a quickie.

1. my computer is dead. expect longer delays in updating!
2. check out the news: http://www.expatica.com/nl/news/dutch-news/verdict-due-for-croatian-ex-general-facing-27-years-in-jail_142444.html

A Croatian Military General from the war here in the 1990s will be hearing his vredict in regards to charges of war crimes tomorrow. The whole sheebang is being broadcasted live from the main square. The U.S. embassy said anywwhere from 20,000 to 30,000 people could be protesting. Either way the vredict goes could really cause a stir up. More to be seen tomorrow.

another link, gender resources for educators, a nice list...http://truechild.org/PageDisplay.asp?p1=8612

a day of loitering.

“The range of life must be determined by history rather than by nature, least of all by such tenuous factors as sensation and soul.”

“Languages are not strangers to one another, but are, a pirori and apart from all historical relationships, interrelated in what they want to express.”

Oh My. 

The thing about having a blog is sometimes you want to write about things that aren’t exactly the most flattering moments of your life. In general, the nature of a blog is it is public. Meaning, if someone looking to hire me really had the desire they could track this down and get a really good impression of who it really is pleading for the opportunity. I have two thoughts on this. Lets start with the fact I am not a good liar and in regards to my personal life, I have no secrets. Ask me a question and whether I want to or not, I’ll probably give you a truthful answer. Believe me, there are times when I wish I could lie, but it’s not in my nature. Perhaps it comes from my belief that when it comes down to it, I’m sure my stories, embarrassing or awkward or ridiculous as they may be, are not exceptionally startling. And that I believe the more people talk or share or are honest, the less people will feel alienated and alone—and ultimately I think we are looking for inclusion. Lets face it, it feels good to be part of a club (although, we also all cling to our ‘uniqueness’, which touches on my research.) So, in blogging, this translates to me wanting to write as openly and honestly—despite the social custom to put on a good face for the critical eye of acquaintances, internet stalkers, people from our past, and potential employers—as possible. Secondly, I’d argue, we all make mistakes, and if I out my own now, at least you’ll know the worst of it. Right? When I did submit my essay that I posted below to colleges I remember thinking even then that it was a bit risky and, I concluded, if they didn’t want me, the me in the essay, then maybe I didn’t want them after all. Although, now that I am typing that thought out at the age 23, I must admit, it sounds rather bratty.

So? What did I do that requires such a long preamble?  I missed my first flight ever. I’ve come close before. There was the time at the Dublin airport my boarding pass didn’t print right and I had to go back to ticketing, then they thought my bracelet made of a fork was a weapon, and at the end of it all our gate was literally the furthest gate from security. I ran the entire length of the airport in my socks only to find everyone still waiting. Then there was the time in Chicago when Travis drove me to the airport and I arrived pretty much 10 minutes before the flight and made it through security carrying a pair of adult scissors. But this time was different, there was no screwy boarding pass or someone else’s time schedule to blame, simply the fact that for some reason the sound on my phone had been turned to the lowest setting, meaning, I slept through my alarm and at least twenty phone calls. By the time I awoke I knew it was too late. Since my windows face the East I’ve actually become quite the pro at reading the angle of the sun, not to mention when I woke up there was no alarm going off. Fuck. I was guessing it was about 8 am and as I reached for my phone I hoped it wasn’t true. It’s was. I had missed two dozen phone calls. My flight left at 8.20 and I knew I couldn’t make it but I felt like I had to rush to the airport, just in case I could catch something earlier. In the taxi, and then again on the bus, I was on the phone with Austrian Airlines. “Four hundred and fifty Euros” What?! WHAT. I was not about to pay that much to get on the next flight. I called in some friends, who, thank god, woke up and diddled a bit on the Internet while I was in transit. “Take the train, it leaves at 11 am and gets in at 7 am” “Okay okay, maybe.” I get back on the phone with Austrian Airlines and they remind me that my whole flight gets cancelled if I don’t rebook my first flight—meaning if I train it there, I have to train it back AND I lose my plane ticket all together. I get to the airport feeling dejected, thinking of my options and how I had exactly one hour at the airport before I needed to head to the city if I wanted to take the train. I rushed to the counter, sized up the three people working trying to quickly judge who was having the BEST day ever and seemed willing to do a little bit of extra work in order to save me a few hundred euros. The guy had a teddy bear of a face and didn’t seemed shocked at all when I approached him trying to play it cool and not panicky—people miss flights all the time right? clickty clack clickty clack on his keyboard and then he said, “okay I can have you there at 11 o’clock tonight, it will be 50 euros to change the ticket.” After the women on the phone quoted me 450, 50 sounded like a steal. I committed right away and then I realized I would literally sit at the airport the entire day. Good thing I remembered to throw in an extra book and load my ipod up with podcasts the night before.

I know missing a flight is an error, but as I encounter these kinds of set-backs as an adult I am increasingly proud of myself for resolving them without panic, or tears, or causing a scene. When I was young, I remember getting so angry with myself over the littlest mistake, like losing a sweater, or wasting five dollars. While I don’t indulge these errors of mine I have come to terms with the fact that sometimes I screw up, and beating yourself up over it doesn’t fix the problem or prevent it from happening again.  What is important, is now I know how to rebook a flight, that you should always go to the airport and not through the airlines phone company (or maybe the lesson is always try both) and that even if I set an alarm, I should make sure it is actually going to make noise in the morning.

           

Several episodes of This American Life, The Moth, and a couple of chapters of Judith Butler later (not to mention a browsing of the duty free shop trying to resist therapeutic shopping), I am finally writing this from the Vienna airport. My only regret is I’ll miss a few precious hours in Sofia.

My flight from Zagreb to Vienna was chuck full of business men and only a grand totally of three ladies were on the flight. Mid-week day travel is for men in tailored suits, leather shoes, neatly trimmed hair and blackberries. It made me want to go into business, not because I envy their life style, but simply because it is such a boys club. Two men were talking about being away from their families, one shrugged, suggesting they go straight to the office from the airport, the other disagreeing. The other night, I was weighing life-paths (a fun game I like to play when I am procrastinating) I looked at the Forbes 500 list. All of the billionaire women in the top 50 or so are partially there because of inheritance. What if I gave up on all my romantic, creative, and humanitarian ideals and set my goal on becoming a billionaire? It could be a fun game, except I did get my lowest grade throughout all of college in macroeconomics. Just a thought.

Well. I guess there is a first time for everything, and honestly, as much as I have been traveling the last couple of years I am amazed this is the first time I’ve missed a point of departure.

Best.

Emily

A post-script.

After writing this I befriended a young businessman living in New York originally from Tehran. We spoke generally about school, careers, cultural differences in New York and Tehran. He asked me if I will get to my masters, I said probably I just don’t know what I want to do. He said “Humanitarian stuff.” Something about it seemed patriarchal, I know it isn’t but here is the international business man I was speaking about earlier, saying something that sounds like, oh honey, you can nurture people like women always have. I am, admittedly, reading into his comment, but that is what is expected, isn’t it? I would love to do humanitarian work, but why does it not ring with the same savvy as a, I don’t know, a CEO? The guy seemed nice, saying how it’s weird to go home and see women wearing headscarves and how he likes the nightclubs in NYC. He lives in Manhattan and has been there for about ten years. He has a green card-which means he cant leave the Vienna airport without a Visa and he doesn’t get to vote, but other than that he has the same rights as me. We talked about how the Vienna airport is so small, and strangely enough, I know it all too well. It’s the same airport I waited in two years ago to fly home to the US. There is a bar I sat at drinking expensive coffees trying not to tear up, knowing one of my friends was wandering around Vienna waiting to catch the train back to Zagreb and in only 9 hours I’d see Dan in NYC myself. I remember wondering if I would come back and how I didn’t know what I would do once I got home. We are always re-tracing our routes again and again and this in between spaces—non spaces of airports and bus stations—create a vacuum for meandering thoughts. A break in time. 

in this world, beauty is so common

"A lucky line here and there should not make us think any higher of ourselves, for such lines are the gift of Chance or the Spirit; only the errors are our own. I hope the reader may find in my pages something that merits being remembered; in this world, beauty is so common"

-Jorge Luis Borges, Foreward to "In Praise of Darkness", 1969

_______________________________

I am heading to Bulgaria tomorrow for a conference. I was compiling some notes on my methodology and I cam across a particularly poetic part for a research method paper. The first quote is a blip about my method; the second is something sweet to savor--the sort of thing I strive for in my work, a bit of reality a bit of contextualized, informed, historical contesting guessing, and a bit of documentation.

 “Thematic analysis is a method for identifying, analyzing and reporting patterns (themes) within data. It minimally organizes and describes your data set in (rich) detail. However, frequently it goes further than this and interprets various aspects of the research topic”  

“Thematic analysis can be an essentialist or realist method, which reports experiences, meanings and the reality of participants, or it can be a constructionist method, which examines the ways in which events, realities, meanings, experiences and so on are the effects of a range of discourses operating within society. It can also be a contextualized method, sitting between the two poles of essentialism and constructionist, and characterized by theories such as critical realism, which acknowledge the ways individuals make meaning of their experience, and, in turn, the ways the broader social context impinges on those meanings, while retaining focus on the material and other limits of ‘reality.'" 

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 I posted a bundle of photos to FB today. You can view them here: PHOTOS... there are photos from around my Bday, a trip to Venice, a trip to Osijek, and a trip to Ljubljana.

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The spell check on my computer is never working anymore. It ALWAYS thinks in Croatian. What is a girl supposed to do?

See you when I'm back. 

emily

News Reel...New York Times Article

This article in the NYTimes looks at one woman who looks like she is facing war crimes charges. She is a Croatian women now living in KY who is suspected of war crimes against Bosnian-Serbs in the 1990s. It seems like there are three questions floating in the article, did she do these things she is being convicted of, are they justified during war, and if she did, does this make her a bad person.

Give the article a read, click here. 

The days keep on passing by. I asked a friend here once if he would ever like to work anywhere else. He responded --I dont think I could. In Croatia, we have a funny work ethic where we do one thing and then go have coffee.-- He was partially joking, but the pace of life here is absolutely different than home. You make time to spend with family, you make time to sit on a coffee. If you see someone only once a week, it means it is someone you dont see very often.

A digging up of old treasures.

Too much information?

Because it is spring time again, and to be honest, I am looking to apply to things, and I forgot or I never learned how to sell myself, I went looking for my old applications. The rusty old things that reveal what we find most important about ourselves. It is a bit interesting. I think I have written things in my applications I would never write to a professor or a friend or a family member. Its anyonmous, for gosh sake, and even if I wanted to know what people thought about it I sure as hell will never find out.

I was listending to NPR morning edition yesterday and there was a blip on what happens in college acceptance debates, what people are looking for when they read that icky 2d repersentation of your heart and soul, or at least what you'd think they'd want to see as your heart soul. Can't I just say, listen, people count on me. I follow through. I think, for the most part, I am fun and easy to work with? Its hard that I know my best writing is when I believe in myself, but what if I am struggling to find that? How can I cover it up in fancey words and curious syntax?

so, a teaser for the treasure trunk: what I wrote to get into college. To be perfectly clear, I read this now and I am AMAZED I got accepted. Here's to taking risks.

Sometimes in the early spring, when the sun still sets too soon and the air is cold enough to see your breath in, you will find a pocket of people in this city’s park. It will be at dusk, right as the trees tuck the sun to bed, that you will find us huddled together in the dip of the park, the tummy of these hills, the bowl the earth created that keeps our secrets from spilling. From over there they do look awfully like a lump, clump, lump, no definite head protruding, no lanky arms extended, but one bubbling cell breathing chilled northern air. And here, hidden in that cell, that singular life form, is my family sharing our meals together, that substance that keeps us moving, the nuts and bolts of our life.

This family is not my mother, nor my father, nor my twenty-two year old, very insightful, politically prodding, dearly loved brother. No, this is a family of another kind, one we have put together ourselves, built from the foundation of late night conversations, “The question was, would a conditional or an unconditional god better serve a capitalistic world?” They’ve been batting this question around for four hours now, and I giggle sometimes when they try to define what they are saying in words they used to use lightly and now are trying to toss impolitely on to my dinner plate. Sometimes when the air demands to hear our voices that will be the turn family dinners take, diving us into conversations that clearly have no end and all of us barking in with ideas we’ve only had half the time to think about; pretending that if we just sat here long enough we might come to some conclusion about the world, a world that is so big I could never wrap my head around it on my own.

Other nights, like the night we huddled in the park, when we congealed into one being, we do not sit and chatter, but we fit ourselves, our still growing bodies, close together and make cheese sandwiches on grainy bread, whispering telephone messages that consist of “pass the butter knife” or perhaps “androids prefer French fried potatoes to fries” We’ll reminisce about the last picnic, in the late afternoon, when we met Brother Anthony. This is typical, I’d say, typical that I’d offer our food to a stranger. (How else are you supposed to meet the millions of people that each of us pass, over, by, under, face to face everyday?) Innocently I offered some ninja-fat filled, Elf cookies to this mostly monk-ish appearing man and ended up spending over an hour discussing the church and their stance on homosexuality. My family sat near, under the dripping pine needles, straining themselves from just skipping away, but here was an opportunity! No constraining classroom walls! No polishing of our words for parents! Just our voices and his quietly challenging the things we held as true.  I do not think my patience has ever fought a better battle, but in the end, I walked away unscathed and with a tiny little bit more perspective on the people that fill our world, those people who deserve to be heard no matter how much every inch of me is tingling with disagreement. Therefore, I will continue to offer food to the interesting and the average, as long as there is a solid, old, trust worthy baseball bat lying around and a few good friends who know how to swing in case this monk was really no monk at all.
            These friends, this family, though, will keep on digging into the soil here and eating together our organic foods and sharing them with our neighbors. This food that comes from nearby earth, that has been born from the world we are walking on. It does not always matter what we talked about, or what board games we played, who won at Scrabble, or even what strangers we have meet that particular night, but rather, it is the idea that we shared something between us. We shared substance, not only for our bodies but for our minds. We shared that singular moment, the moment we realized that this park was our kitchen table, that the grass will always be there beneath our feet and that the ground is running below our city and beyond into the million colored seas.

heres some gossip.

yesterday someone read me my horoscope. It made the next two weeks sound really grand. i am not sure how that will pan out, but today was surprisingly nice, as in, unexpected. I am really fascinated with this uncertainity of when things will click, of waiting for the moment for something to make sense, to be able to move on, or fall head over heals for something. maybe it is the sun or the spring or the making of travel plans, but I feel really secure right now. Its funny, I am not going to lie, I have been watching a lot of gossip girl on the internet over the last month or so and I am totally enthralled. Something about it complexes me. On one hand it is absolutely trashey tv and they do all sorts of things many of us would find unforgivable. But there are two strange things that really seem to hold true, one, give people a second chance, two, always accept your friends for who they are, mistakes included, and believe it or not, have a good sound track. All of this is mixed with social class hierarchry, trashy almost/sex scenes, and problems only found in the lives of the rich and famous, but some how i found it enduring and a total break for academic work and learning croatian but I am concerned I may be feeding a dangerous addiction and rotting away my brain via girls who love gucci and ride in limos.