Today I had to let my boss drive me to Microcenter. I needed DVI to VGA adapters and I had to buy them in person because there are plenty of DVI to VGA adapters that have the wrong number of pins in the wrong place. I’d already been to Best Buy and Radio Shack with no luck so it was time to visit Microcenter. And I was accepting a ride from my boss, in spite of the fact that he and I have not been getting along (to put it mildly.)
We were doing okay for a Monday. He scheduled a 9 am meeting with me to discuss IT expenses over the first half of the year. That could have gone badly. There’s no better way to start my day than explaining to my boss what I’ve spent his money on. Especially since he doesn’t understand any of it and has to be reminded each time what everything is. However I remained a Guardian of the Cheerful Tone and we got through it without raised voices or bloodshed.
Still, even (or indeed especially) after that, riding to Microcenter with my boss was pushing my luck. There wasn’t much to be done other than accept his offered ride because 1) It was likely to rain 2) I was wearing new shoes and would have been in much pain if I’d taken the T and walked from Central Square 3) really, it would be awfully rude not to.
One of the ways this sort of exhibition would normally backfire is that I hate to shop and my boss loves to shop. However, I love Microcenter. A USB fish tank? How did I live without one? Laser pointers? Awesome. A little micro duster just for keyboards? I wants it. Oh hey and an adapter that will allow me to plug my dog into an RJ-45 jack.
Unlike the light-weights at Best Buy, I was sure that the Microcenter staff could solve my adapter issue without looking at me like I had three heads, or didn’t know what I was talking about. I was right. A quality 10 minutes spent in the adapter aisle and I was all set. Meanwhile my boss had found a memory card for his camera and was proudly telling me that now when he comes to Microcenter he “understands more and more about the products.” I smiled indulgently and added a 6 pack of compressed air to the pile of stuff he was buying.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Bastille Day or why I Shouldn't Write Advertisements
Nine years ago I had to work a Saturday shift at Brookline Booksmith. It was a morning shift and they happened to asked me to write something on the A frame wipe board that sits outside the shop. Since it was July 14th I thought I’d write something witty and francophone. I wrote “’Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé !’ Ten points if you can sing the whole thing.”
I figured that the most of the good people of Brookline would look at the sign and think-“Oh! That’s the French National Anthem they’re quoting” and walk away (or, preferably walk into the bookstore-drawn in by our clever reference) pleased with themselves for noticing that and pleased with us for bringing it to their attention. I figured a much smaller select set would know that La Marseillaise is actually appallingly long (I just looked up on wikipedia and it has 7 verses) and that no one (certainly no American) in their right mind could be expected to remember all of the lyrics. That was the joke.
Apparently it didn’t quite take because when I got back from lunch the front desk called for me to tell me that an elderly female had come into the store to say that she had been walking up and down Harvard Street for an hour trying to remember the lyrics to the first verse and that she was now ready to recite them to the appropriate authority and receive her ten points.
If this had happened six months to a year later-when I was more sure about what was okay to do, I would have listened to the old lady recite and handed her a few coupons with good cheer. As it was the front desk said “We’ll pretend you’ve gone home.” And I agreed to that.
When I wrote the thing on the board outside of the store, I was making a joke-remember all the words of the Marseillaise and we’ll give you ten points. The Booksmith doesn’t give points, but that doesn’t matter because I was asking the impossible. I might as well have written “Derive Pi for us and we’ll give you ten points.”(not that there was anyone at the store—myself included who would have understood if there had been any takers to that one.) And no one picked up on that.
Which is why I should not write advertising copy.
I figured that the most of the good people of Brookline would look at the sign and think-“Oh! That’s the French National Anthem they’re quoting” and walk away (or, preferably walk into the bookstore-drawn in by our clever reference) pleased with themselves for noticing that and pleased with us for bringing it to their attention. I figured a much smaller select set would know that La Marseillaise is actually appallingly long (I just looked up on wikipedia and it has 7 verses) and that no one (certainly no American) in their right mind could be expected to remember all of the lyrics. That was the joke.
Apparently it didn’t quite take because when I got back from lunch the front desk called for me to tell me that an elderly female had come into the store to say that she had been walking up and down Harvard Street for an hour trying to remember the lyrics to the first verse and that she was now ready to recite them to the appropriate authority and receive her ten points.
If this had happened six months to a year later-when I was more sure about what was okay to do, I would have listened to the old lady recite and handed her a few coupons with good cheer. As it was the front desk said “We’ll pretend you’ve gone home.” And I agreed to that.
When I wrote the thing on the board outside of the store, I was making a joke-remember all the words of the Marseillaise and we’ll give you ten points. The Booksmith doesn’t give points, but that doesn’t matter because I was asking the impossible. I might as well have written “Derive Pi for us and we’ll give you ten points.”(not that there was anyone at the store—myself included who would have understood if there had been any takers to that one.) And no one picked up on that.
Which is why I should not write advertising copy.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Paul Simon
When I was a teenager and just learning to love rock and roll, my parents’ musical collection was disappointing. Everyone else’s parents had liked the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or some other cool band from the 60s. The only album that my parents had that was cool was Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme. Simon and Garfunkel were cool. When I hear “I am a Rock” I still think of Cathy sitting on the floor in our friend Liz’s living room when we were all in high school. It was hot and we were all wearing shorts. Cathy was seated facing the stereo so that the music would pour over her.
But I didn’t really like Paul Simon’s solo work as much as I liked the Simon and Garfukel’s teen pop work for a long time. I tried for years to figure out what “Me and Julio Down By the School Yard” was about. Did the narrator knock up some girl? Did he kiss a boy? Finally one of my friends disappointed me by saying “With Paul Simon it’s always about rhythm. He figures the rhythm out first and then writes the lyrics.” I accepted that (sadly, because I’m all about the lyrics.)
But, having studied literature, I remember that it’s acceptable to think about things other than what the author meant when studying his or her words. What I have found, and what has made me like Paul Simon’s solo work more as I’ve gotten older is that he sings about growing up—not the growing up that’s done from age 12 to age 18, but the part that’s done from age 18 to age 90. Most of the pop songs and ballads I liked (and still like) as a kid are love songs. But Paul Simon can write interesting songs about what happened after the Uptown Girl hooked up with her Downtown Man.
Fat Charley the archangel files for a divorce. You are the burden of my generation I sure do love you, but let’s get that straight. One man’s ceiling is another man’s floot. And my personal favorite I don’t expected to be treated like a fool no more-I don’t expect to sleep through the nights.
It may be true that Paul Simon starts out with rhythm and then comes up with lyrics-as a side project but he has done an admirable job of writing up and singing about some of the less interesting, uncomfortable parts of life that come after the prom the wedding. What if after a while it turns out that you and your prom date aren't in love anymore (It's just a habit like saccharine) or even if you do still love each other, there are still bills to be paid and annoying neighbors to be dealt with. As such, I’ve come to appreciate his solo work more as I’ve grown older. As I’ve dealt with the unglamorous bumps and bruises of becoming a grown up (for real!) it’s been comforting to have his tenor voice in the background telling me to have a good time because it’s alright.
But I didn’t really like Paul Simon’s solo work as much as I liked the Simon and Garfukel’s teen pop work for a long time. I tried for years to figure out what “Me and Julio Down By the School Yard” was about. Did the narrator knock up some girl? Did he kiss a boy? Finally one of my friends disappointed me by saying “With Paul Simon it’s always about rhythm. He figures the rhythm out first and then writes the lyrics.” I accepted that (sadly, because I’m all about the lyrics.)
But, having studied literature, I remember that it’s acceptable to think about things other than what the author meant when studying his or her words. What I have found, and what has made me like Paul Simon’s solo work more as I’ve gotten older is that he sings about growing up—not the growing up that’s done from age 12 to age 18, but the part that’s done from age 18 to age 90. Most of the pop songs and ballads I liked (and still like) as a kid are love songs. But Paul Simon can write interesting songs about what happened after the Uptown Girl hooked up with her Downtown Man.
Fat Charley the archangel files for a divorce. You are the burden of my generation I sure do love you, but let’s get that straight. One man’s ceiling is another man’s floot. And my personal favorite I don’t expected to be treated like a fool no more-I don’t expect to sleep through the nights.
It may be true that Paul Simon starts out with rhythm and then comes up with lyrics-as a side project but he has done an admirable job of writing up and singing about some of the less interesting, uncomfortable parts of life that come after the prom the wedding. What if after a while it turns out that you and your prom date aren't in love anymore (It's just a habit like saccharine) or even if you do still love each other, there are still bills to be paid and annoying neighbors to be dealt with. As such, I’ve come to appreciate his solo work more as I’ve grown older. As I’ve dealt with the unglamorous bumps and bruises of becoming a grown up (for real!) it’s been comforting to have his tenor voice in the background telling me to have a good time because it’s alright.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Thoughts about UMass Boston
UMass Boston feels more like high school than it does like college. Perhaps that's because it's so big or perhaps that's because I get to and from it on public transportation. Perhaps it's just that it's, um, a good deal more multi-cultural than Carleton College. Which is like saying that there's more chance of snow in Boston than there is in Miami.
I was extremely proud of myself for actually getting accepted into an MBA program, and I'm kicking myself for not applying 3 years earlier. But I kept thinking that it would all be too Hard and that I wasn't going to be smart enough do well on the GMAT and besides I'd never get accepted anywhere (after all, my undergraduate grades-about which I can do nothing at this point-were not at all impressive.) So I was thrilled to discover that 1) I was not too dumb to take the GMAT 2)I could in fact get into a graduate degree program.
Of course, because I'm me, I quickly came up with excuses for why this is not such a big deal.("It's just a commuter school-it's not like you got into Sloan-or even Northeastern." "Everyone else you know got their degree at least 5 years ago and you're only getting an MBA-it's not like it's an MFA.") My inner-German is very good at that sort of thing. And I have to admit, sometimes I feel like a stock character from a sit-com the middle-aged divorcee* going to night school to get her advanced degree.
To be fair, some of the reason that I see getting into UMass Boston's MBA program as less of a big deal is that I have noticed, in the 1.5 terms I have been there that the professors are less strict with their grading than the professors at Carleton College or the teachers at Stuyvesant High School. Yes, I know-you're shocked. You are clutching your pearls and calling for your smelling salts.
I know I've when I've handed in A quality work and when I've handed in work that is not my best effort. So it's a bit of a shock to get an A for less than perfect work. I know-this is not a bad problem to have.
However, it has been my experience with education that you get out of it what you put into it. I do not want to start putting less effort into work because I can get a good grade easily. Of course I want to get good grades, but if there's actually something to be learned then I want to learn it.
The other most important factor in getting a good education is your fellow students. The instructor matters too, but not as much as your peers. It doesn't matter if Einstein is teaching you-if you are surrounded by droolers you will not get much out of the class.
MBA work involves a lot of team work. I strongly suspect that the whole point of any MBA program is to teach you to deal with other people. Yes there are courses in Change Management and in Accounting, but learning the subject matter of these courses is less important than learning to Work Well With Others and to get them to work well with you. You get one grade for your team projects--if you wrote the whole paper yourself while all your teammates were on Cape Cod you all get the same grade.
The teamwork aspect of the experience keeps me from being a slacker. It's not enough to impress the professor-I must impress my teammates. However, the hard part is not just doing your part, but making everyone else do his or her part. If you go through the program and just do all the projects yourself then you haven't learned what you needed to learn, because the point is not to learn to write a 20 page paper on Econ or Marketing or Organizational Analysis but to learn to collaborate with other people.
And who are these other people? My peers vary from kids who who just graduated from college to people like me who work full time and have decided to go back to school. As I mentioned above, UMass Boston is a pretty multicultural place. There are a lot of students from Asia and Europe, but strangely enough there are almost no African Americans among the student body. That's strange but it seems to me that it is not unusual for Boston.
It's true that my fellow students are not all the sharpest tacks in the box, but Flying Spaghetti Monster, they work hard. The guy who sits behind me in my Econ class works 12 hour days and he's taking two courses this session. This means that he's in class four nights a week. He says he gets about five hours sleep a night. Last term both of the guys I was working with were taking two classes (I only took one) and they both worked full time.
I don't know how potential employers will consider me or my classmates when we go up against some American Beauty Rose from Sloan School, but I know who I'd prefer to work with.
*I'm not really a divorcee since we were never married, but nine years?
I was extremely proud of myself for actually getting accepted into an MBA program, and I'm kicking myself for not applying 3 years earlier. But I kept thinking that it would all be too Hard and that I wasn't going to be smart enough do well on the GMAT and besides I'd never get accepted anywhere (after all, my undergraduate grades-about which I can do nothing at this point-were not at all impressive.) So I was thrilled to discover that 1) I was not too dumb to take the GMAT 2)I could in fact get into a graduate degree program.
Of course, because I'm me, I quickly came up with excuses for why this is not such a big deal.("It's just a commuter school-it's not like you got into Sloan-or even Northeastern." "Everyone else you know got their degree at least 5 years ago and you're only getting an MBA-it's not like it's an MFA.") My inner-German is very good at that sort of thing. And I have to admit, sometimes I feel like a stock character from a sit-com the middle-aged divorcee* going to night school to get her advanced degree.
To be fair, some of the reason that I see getting into UMass Boston's MBA program as less of a big deal is that I have noticed, in the 1.5 terms I have been there that the professors are less strict with their grading than the professors at Carleton College or the teachers at Stuyvesant High School. Yes, I know-you're shocked. You are clutching your pearls and calling for your smelling salts.
I know I've when I've handed in A quality work and when I've handed in work that is not my best effort. So it's a bit of a shock to get an A for less than perfect work. I know-this is not a bad problem to have.
However, it has been my experience with education that you get out of it what you put into it. I do not want to start putting less effort into work because I can get a good grade easily. Of course I want to get good grades, but if there's actually something to be learned then I want to learn it.
The other most important factor in getting a good education is your fellow students. The instructor matters too, but not as much as your peers. It doesn't matter if Einstein is teaching you-if you are surrounded by droolers you will not get much out of the class.
MBA work involves a lot of team work. I strongly suspect that the whole point of any MBA program is to teach you to deal with other people. Yes there are courses in Change Management and in Accounting, but learning the subject matter of these courses is less important than learning to Work Well With Others and to get them to work well with you. You get one grade for your team projects--if you wrote the whole paper yourself while all your teammates were on Cape Cod you all get the same grade.
The teamwork aspect of the experience keeps me from being a slacker. It's not enough to impress the professor-I must impress my teammates. However, the hard part is not just doing your part, but making everyone else do his or her part. If you go through the program and just do all the projects yourself then you haven't learned what you needed to learn, because the point is not to learn to write a 20 page paper on Econ or Marketing or Organizational Analysis but to learn to collaborate with other people.
And who are these other people? My peers vary from kids who who just graduated from college to people like me who work full time and have decided to go back to school. As I mentioned above, UMass Boston is a pretty multicultural place. There are a lot of students from Asia and Europe, but strangely enough there are almost no African Americans among the student body. That's strange but it seems to me that it is not unusual for Boston.
It's true that my fellow students are not all the sharpest tacks in the box, but Flying Spaghetti Monster, they work hard. The guy who sits behind me in my Econ class works 12 hour days and he's taking two courses this session. This means that he's in class four nights a week. He says he gets about five hours sleep a night. Last term both of the guys I was working with were taking two classes (I only took one) and they both worked full time.
I don't know how potential employers will consider me or my classmates when we go up against some American Beauty Rose from Sloan School, but I know who I'd prefer to work with.
*I'm not really a divorcee since we were never married, but nine years?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Toughest Econ Lecture Ever
Tonight I sat through the worst econ class. It’s not that the material was uninteresting-quite the opposite. But the professor crammed so much stuff in that my brain hurt before he stopped for break and he didn’t let up after break.
He was talking about Keynesian Economics, which is a subject I have long wanted to know more about. My favorite economist (Paul Krugman) tends to be a Keynesian, so I want to know more about how that system of thought works. The professor warned us that tonight’s talk was going to be even dryer than usual, which earned him a laugh, because, well at least he was honest about it.
I suppose, that compared to the Supply Side talk he gave Tuesday this was a much better lecture. The lecture on Supply Side Economics was kind of muddy and it was very clear that even though he had to present the material to us even the professor thought it was “Voodoo Economics.” (I tried to explain this gently to my study group, I am not sure I was successful. “The lecture doesn’t make any sense because the theory doesn’t make sense”)
Tonight’s lecture was thorough-a bit too thorough. And the professor got his notes messed up, and wrote down the wrong number for one of the complicated equations we were working our way through. He apologized. “I don’t know why my notes don’t make sense tonight-I have been using the same notes for 20 years.” I can forgive him for that because he’s very good in general. He generally presents things sensibly and because he’s teaching a lecture course on material that is slightly dryer than the Sahara he’s good at using humor to keep us awake. He’s also figured out our names, for which I applaud him. However, tonight he was merciless.
He kept throwing information at us at an appalling rate. When at 8:45 he said “I think we’ve covered a decent amount of material tonight” I started putting my notebook away. Dear Reader, I was not the only one doing so-I could hear the rustling. But then he proceeded to throw another two equations at us. I was almost in tears by the time he was done. I hated everyone that asked him a question that night (including me.) The one small consolation for my ego was while I was sitting there gibbering and trying to keep up and not feel Math-Deficient, the guy sitting in front of me (who was on top of all of the math) lost his place and asked me a question, which I answered easily and correctly. This gave me enough grounding to be able to listen to the rest of the lecture, but still it was brutal.
As I said above, I was not uninterested in the material. Even the math wasn’t outside of my capabilities. In fact, since it was mostly about slopes of lines (and whether or not they were lines or curves) it was all within the realm of stuff I can actually do. But there was just too much to absorb in an evening. When I got on the shuttle bus I noted that there was no one I knew, which was good-in case I actually started crying.
I’m not a slacker. This is not Carleton College in 1996. I am doing the coursework and I am interested in the subject. But my brain was full at 8 PM, and although I took good notes after that I have no idea what was in them. After 8 the brain bucket was full and anything the professor said fell out over the edge.
On the other hand, life could be a lot worse. For example, a year ago I was in a relationship that was falling apart, I had a friend dying at MGH and I was about to take the GMAT.
He was talking about Keynesian Economics, which is a subject I have long wanted to know more about. My favorite economist (Paul Krugman) tends to be a Keynesian, so I want to know more about how that system of thought works. The professor warned us that tonight’s talk was going to be even dryer than usual, which earned him a laugh, because, well at least he was honest about it.
I suppose, that compared to the Supply Side talk he gave Tuesday this was a much better lecture. The lecture on Supply Side Economics was kind of muddy and it was very clear that even though he had to present the material to us even the professor thought it was “Voodoo Economics.” (I tried to explain this gently to my study group, I am not sure I was successful. “The lecture doesn’t make any sense because the theory doesn’t make sense”)
Tonight’s lecture was thorough-a bit too thorough. And the professor got his notes messed up, and wrote down the wrong number for one of the complicated equations we were working our way through. He apologized. “I don’t know why my notes don’t make sense tonight-I have been using the same notes for 20 years.” I can forgive him for that because he’s very good in general. He generally presents things sensibly and because he’s teaching a lecture course on material that is slightly dryer than the Sahara he’s good at using humor to keep us awake. He’s also figured out our names, for which I applaud him. However, tonight he was merciless.
He kept throwing information at us at an appalling rate. When at 8:45 he said “I think we’ve covered a decent amount of material tonight” I started putting my notebook away. Dear Reader, I was not the only one doing so-I could hear the rustling. But then he proceeded to throw another two equations at us. I was almost in tears by the time he was done. I hated everyone that asked him a question that night (including me.) The one small consolation for my ego was while I was sitting there gibbering and trying to keep up and not feel Math-Deficient, the guy sitting in front of me (who was on top of all of the math) lost his place and asked me a question, which I answered easily and correctly. This gave me enough grounding to be able to listen to the rest of the lecture, but still it was brutal.
As I said above, I was not uninterested in the material. Even the math wasn’t outside of my capabilities. In fact, since it was mostly about slopes of lines (and whether or not they were lines or curves) it was all within the realm of stuff I can actually do. But there was just too much to absorb in an evening. When I got on the shuttle bus I noted that there was no one I knew, which was good-in case I actually started crying.
I’m not a slacker. This is not Carleton College in 1996. I am doing the coursework and I am interested in the subject. But my brain was full at 8 PM, and although I took good notes after that I have no idea what was in them. After 8 the brain bucket was full and anything the professor said fell out over the edge.
On the other hand, life could be a lot worse. For example, a year ago I was in a relationship that was falling apart, I had a friend dying at MGH and I was about to take the GMAT.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tourists
Yesterday in Salem I saw two tourists huddled over a map. Without thinking (or perhaps thinking it would be nice to be helpful) I walked up to them and asked them if I could find what they were looking for. This is the second or third time I have done something similar this year and it is a reversal of lifelong policy of hostility to tourists and people in general. As such it’s kind of scary.
I grew up in New York City. In high school we felt the contempt of the recently initiated and the impatient towards tourists. “Why don’t they understand which trains are express and which are locals?” “Did you hear what she said-it’s ChAmbers Street- not Chambres Street.” “He said he was looking for Hyusoton Street-not Houston.” Really, I thought to myself, why couldn’t these people learn to read a subway map, or just stay in St Louis or at the very least Get Out of My Way!
After high school and college, I lived in New York and Paris and Cambridge and my opinion of tourists did not change. I admitted to myself that these people were good for the local economy, but they were such a pain. In Paris, sitting by Notre Dame I saw an American teenage boy complaining that there were all these French people around. Really? In Paris? Oh my God who could have imagined this? Clearly he and his family should have come back in August. (In August on the Metro, I noted to myself, looking up and down the train car that I was in fact, the only person in the car who was Parisienne.)
Hating tourists is as natural to me as having freckles or voting democratic. So I am very surprised that I have, apparently, without letting myself know, changed my mind on the “tourist” question.
In April I was in town on a Saturday on my way to UMB to meet up with my team and there was a man who was trying to take a picture of his daughter. Without thinking, I offered to take a picture of both of them and then, when he couldn’t delete enough pictures off of his camera I offered to take a picture on my phone and e-mail it to him. Which I did. It took five minutes of my time. And I was already early for my meeting, but offering unsolicited help to strangers is unusual to me. And yet I did it, without thinking.
So what does one do, when one’s lifelong policy towards tourists has changed (without the “gut feeling” part of one’s personality bothering to inform the upper management?)
I have had several answers from friends. One says that I am more friendly to other humans because I no longer live in Cambridge, where we were packed in like sardines in a can. Another suggests that it’s empathy that works in me-I have been and will be again a lost tourist.
But I think it’s something else. I hate talking to people. But if the conversation falls within the realm of things I can do or things I understand then I want to talk. I want to be helpful. For example, yesterday I was in a book shop in Gloucester and a woman came in looking for a book for her niece as a graduation gift. I listened to her talking to the bookseller and saying that her niece and all the other girls were crazy about this book series-she couldn’t remember what it was called, but it was one word..” Twilight.” I suggested. Yes, that was it. I recommended Jane Austen (which the bookseller found for her).
It doesn’t matter if I’m among complete strangers-there are certain things that I feel competent to state my opinion about (even though I am generally afraid of people.) Bookselling has always fallen into that category. PC maintenance falls into that category.
Apparently finding your way around Salem also falls in that category. But I wouldn’t be interested in approaching any of these people 12 months ago. Since then I’ve found friends. I’ve learned to be confident. I’ve learned that I do know a few things. And this has changed my relationship with humanity.
It’s scary. But that does not mean it’s bad.
I grew up in New York City. In high school we felt the contempt of the recently initiated and the impatient towards tourists. “Why don’t they understand which trains are express and which are locals?” “Did you hear what she said-it’s ChAmbers Street- not Chambres Street.” “He said he was looking for Hyusoton Street-not Houston.” Really, I thought to myself, why couldn’t these people learn to read a subway map, or just stay in St Louis or at the very least Get Out of My Way!
After high school and college, I lived in New York and Paris and Cambridge and my opinion of tourists did not change. I admitted to myself that these people were good for the local economy, but they were such a pain. In Paris, sitting by Notre Dame I saw an American teenage boy complaining that there were all these French people around. Really? In Paris? Oh my God who could have imagined this? Clearly he and his family should have come back in August. (In August on the Metro, I noted to myself, looking up and down the train car that I was in fact, the only person in the car who was Parisienne.)
Hating tourists is as natural to me as having freckles or voting democratic. So I am very surprised that I have, apparently, without letting myself know, changed my mind on the “tourist” question.
In April I was in town on a Saturday on my way to UMB to meet up with my team and there was a man who was trying to take a picture of his daughter. Without thinking, I offered to take a picture of both of them and then, when he couldn’t delete enough pictures off of his camera I offered to take a picture on my phone and e-mail it to him. Which I did. It took five minutes of my time. And I was already early for my meeting, but offering unsolicited help to strangers is unusual to me. And yet I did it, without thinking.
So what does one do, when one’s lifelong policy towards tourists has changed (without the “gut feeling” part of one’s personality bothering to inform the upper management?)
I have had several answers from friends. One says that I am more friendly to other humans because I no longer live in Cambridge, where we were packed in like sardines in a can. Another suggests that it’s empathy that works in me-I have been and will be again a lost tourist.
But I think it’s something else. I hate talking to people. But if the conversation falls within the realm of things I can do or things I understand then I want to talk. I want to be helpful. For example, yesterday I was in a book shop in Gloucester and a woman came in looking for a book for her niece as a graduation gift. I listened to her talking to the bookseller and saying that her niece and all the other girls were crazy about this book series-she couldn’t remember what it was called, but it was one word..” Twilight.” I suggested. Yes, that was it. I recommended Jane Austen (which the bookseller found for her).
It doesn’t matter if I’m among complete strangers-there are certain things that I feel competent to state my opinion about (even though I am generally afraid of people.) Bookselling has always fallen into that category. PC maintenance falls into that category.
Apparently finding your way around Salem also falls in that category. But I wouldn’t be interested in approaching any of these people 12 months ago. Since then I’ve found friends. I’ve learned to be confident. I’ve learned that I do know a few things. And this has changed my relationship with humanity.
It’s scary. But that does not mean it’s bad.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Here's how it Works
I had class tonight. I'm still nervous enough in my new class environment that I don't feel comfortable around my new classmates-I don't know what to say or how to say it, yet.
For example, if I say that I've taken both Micro and Macro Econ before, does it sound like I'm boasting? If I mention that I've gotten through MGT 650 (the gate through which all College of Management students must pass) does *that* sound like I'm boasting? (I hope not-I'm rather proud of myself for surviving that experience. And having done so, even a double time summer session looks like a doable amount of work.)
So because I'm nervous about how to interact with people, and because I have an extra ten minutes before class I sit for a few minutes in the courtyard outside of McCormack building. I remark to myself that this courtyard is a good deal more hospitable than it was when I first encountered it in February. I remind myself that that I belong here while I watch important looking people rush around in preparation for tomorrow's commencement. I reinforce my psyche with some nice loud music.
I don't tell myself to stop worrying about how I'm interacting with people-that would be pointless. I merely point out to myself, that I will, at some point get over this nervousness. I've done it before. I may not get over it tonight, but it will go away.
This is where the loud music helps. It feels like home and, as such, allows me to calm down enough to the point where I can think these things.
And then I go into the building, climb three flights of stairs and deal with it.
Apologies for spelling errors- I typed this up on my phone on the commuter whale.
For example, if I say that I've taken both Micro and Macro Econ before, does it sound like I'm boasting? If I mention that I've gotten through MGT 650 (the gate through which all College of Management students must pass) does *that* sound like I'm boasting? (I hope not-I'm rather proud of myself for surviving that experience. And having done so, even a double time summer session looks like a doable amount of work.)
So because I'm nervous about how to interact with people, and because I have an extra ten minutes before class I sit for a few minutes in the courtyard outside of McCormack building. I remark to myself that this courtyard is a good deal more hospitable than it was when I first encountered it in February. I remind myself that that I belong here while I watch important looking people rush around in preparation for tomorrow's commencement. I reinforce my psyche with some nice loud music.
I don't tell myself to stop worrying about how I'm interacting with people-that would be pointless. I merely point out to myself, that I will, at some point get over this nervousness. I've done it before. I may not get over it tonight, but it will go away.
This is where the loud music helps. It feels like home and, as such, allows me to calm down enough to the point where I can think these things.
And then I go into the building, climb three flights of stairs and deal with it.
Apologies for spelling errors- I typed this up on my phone on the commuter whale.
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