Connected

I read this article today about gang violence in El Salvador.  It made me think about how many stories are in circulation regarding suffering in far away places, and how their sheer volume makes it hard to feel compassionate about all of them--we have to live at some point, running errands and making money, and stopping to feel properly empathetic, to consider whether our consumption is exacerbating the problem, or to wonder if contributing funds might help, becomes simply unbearable over time.  Yet how unfortunate to feel myself becoming hardened!

I write about this now in the context of beginning another school year with a new crop of students.  As the level 1 ESOL teacher, I see my students every morning first thing and thus become the default homeroom teacher/counselor/social worker for students.  Students routinely ask me questions in the minutes before and after class on everything from free lunch to homecoming tickets.  The harder cases are the ones where I have to ask the questions: why is Douglas sleeping? (Answer: working illegally long hours in the evenings to help the family put  food on the table).  Why is Maria so despondent? (Answer: in fear that his daughter has become too "loose" and Americanized, her father has been beating her).  Why does Danny seem so angry? (Answer: in immigrating to the U.S. to flee his father's gang-related aspirations for him, he has been reunited with a mother he hasn't seen in 10 years--and after the initial joyful reunion, it has been a difficult and frustrating adjustment).  My beginning students are disproportionately Central American in origin, and so stories like the NY Times article cited above are more than an abstraction--I see the impact of violence and poverty on my students' learning and behavior, which in turn has a direct impact on me.

I didn't choose this profession because of an unselfish desire to comfort the afflicted.  I saw in it an opportunity to earn a living in something I enjoyed: I both love teaching and feel naturally gifted to do it well, and I am fascinated by the intersection of language and culture.  It was only after being in my field for a few years that I even realized how essential it is to acknowledge what a huge impact the circumstances of my students' lives can have on their performance in school, and how I can never ignore that if I want to help them reach their best potential, academically or otherwise.  I became connected to this community by accident, and I care about immigration, about Central American countries with their soaring murder rates, corruption, and horrifying poverty, not so much because I am compassionate and selfless, but because it affects me, actually and quite concretely.  Trying to get a deeply angry seventeen-year-old boy to care about improving his writing has made it abundantly clear that I cannot separate myself from the woes of a far-off country.

I ended up here by accident rather than by any inherent goodness.  However, I feel acutely that experiencing things like this--where I can directly observe the suffering of others because of real connections with those it most affects--is an essential part of helping me to become more loving, more compassionate, and a better Christian.  I should do more good--I should find ways to serve outside of what I already do in my profession.  So many people do that, and in this way their lives become interwoven with another community, and they learn to feel compassion and understanding for those who are in distinctly different circumstances from themselves.  It is so natural to cling to others like us who are of similar faiths, professions, academic backgrounds, with similar interests.  I, too, choose to spend the great majority of my time with those with whom I have the most in common, but I've come to see that I am simply too limited in my capacity for far-off compassion.  I cannot understand or care about other people in a meaningful way without knowing them with some degree of intimacy.

Slipshod

This summer I picked up the habit of walking to the local branch of the library to read for an hour or two.  It's a pleasant spot, with large and airy windows, lots of trees so the light isn't too intense, and an interesting mix of local people, yet is never too crowded.  I love having reference books at my finger tips, and while I was perusing the dictionaries the other day to look up a Spanish word that showed up in my novel (I didn't have my computer with me), I saw a copy of Bryan Garner's Modern American Usage Dictionary, the dictionary made famous by David Foster Wallace's sparkling review.

I flipped through it and within seconds I had completely abandoned my original purpose in visiting the reference shelves.  It was deliciously fun to see how authoritatively Garner explained his stylistic preferences, giving examples of improper usage straight from the pages of well-known publications (the San Diego Union-Tribune came off especially poorly).  It stroked my cattiest impulses--it was like fashion police for the usage stickler.

Here's one of my favorite terms of Garner's: "slipshod extension," which "denotes the mistaken stretching of a word beyond its accepted meanings, the mistake lying in a misunderstanding of the true sense."  I love this--"slipshod" is a word I need to use more--it's so much more visual than "slovenly."  It makes me think of something like this:



In his list of slipshod extensions, he includes "protagonist."  L.A. Times film critic Kenneth Turan (who is less obnoxious to me than most film critics) is cited for making the embarrassing mistake of referring to mere characters as  "protagonists."  Garner has the amusing habit of citing a malapropism and then correcting it:

I find his parenthetical "read characters" to be delightful.

I love having all my annoyances called out like this.  In a culture where it's increasingly common to hear people say things like "it literally broke my heart" in all earnestness, Garner's comments are simultaneously validating and amusing.

But of course if I read more of the book, I'll be sure to find examples of words and phrases I use incorrectly.  I have a fairly brilliant friend, one of the smartest people I know, who misuses the word "tendentious."  I was 25 before someone pointed out to me that my pronunciation of miscellaneous as "mish-ell-aneous" was incorrect.  I think what I'm deciding is that I feel okay allowing myself to laugh at other people, to smugly smirk at Kenneth Turans and Union Tribunes, if I can maintain my sense of humor at my own expense.  We're all somewhat ridiculous.

Mental Health and Happiness

I think, maybe, that I suffer from a mild, but nonetheless highly unpleasant form of anxiety.  It applies a bit to every part of my life--a need for absolute perfection at work, an awareness that I'm not as socially graceful as it seems a well-adjusted adult would need to be, a deep-seated fear that there are things I'm missing because overwhelming feelings of inadequacy paralyze me.  (All of that was obnoxiously vague, but perhaps that is what I need to say to maintain some sense of privacy in this internet confessional.  And why am I doing this online at all?  I feel like confessing will relieve some of the pressure building up, and strangely, writing is so much easier than speaking, and this blog feels strangely anonymous, like those who read it are a select audience of those few people who are genuinely interested in what I think).

Anxiety, as I experience it, is both physical and mental.  It feels like some kind of inflammation in my chest--a burning tightness, seeping up from my chest to my throat.  I'm fortunate in that what I experience is relatively mild compared to some--it's not unbearable pain, I don't feel like I'm unable to breathe or get enough oxygen--I just feel strained, and when I'm particularly tired or out of sorts, it overwhelms me so that I cannot focus on anything else.   Emotionally, I feel stuck, and I start to rethink all of my recent interactions and obsess over what was said and not said, and worry, worry, worry.  I find it incredibly hard to concentrate, and I often want to turn the lights out and fall asleep, hoping the feeling will have passed by morning; if nothing else, I find solace in knowing that for at least a few hours I will be blissfully unconscious.

Anxiety is particularly nefarious because it can cause feelings of dread regarding the anxiety itself, triggering anxiety over a perceived potential anxiety.  It can be consuming, and that is the terrifying part--that this nastiness will take over my life to the point where I can no longer function at the levels to which I am accustomed, and that any normalcy and healthiness in my life will start to wither away as I become a crazy person.  I recently saw Woody Allen's "Blue Jasmine", and while the title character (SPOILERS!) became gradually revealed as someone whose all-encompassing selfishness destroyed everyone around her, she was also surprisingly sympathetic to me because I could identify with her episodes of anxiety.  While I haven't devolved into alcoholism or publicly talking to myself, I felt an uncomfortable familiarity with the way she seemed to retreat into herself when her stress levels increased due to awkward social situations, invasive questions, unwanted attention from her boss, even painful memories.

All this leads to some kind of main point, if there is one: I feel like I've been hearing a lot lately about how happiness is something we choose, and I feel deeply troubled by that.  I am sure that outlook plays a significant role in one's perception of happiness.  I can imagine becoming obsessed with what is still missing, whether it be that perfect beautiful house, great job, idealized spouse, etc.  But I also sense a stunning lack of empathy, a smug self-satisfaction, in the idea that one's own success with finding happiness means that those of us who struggle with it--who find it more elusive--are simply too self-absorbed or negative, too short-sighted, ungrateful, whiny, etc., etc.  Yes, I am a bit of all of those things.  But I want to be happy more than I want to be self-indulgent or melancholy, and while I absolutely experience meaningful moments of happiness, it doesn't come easily for me.  I certainly don't reject outright the ideas passed along in articles ubiquitous on Facebook like this one; if people find greater happiness because of reading something like that, than by all means, pass it along.  But if my own mild anxiety can be a barrier to me experiencing a fullness of happiness, I cannot imagine what kind of unhappiness those who severe mental illness might be facing, nor can I begin to fathom what kind of anguish people must feel whose circumstances are truly tragic or nightmarish.  It's comforting, I suppose, to imagine that happiness is something we can control, and that therefore people who have it, deserve it.  Perhaps there is some truth to that idea; there likely is.  But truth can also be maddeningly complex, and this case, in my opinion, is no exception.  I propose that good people, who try their utmost to live meaningful, productive lives, can be severely unhappy.  That sounds desperately pessimistic.  Maybe it is.  But perhaps there is also something deeply commendable and inspiring in how they are trying to live good lives, even without much in the way of reward.

Smell and Memory

My roommate made coconut red lentil soup the other night.  She started by sauteing the onions with the spices--curry and cinnamon.  The smells were so rich, so warm, so inviting--it was an instant pick-me-up after my second consecutive twelve hour workday, transporting me to warmer, more exotic places.

What is it about smell that is so directly linked to mood and memory?  When I was an undergraduate studying French literature, I must have had to read Proust's iconic madeleine passage--the one where he dips it in tea and is instantly transported back in time --in at least three classes, in one context or another.  Here is the relevant passage:

No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.




Here it is, this time unabridged, in French; the relevant passage begins under the heading "Le texte celebre de la madeleine".  (I'm also struck by the contrast of the English to the French--it's a cliche, but to me, it rings true-- the French language is seductive, rich, smooth.  But I digress into reveling in another of the senses).

The distinctive, instinctual memory associated with smell is for me evocative of places as well as time.  Perfume mixed with cigarette smoke = streets of Paris.  Sage = hiking in California. Fresh baked bread== home, mother, love, all things domestic.  Bleach = comforting cleanliness.  Herbal Essence shampoo= college, showering in the late afternoon to avoid the morning rush in the dorms, my old  fuchsia bathrobe.  Beer plus food deep-fried plus smoke = Czech pub.

How fascinating are the strange connections in our human brains: associating smells so intensely with memory is powerful and creativity-inducing, but it's also limiting in the sense that it colors perceptions of new events and therefore inhibits our ability to make impartial observations.  This, I think, is part of what makes being human so interesting--our very flaws are so often inextricably linked to our greatest capacity.

Best of the Violin

Quick notes on favorites:

I don't always love Beethoven,as I feel he can be overblown and rambling, but still he is worth listening to for his inimitable ability to capture joy and triumph over darkness (see the ninth symphony for both the best and the worst of Beethoven).  One of my favorite pieces from Beethoven is the third movement of his violin concerto, positively soaring in its climax: listen to this Heifetz recording, starting from 7:00.  Turn it up LOUD!  My favorite way to listen to this is in the car, blasting it.  Beethoven was not meant to be played timidly.

I want to like Brahms more than I do, although I really do love his violin concerto, especially the slow movement, so beautiful that it stops your heart.  The most glorious section begins right at the soloist's entrance at 2:25, although it's ultimately more satisfying if you allow yourself to listen to the entire orchestral intro that precedes the entrance, as it builds so magnificently.  Oy, at 2:36 or so--the gradual rise, the beauty of those singing high notes!  Words fail me.  

Both of these are far beyond my technical range now or even when I was practicing regularly and taking lessons up until the age of 18 or so.  But here's the second movement of the Bach Double Violin Concerto, also stunning, but less demanding, one which I have actually performed with my little sister.

I have also played this.   Mozart was a pretty good match for me stylistically at the height of my technical prowess.  But watching Hillary Hahn, one of my favorite violinists, perform this with such effortless grace, I am astounded by the gaping chasm between her ability and mine.  So here is the principal and lasting result of many years of lessons and unfortunate embarrassments stemming from my laziness: I have come to love this music.  Worth it, I think.  

Me as a Violinist: Crappy, but Happy (Mostly)

When I was 12, a family from church asked me to play the violin at their son's baptism.  It was a relatively minor thing: I was to play the descant to one of the most popular songs in the hymn book while the congregation sang along.  I had done it before, so I blew off practicing even once with the pianist.  As we began, I played only one note before I realized something was disastrously wrong.  At first I thought the problem might have simply been that the piano and I hadn't tuned to each other (I know, I know--any musician reading this is cringing at how awful it was that I didn't even bother to do that), but then I realized that the problem was much worse--we were in different keys.  I did what I could to transpose what was written into the correct key, but the panic at having to do it unexpectedly, plus the initial missed notes, threw off my performance and resulted in disaster.

Unfortunately, I have lots of stories like that.  There was the time (age 15) that I didn't practice at all for an upcoming orchestra seating test where we would have to defend our placement within the orchestra by playing selections from the repertoire for our upcoming concert. The conductor started at the top of our first violin section and asked the top two musicians to both play, and then the rest of us voted with closed eyes for who we thought had played the best.  The idea was that a stronger performance by a person seated lower in the section could bump someone out of his or her seat.  This continued down to me, seated squarely in the middle of the first violins.  In one of the most humiliating moments of my life, I played so poorly that I was bumped all the way to the bottom of the section.  I can still remember the shame burning my cheeks--and the tear I was unable to prevent from escaping--during my next lesson as my teacher berated me for embarrassing him with my poor showing.

Clearly, I do not have what it takes to be a professional.  Beyond my lack of discipline and the satisfaction I find in achieving middling results, I suffer from crushing fear.  A conductor for a youth orchestra I auditioned for once told my mother I needed as much audition experience as she could get for me because I had been "shaking like a leaf."  I play only in church these days, a venue renowned for its combination of high support and low expectations, but I still sit down after a performance with shaking hands and a rapid pulse.

But.  BUT!  There is something to be said for what I have experienced when public performances haven't ended ignominiously.  The nervousness that can be so paralyzing heightens the senses, and when a beautiful arrangement, dutiful rehearsing, and skillful accompaniment all come together, there is an indescribable sense of joy.  At the risk of being obnoxiously melodramatic, I would even say I feel synergy with the universe.  That crescendo in feeling that comes with the most expressive music--that is the closest thing I have ever felt to pure unadulterated bliss.  It sounds self-aggrandizing, but I move myself.  There is nothing like being in the middle of an orchestra or a choir and hearing the sound rising all around you while knowing that you yourself are an integral part of that beauty.  In all of my limited experience, it is the closest I have felt to heaven.

Nostalgia

Seven+ years after leaving graduate school, I finally cleaned out binders filled with articles from class and independent research.  Into the recycling bin went hundreds of articles on linguistic-y topics: everything from case studies of bilingual children to descriptions of phonological processes to meta-analyses of English language programs.  In other words, all of this stuff that was genuinely fascinating, that I spent two years of my life delving into, I have not once touched since.  As much as I love thinking about language, language learning, educational policy, constructions of culture, repercussions of tests--I just haven't reread any of it since then, and now all of it is pretty dated.

It's amazing how you can become so immersed in something that quickly gets superseded by the rest of life. You devote hours and hours of concentrated attention--and then it fades into the background.  Thus went trumpet-playing, mathematics, Latin, Chinese.  What next?