurements. As a scientist, and as a respected intellectual, I fear his prejudice could be more easily disguised as truth, making this prejudice seem to me to be even more virulent than that held by, for example, a KKK member or a stereotypically closed-minded redneck.

(Ah, but even there I have put forward more examples of generalizations.)

Without digressing or taking tempting tangents, and without jumping ahead, I told my friend it reminded me of ye ol’ Larry Summers. Remember him? (Former?) President of Harvard University who unleashed his own opinions or conjectures regarding reasons as to why there are less women at higher levels in science and math careers.

I said this as a woman. I said this as a lover of calculus. I said this as a scientist. I said this as me, because all of these are who I am.

My friend, similarly lacking in Y chromosomes, agreed. With Larry.

What?!?!

She says that I’m an exception, and also that I am exceptional. She wanted me to have a better understanding of ‘average’ and of ‘people in general’ and that they are different from me. This is where I start to unravel. This is where, I start to think, in general? Generalizations suck.

I’m scurrying and hurrying to get something typed out before he gets back. He’ll only be a few more minutes. I already squandered time checking my short list of favorite websites (checking my shlofasites as opposed to my lofasites (long list of favorite websites)).

Some things are going well – the hurry is to not rock the boat. I’m making some of the changes I most want, and gingerly approaching increased peace and increased balance. This is possible I part because I am working to celebrate those things I’m not supposed to celebrate, through manipulations and contortions of silver linings which, when magnified, can work to shine through the shit which can, pretty frequently, come my way.

These tippy-toes aren’t comfortable for walking a great distance, and each step requires the same exertion used to walk a mile with a normal flat-footed stride. Be that as it may, I’ll tippy toe my way a little longer. Things are looking up, but there’s a lot of shit on the horizon, and if I go on ahead and look up, too, I just might catch some shit in my eye. Since I’m not out of the woods yet, here’s to using the foliage and branches as a shield for the shit that might come flying at me in the meantime. Mean ol’ time. Not really. Times okay, you’re okay, and me?

I’m getting there on tippy toes.

I’m sorry. I guess. Because in another life, I must’ve been awful. I guess I’m awful in this one, too. There have been times in my life when I have felt life paid it forward to me in a way I could not comprehend – I felt so full and so grateful and I worked my ass off to be someone who deserved it. I am trying so hard to leave this world better than how I found it, so why’s it so hard when my patience is stretched thin with relationships, family, work, and life stress, to not flip off the loser who’s causing a log jam by tooling along in the left lane. I get it. The difference in my commute will be measured in seconds, possibly a few minutes if I endure the agony I feel they’re inflicting. And how many friendly driver waves does it take to compensate for a flip-off? How many doors must I hold open, smiles must I offer, sob stories need I hear while ignoring my own needs (such as getting back to work, using the restroom, or making it on time to a meeting)? Is there karma calculus? It’s something for me to ponder on my drive home – something that will hopefully prevent my freeing any birds, tooting any horns, or swearing out loud in the car (does that count? With no witnesses, if I’m being outwardly patient but in reality I’m smiling & cussing about them in my car, what sort of points are assigned for that? Do I break even, or is it still counted against me when the patience I exercise isn’t genuine?)

I may be agnostic, but I still liked this:

The “mea culpa,” as the Confiteor has come to be known popularly, is not simply a confession of sins, but rather an admission of one’s flawed nature and the willingness to make amends for it.

I won’t let myself leave work until I write something. I’ve written a lot on this page, and deleted it all, intermittently & throughout my fruitless workday. I wrote things about commitment, fears about uterpies, and sentences that were intended to be pulled from the screen in strings to be used for self flagellation over how mind-numbingly trite I felt over it.

I think I’m now having recurrent Britney Spears dreams where she’s performing at a small club trying to get her career back on track and she’s performing with her brother. I don’t know much about Ms. Spears, but in my parallel universe she has a brother who’s also trying to establish an entertaining career. Anyhoo, they get up on stage and as an intro she’s decided to try rapping, and they’re both poised at microphones, and she busts out her part surprisingly syncopated and doesn’t really botch anything and it’s the trade-off, she looks over at him, he’s supposed to do his little ditty & rap his bit, but he looks out at the crowd & sees some skepticism – people aren’t throwing rotting vegan junkies or anything, but they’re not in the groove – and he decides to forego his part. With a half smile on her face, anticipating his part, he mumbles that they’ll get on with the show and takes his place behind a synthesizer and she’s left, center stage, at a microphone, with her half-expectant, anticipating smile, fading…  I’ve never been a Britney fan, but in my dream I’m near the front of the audience, and I just feel so damn sorry for her.

If anyone has a dream interpretation to offer up, I’m in need.

I’m listening to Biggie rapping, overlaid with an alternative song backbeat. It’s not allowed to finish before the next is sampled. Then the next. That 70’s disco beat Blondie with the church bell sounds, a techno beat, and the Doors vocal overlay. All of this in search of the Missy Elliot/Le Tigre smash up that was so absurdly pleasing to me. While I’m trying to write, pushing aside nagging thoughts of the Work work which I’m neglecting, and ever-alert since I’m on-call.

Now Missy & Le Tigre are on, and I’m smiling, but my shoulders still seem to have invisible strings jerking them closer to my ears.

I just read on CNN that the mayor of Jena released a statement that, at long last, “enough is enough”.  He reached this decision after John Mellencamp wrote a song lyric asking Jena to take down its nooses. Read the rest of this entry »