My adventure began at the airport in Des Moines, IA sometime around 11am on Saturday. James, on the phone with me, told me that my connection from Chicago to DC was canceled. As this came as no surprise to me, I immediately texted all the people I could think of that I knew that lived in Chicago, looking for somewhere to spend the night. While doing so, I went up to the counter to get on the next available flight on Sunday. The woman at the counter told me she could get me on a 12pm flight for Sunday. Life was good.
On the plane, I took my seat in the last row right in front of the lavatory. I learned very quickly that I could hear, very distinctly, everything going on in the restroom each time someone used it. Thankfully, after the flight attendant said her whole spiel, including something about a "lap-child", I passed out until we arrived in Chicago. In Chicago I got a text back from Jake, telling me I could crash at his place.
After Jake picked me up and we dropped my stuff off at his house where I met his family, we went to Whole foods and grabbed a pizza and some beers. I love Chicago beers, by the way-- or at least, their quirky labels. After watching the end of Gomorrah, we showered and then headed out to the bars with a few of his buddies. We got back home sometime around four and woke back up at ten.
After he dropped me off at the airport, I found out, of course, that my flight was delayed. Around this time, I learned that it had snowed a little more than twenty-two inches in DC. While waiting for our flight to arrive, the woman at the counter made me check in my backpacking back pack. I was pissed and confused, as this has never in all the times I've traveled with it. With no other choice, though, I coughed up twenty bucks.
On the plane, I sat between two people. A tired looking lady on my left and a man that struck me immediately as awkward, on my right. Once again, I immediately fell asleep after we took off. There was a man behind us that kept blowing his nose like a blow horn. Each time he did, both the lady next to me and I woke up. Each time I woke up, I found the guy on my right staring at me. At first, I assumed he was just looking out the window. Eventually, I noticed that the window was not open. His eyes also never diverted each time I turned to meet his gaze. Not wanting to make the rest of the flight even more awkward by calling him out, and also having grown rather complacent from this entire journey, I just ignored the creepy man and went back to sleep each time.
When we landed in DC, the pilot informed us that all the gates were full and we would have to wait on the tarmak. As this was not a novel experience for me, especially when flying with AA, I pulled out the magazine and started to do a crossword puzzle. The pilot then announced it would take up to one hour in order for us to get a gate. Many of the passengers started to flip a shit. Someone threw out the word 'incompetence' while others said similar comments along that line, as if the airlines had control over the backup caused by the weather. I started to chat with creepy man and sleepy woman who turned out to be decent conversationists. Creepy man played band in college and sleepy woman just got engaged.
Eventually, we got off the plane. After retrieving my backpack from baggage claim, I found out that the metro station was closed. Or at least, all above-ground stations were closed and the one at DCA is above ground. I went outside to find a taxi, only to find a line of over fifty people with the same idea. After standing around for a while, I got to chatting with the man in front of me, who apparently was also from Potomac. He was from the Village, which is tops five or ten minutes from my house. We decided to share a taxi. The man in charge of coordinating taxis overheard us and told us to follow him. From the back of the line, we walked to the front, where the coordinating guy gestured at a large shuttle. This is not what either one of us had expected, but neither one of us wanted to go stand back in the line of now maybe seventy people for a private taxi. The coordinator man told us this was the Maryland shuttle. We hopped on and I got immediate deja vu of a njiangjia/sept place*. There were 10 other people already sitting on the shuttle. After we started moving, we learned that the shuttle was going to both DC and Maryland.
After dropping off all the DC people, there were four people left in the car: me, the driver, and two other gentlemen. The original Potomac-Village man had dipped earlier in DC, opting to live in a hotel and then hop on a four a.m. Amtrak to get to his business meeting in NYC. After talking a bit, us three remaining passengers learned that we all lived in a straight line in the Potomac/Bethesda/Rockville area.
The driver decided to drop me off first. As we turned off Tuckerman, I told the driver he could just drop me off at the beginning of my street because my street clearly was not plowed. He said that was not necessary and started to drive up my street. He almost made it to my house, but got stuck maybe 200 feet away. After the driver tried backing up, pulling forward, and such, with little to no improvement, we got out of the shuttle and started to push. We managed to get the shuttle going a bit, but only into thicker snow. By this time, I assume my father had seen our struggle as he walked up to us with three shovels. We started to shovel around the shuttle. After maybe thirty more minutes of shoveling and pushing, we finally got the shuttle out and on its way.
The next morning, I woke up to find that my father had not gone to work. Apparently, the pipes of one of the houses on my street, specifically a house towards the entrance of the street, exploded. As a result of this, no one could drive in or out of our street. Thankfully for both the family and for me, it was fixed (I think, or at least enough to clear up the street). As my traveling woes came to an end, I went directly to work at PF Changs.
*refresher: a njiangjia is a not-governmentally recognized (but not really considered illegal) bus stuffed to capacity with people. a sept-place, also stuffed to capacity (but only with seven people), stops off at certain locations for its occupants.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
I wonder, what would a person's reaction be to trying salsa for the first time? Especially if they come from a culture with a completely disparate food palette?
Would someone from the middle east think to themselves, 'wow, why is this so tart and spicy?'
Would someone from Senegal wonder, 'why are there so many vegetables in my cheb?'
Would someone from the middle east think to themselves, 'wow, why is this so tart and spicy?'
Would someone from Senegal wonder, 'why are there so many vegetables in my cheb?'
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
understanding PH through waitressing
I have been a waitress for four years now at PF Chang’s. Those who I’ve worked alongside all these years know that I’m planning on attending graduate school after I finish with college. When I tell them what I want to study, most people ask what is “public health”. Though waitressing once seemed like a whole different world from my life in academia, the competencies that go into being a server are very similar to that in the study of public health and I’ve been able to use my seasonal job as an analogy to explaining this health field: both waitressing and public health require the evaluation of a target population, followed by the education, promotion, and management of a program, and strengthened in a sustainable manner using prevention.
While public health is primarily focused on health and servers the optimal dining experience, both fields are ultimately concerned with understanding and helping to improve the experiences of others. Foremost, public health deals with a population of people in the same way that servers interact with costumers. Costumers walking in the front door are a population of hungry people looking for that optimal dining experience. Once costumers sit down in your section, you need to talk to them and get to know the culture of the table. By learning their food preferences, allergies, and expectations, you can educate the costumer about dishes that will complement their ideal restaurant experience. While the chef prepares the food to cure their hunger, your job is to make sure that the food being carried out onto the floor matches the costumer’s preferences and that it gets to them in a time and manner that is most suitable for them. Public health, then, is like waitressing in how you have to study your patrons, understand what contributes to their definition of proper care, and implement a plan of action to get them what they want.
The roles of public health and of the server, however, do not stop here: both require maintenance and follow up. In the same way that the absence of health is illness, a server sees any absence in the fulfillment of a costumer’s needs as a decline in the dining experience. As the meal progresses, you make sure that they continue to have this optimal dining experience by providing cutlery, drink refills, and sauces. You make sure that busboys, like family physicians in this analogy, are frequently checking up on the table. Furthermore, a strong public health program, like a well-practiced server, anticipates potential needs throughout the meal. Before the costumer even asks, you teach them how to use chopsticks and how to fold Mushu. In the same way you are educating and equipping the costumers with the tools they need to maintain this optimal dining experience prevention is the key to success in the domain of public health. By the end of this process you will have bridged any disparities, whether it be in satiation or in health. Ultimately, as I said before, public health, like the roles of a waitress, is about understanding and helping to improve the experiences of others.
While public health is primarily focused on health and servers the optimal dining experience, both fields are ultimately concerned with understanding and helping to improve the experiences of others. Foremost, public health deals with a population of people in the same way that servers interact with costumers. Costumers walking in the front door are a population of hungry people looking for that optimal dining experience. Once costumers sit down in your section, you need to talk to them and get to know the culture of the table. By learning their food preferences, allergies, and expectations, you can educate the costumer about dishes that will complement their ideal restaurant experience. While the chef prepares the food to cure their hunger, your job is to make sure that the food being carried out onto the floor matches the costumer’s preferences and that it gets to them in a time and manner that is most suitable for them. Public health, then, is like waitressing in how you have to study your patrons, understand what contributes to their definition of proper care, and implement a plan of action to get them what they want.
The roles of public health and of the server, however, do not stop here: both require maintenance and follow up. In the same way that the absence of health is illness, a server sees any absence in the fulfillment of a costumer’s needs as a decline in the dining experience. As the meal progresses, you make sure that they continue to have this optimal dining experience by providing cutlery, drink refills, and sauces. You make sure that busboys, like family physicians in this analogy, are frequently checking up on the table. Furthermore, a strong public health program, like a well-practiced server, anticipates potential needs throughout the meal. Before the costumer even asks, you teach them how to use chopsticks and how to fold Mushu. In the same way you are educating and equipping the costumers with the tools they need to maintain this optimal dining experience prevention is the key to success in the domain of public health. By the end of this process you will have bridged any disparities, whether it be in satiation or in health. Ultimately, as I said before, public health, like the roles of a waitress, is about understanding and helping to improve the experiences of others.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
mm mm chicken
I remember this one time when my mother and I went to the grocery store to buy chicken to cook a church lunch for 200 people. My father said he would wait in the car because no one would sell us that much chicken for the fifty dollars my mother was carrying on her. Without even looking at the price, my mother walked straight up to the counter and asked for some large quantity of chicken. Then, she proceeded to tell the guy behind the counter that she was going to pay him no more than fifty dollars. The butcher behind the counter laughed as he and the manager made their way over. Overcome by embarrassment for my mother, I only remember snippits of what happened next: I recall hearing a lot of yelling back and forth, a lot of bargaining, occasional logical reasoning, and the words “do it for the church.” The next thing I remember was walking to the car where my father was waiting, and opening the trunk so that the butcher and manager could bring out all the free chicken my mother had just acquired.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Big Apple vs. Nation's Capitol
Just a few hours after taking the GRE last saturday, I hopped on a bolt bus from Chinatown DC to Penn Station NYC. The trip there was short and comfortable-- everything you would not expect from a Chinatown bus experience. That evening Thearin treated me to a delicious Korean dinner and then we met up with Hamish for some Chinese food. While we spent the rest of the night bar hopping around midtown, I got to try a diversity of beers, including Brooklyn which Jamie suggested one of the last times we hung out. Apparently, I'm not a fan of Pilsners. I am, however, a huge proponent for $1 slices of pizza which we indulged in around 3 or 4am.
New York City truly is alive, unlike DC. After the bars close at 3am in Adams Morgan or Georgetown, the streets of the nation's capitol are usually completely deserted. The streets of NYC, on the otherhand, were still full of people strolling, dancing, and/or singing even as we headed home around 5am.
During this weekend in NYC, I got to indulge in some Vietnamese, Japanese, American, Chinese and as already mentioned, Korean cuisine. Thearin, Lynn, and I also went shopping on 5th, browsed Chinatown, city-gazed from the top of Rockefeller, and sat for hours on end while people watching.
On my trip home from this mini-vacation, the Bolt bus brokedown. I got to talking to the twenty or thirty-something year old guy sitting next to me and he commented on the book that I was reading, Reading Lolita in Tehran. He said, "you must be from DC because that doesn't look like a book that a New Yorker would read." I asked him to elaborate on what he meant and after giving it some thought he replied, "well, its just that New Yorkers are more heliocentric."
During this particular excursion to the Big Apple, I think I've noticed a few comparison points between NYC and DC-- none of which that fully complement this 20-30 year old's "heliocentric" comment, but interesting enough to me to write about. In all my trips back and forth between the two cities over these past few years, I've noticed that there are distinctive attitude differences between two cities. Let me begin by saying that people in both places hold pretty arrogant attitudes regarding their city. New Yorkers specifically, as Marshall likes to say, "know they live in the best city on planet earth... even though the majority of them have never set foot outside of the city." Washingtonians, on the other hand, pride themselves in their range of knowledge, for being able to hold conversations about hot topics like the Middle East to listing random facts about remote villages-- basically, for knowing all about the different cultural groups that you could find in NYC.
The difference between the two cities' attitudes is pretty well reflected in each city's occupations. In DC you obviously have all your politicians, tech groups, biotech companies, a myriad of academic institutions, etc. Technological, political, and academic lines of work require people to have a background in a diversity of fields in order to cater to their costumer's demands (various contracting groups, international partners, and a liberal arts education, respectively). NYC professions seem to be more specialized, arguably more "heliocentric": you've got your investment bankers, artists and their 239408234 galleries, fashion designers, and even people campaigning to support the homeless (I've yet to see billboards for sustainable support for the homeless in dc).
What led me to originally write this post were actually my initial observations on city demographics. The people of NYC seem to have more cultural depth while the residents of the DC area are characterized by a greater cultural breadth. NYC has significantly more noticeable cultural groups, ethnicities, races, lifestyles, etc. than DC. When you sit on the NY subway, you're surrounded by a melange of socioeconomic classes, you see people of all colors, and you hear languages from all around the world. It seems that people in NYC have a stronger cultural identity in that sense than those living in DC. Washingtonians, on the other hand, tend to know a fair amount about other cultures, countries, etc., but themselves do not really represent one of the above but a detached scholarly perspective of them all. This is why people watching on the DC metro is pretty boring; all you see on the exterior are a bunch of suits or fanny-pack adorned tourists-- nothing distinctive, unique, or really interesting in comparison to New Yorkers.
Feel free to agree/disagree as my experience in both cities is fairly limited by my opinion.
New York City truly is alive, unlike DC. After the bars close at 3am in Adams Morgan or Georgetown, the streets of the nation's capitol are usually completely deserted. The streets of NYC, on the otherhand, were still full of people strolling, dancing, and/or singing even as we headed home around 5am.
During this weekend in NYC, I got to indulge in some Vietnamese, Japanese, American, Chinese and as already mentioned, Korean cuisine. Thearin, Lynn, and I also went shopping on 5th, browsed Chinatown, city-gazed from the top of Rockefeller, and sat for hours on end while people watching.
On my trip home from this mini-vacation, the Bolt bus brokedown. I got to talking to the twenty or thirty-something year old guy sitting next to me and he commented on the book that I was reading, Reading Lolita in Tehran. He said, "you must be from DC because that doesn't look like a book that a New Yorker would read." I asked him to elaborate on what he meant and after giving it some thought he replied, "well, its just that New Yorkers are more heliocentric."
During this particular excursion to the Big Apple, I think I've noticed a few comparison points between NYC and DC-- none of which that fully complement this 20-30 year old's "heliocentric" comment, but interesting enough to me to write about. In all my trips back and forth between the two cities over these past few years, I've noticed that there are distinctive attitude differences between two cities. Let me begin by saying that people in both places hold pretty arrogant attitudes regarding their city. New Yorkers specifically, as Marshall likes to say, "know they live in the best city on planet earth... even though the majority of them have never set foot outside of the city." Washingtonians, on the other hand, pride themselves in their range of knowledge, for being able to hold conversations about hot topics like the Middle East to listing random facts about remote villages-- basically, for knowing all about the different cultural groups that you could find in NYC.
The difference between the two cities' attitudes is pretty well reflected in each city's occupations. In DC you obviously have all your politicians, tech groups, biotech companies, a myriad of academic institutions, etc. Technological, political, and academic lines of work require people to have a background in a diversity of fields in order to cater to their costumer's demands (various contracting groups, international partners, and a liberal arts education, respectively). NYC professions seem to be more specialized, arguably more "heliocentric": you've got your investment bankers, artists and their 239408234 galleries, fashion designers, and even people campaigning to support the homeless (I've yet to see billboards for sustainable support for the homeless in dc).
What led me to originally write this post were actually my initial observations on city demographics. The people of NYC seem to have more cultural depth while the residents of the DC area are characterized by a greater cultural breadth. NYC has significantly more noticeable cultural groups, ethnicities, races, lifestyles, etc. than DC. When you sit on the NY subway, you're surrounded by a melange of socioeconomic classes, you see people of all colors, and you hear languages from all around the world. It seems that people in NYC have a stronger cultural identity in that sense than those living in DC. Washingtonians, on the other hand, tend to know a fair amount about other cultures, countries, etc., but themselves do not really represent one of the above but a detached scholarly perspective of them all. This is why people watching on the DC metro is pretty boring; all you see on the exterior are a bunch of suits or fanny-pack adorned tourists-- nothing distinctive, unique, or really interesting in comparison to New Yorkers.
Feel free to agree/disagree as my experience in both cities is fairly limited by my opinion.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
because analogies and antynoms exist.
I wonder if anyone's ever done a study of the vocab lists for entrance exams such as the SATs or GREs. I've noticed that of the 2,000+ (literally) words that I've memorized this summer, many of the definitions relate to matters of secrecy or corruption, the act of censure, to arrogant speech, or sycophant behavior. I guess I'll find out if this vocabulary is a reflection of what to expect in higher education.
Monday, August 3, 2009
(Why I'm not) Singing in the Rain
One Sunday sometime in my childhood, I stepped in to play the Doxology at church. Though having not practiced the song in quite some time, I got up on stage and started to play for the room of 100+ people. Perhaps out of nervousness, I did not notice the pace at which I was playing. If each line represents 10 second intervals, it went something like this:
Praise God From Who
All blessings flow
Praise him all
creatures here
below praise him
...and so on. The slow pace at which I was playing was brought to my attention when one of the college students ran up to the piano waving his arms, telling me to speed up. Once again out of nervousness, I was inattentive to the new pace I was playing. If a line represents a 10 second interval, it went something like this:
above ye heavenly hosts praise father son and holy ghost. Amen.
Needless to say, I don't really take to public, musical performances anymore.
Praise God From Who
All blessings flow
Praise him all
creatures here
below praise him
...and so on. The slow pace at which I was playing was brought to my attention when one of the college students ran up to the piano waving his arms, telling me to speed up. Once again out of nervousness, I was inattentive to the new pace I was playing. If a line represents a 10 second interval, it went something like this:
above ye heavenly hosts praise father son and holy ghost. Amen.
Needless to say, I don't really take to public, musical performances anymore.
Monday, July 20, 2009
“Could you pack this food up for me? I do not know how to do this because I am a man”
Take this title/quote out of context (as I often enjoy doing) and you have a situation that probably would have ended with me censuring the spokesperson. Insert it back into a restaurant scenario in which I am the waitress interacting with a guest speaking in a foreign accent, and the intensity of the statement gets knocked down a level or two. The guy who said this quote is most likely from a conservative culture and doesn't even realize it. Cultural sensitivity seems to be the theme of this year for me— beginning I think when I first landed in Dakar, brought to light by the “ebonics”-comment, heightened in my studies of medical cultural competencies back at Grinnell, and practiced from table to table at Pf Changs.
Why am I bringing this up? Because I have been aware for a while that I am a quieter, more recluse individual than what I usually am and I think that this is the reason why. It is my theory that in the same way that a student studies in quiet environment, I am gathering my thoughts and impressions on life’s lessons in solitude.
Heaviness aside, here are some of my random observations brought to light by my time spent waitressing this summer:
- we are indeed in a time of economic turmoil. Tips are not only significantly lower, but people seem to have higher expectations for service now that the value of their meal is higher.
- The revolving door works counterclockwise. When you walk through a revolving door the wrong way, it makes this screeching-sucking noise. Also, you'll find that you're exerting far more effort than youre used to and otherwise necessary to make the revolving door move. Believe it or not, people manage to somehow go in the wrong direction in revolving doors. I usually can hear them make this mistake all the way from the other end of the restaurant.
- You (the server) are the guest’s time management. You control how quickly or slowly food comes out based on your experience and your ability to time things. You also control whether their (the guest’s) experience is time well spent or one that felt like an eternity. Ideally, it is in the server and restaurant’s best interest to get the guest in and out in the shortest time possible. However, it is also the preference of the guest not to feel rushed, and thus to the advantage of the server not to rush the guest. The perfect marriage between these two standards can be achieved by first introducing the guest to all the most popular dishes on the menu and then giving them all the time they need to look it over; usually including the phrase “take all the time you need” gives the guest a more relaxed atmosphere. After the costumer orders their food, the ball is 95% in the waiter’s court. It is the waiter who controls how quickly the appetizers come out, the delay between appetizers are off the table and entrees are on, and the time in which desserts are introduced and when the check is dropped. (There are, of course, always those few “campers” (the 5% you can’t control) who throw off this formula by eating excessively slower than the average costumer; they are also outliers who can be spotted early in the meal and thus do not apply in this case). It is crucial that the server follows the placement of the check at the end of the meal with the phrase “no rush” (or something along those lines) so that the costumer can take this time to converse with the rest of his or her party, enjoy food coma, and more importantly, to reflect on the quality of service received throughout the meal.
- Individual differences aside, a person who has worked their way up in the restaurant industry will exhibit greater patience and emotional stability than those who enter into a restaurant management position coming from an academic background with a managerial degree who tend to have a shorter fuse. My very crude theory explaining the different path outcomes: all the time and experience you dedicate to the restaurant industry either teaches you greater patience or it jades you over time.
- Like most work-environments where people are laboring besides one another hour after hour, employee-employee relationships ALWAYS arise. This is true for breakups as well. Who knew the restaurant industry could be even more stressful than it already is?
- A woman at my table the other day told me she had a wheat allergy and then proceeded to order brown rice with her food. I told her that the brown rice we have at our restaurant is a type of wheat rice, and that if she has an allergy I would strongly suggest she order the white rice. She looked at me as if I was an idiot, laughed, and then in the most offensive tone possible, said "you're wrong. brown rice is just an unpolished white rice". From what I've gathered via the internet and in my training as a server, the latter part of her statement is usually true-- however, not in all cases. (Whether or not there are variations of rice that contain wheat, that does not excuse how she treated me, especially considering the fact that I was trying to keep her from experiencing an allergic reaction). This example is just one more for the records that the notion of an absolute truth is often complemented by unnecessary arrogance.
- 90% of costumers just want to know what everyone else is eating when it comes to food recommendations. The other 10% probably asked for recommendations just out of habit and didn't even listen to your response. Whenever a costumer asks me for what I like, I automatically respond with "well, the most popular dishes are...". This way, if they don't like their meal, they have it in their head that they're deviating from the norm. If I had recommended something I like and they ended up not enjoying it, then they would have been more likely to attribute their wasted money to me. Whenever people are given the opportunity to place blame, they will. If the situation, however, suggests that theyre the one to blame (or that theyre the one with bad taste), they'll concentrate on something else; like, introspecting into why theyre not liking what everyone else does.
Why am I bringing this up? Because I have been aware for a while that I am a quieter, more recluse individual than what I usually am and I think that this is the reason why. It is my theory that in the same way that a student studies in quiet environment, I am gathering my thoughts and impressions on life’s lessons in solitude.
Heaviness aside, here are some of my random observations brought to light by my time spent waitressing this summer:
- we are indeed in a time of economic turmoil. Tips are not only significantly lower, but people seem to have higher expectations for service now that the value of their meal is higher.
- The revolving door works counterclockwise. When you walk through a revolving door the wrong way, it makes this screeching-sucking noise. Also, you'll find that you're exerting far more effort than youre used to and otherwise necessary to make the revolving door move. Believe it or not, people manage to somehow go in the wrong direction in revolving doors. I usually can hear them make this mistake all the way from the other end of the restaurant.
- You (the server) are the guest’s time management. You control how quickly or slowly food comes out based on your experience and your ability to time things. You also control whether their (the guest’s) experience is time well spent or one that felt like an eternity. Ideally, it is in the server and restaurant’s best interest to get the guest in and out in the shortest time possible. However, it is also the preference of the guest not to feel rushed, and thus to the advantage of the server not to rush the guest. The perfect marriage between these two standards can be achieved by first introducing the guest to all the most popular dishes on the menu and then giving them all the time they need to look it over; usually including the phrase “take all the time you need” gives the guest a more relaxed atmosphere. After the costumer orders their food, the ball is 95% in the waiter’s court. It is the waiter who controls how quickly the appetizers come out, the delay between appetizers are off the table and entrees are on, and the time in which desserts are introduced and when the check is dropped. (There are, of course, always those few “campers” (the 5% you can’t control) who throw off this formula by eating excessively slower than the average costumer; they are also outliers who can be spotted early in the meal and thus do not apply in this case). It is crucial that the server follows the placement of the check at the end of the meal with the phrase “no rush” (or something along those lines) so that the costumer can take this time to converse with the rest of his or her party, enjoy food coma, and more importantly, to reflect on the quality of service received throughout the meal.
- Individual differences aside, a person who has worked their way up in the restaurant industry will exhibit greater patience and emotional stability than those who enter into a restaurant management position coming from an academic background with a managerial degree who tend to have a shorter fuse. My very crude theory explaining the different path outcomes: all the time and experience you dedicate to the restaurant industry either teaches you greater patience or it jades you over time.
- Like most work-environments where people are laboring besides one another hour after hour, employee-employee relationships ALWAYS arise. This is true for breakups as well. Who knew the restaurant industry could be even more stressful than it already is?
- A woman at my table the other day told me she had a wheat allergy and then proceeded to order brown rice with her food. I told her that the brown rice we have at our restaurant is a type of wheat rice, and that if she has an allergy I would strongly suggest she order the white rice. She looked at me as if I was an idiot, laughed, and then in the most offensive tone possible, said "you're wrong. brown rice is just an unpolished white rice". From what I've gathered via the internet and in my training as a server, the latter part of her statement is usually true-- however, not in all cases. (Whether or not there are variations of rice that contain wheat, that does not excuse how she treated me, especially considering the fact that I was trying to keep her from experiencing an allergic reaction). This example is just one more for the records that the notion of an absolute truth is often complemented by unnecessary arrogance.
- 90% of costumers just want to know what everyone else is eating when it comes to food recommendations. The other 10% probably asked for recommendations just out of habit and didn't even listen to your response. Whenever a costumer asks me for what I like, I automatically respond with "well, the most popular dishes are...". This way, if they don't like their meal, they have it in their head that they're deviating from the norm. If I had recommended something I like and they ended up not enjoying it, then they would have been more likely to attribute their wasted money to me. Whenever people are given the opportunity to place blame, they will. If the situation, however, suggests that theyre the one to blame (or that theyre the one with bad taste), they'll concentrate on something else; like, introspecting into why theyre not liking what everyone else does.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
contre standardized testing
An example of a “degree relationship” among word pairs on the GRE exam is “fear: terror”, so says my prep book. Anxiety related neuroscience studies would suggest that there is no distinct definition of fear, thus no certainty in pairing terror with fear—and most certainly, no proof that terror is a degree of fear. However, because this exam requires no prior subject knowledge outside of basic verbal and mathematical skills in order to do well, popular knowledge decrees that terror is indeed a degree or characteristic of fear. An exam such as this produces scholars who practice the idea that each word has an official meaning and minds that reject the notion that words are but a vessel to convey a meaning—meaning being something subjective in nature. My qualm with multiple-choice tests, then, is that they preach the existence of everyday absolute truths—ones that are unfortunately, as in this case, not proven true.
On the GRE, in a situation where you don’t know the meaning of one word in a word pair, you can study the patterns between the other pairs that you do understand and use process of elimination. For instance, Anathema: Curse as A) wattage: bulb or B): government. None of my other peers in the room knew the definition of anathema, so we first studied “wattage: bulb.” A bulb is measured by wattage. Can a curse be measured? “It would be a ridiculous idea to think that curses can be measured” was the response my instructor gave. With the dismissal of this apparently preposterous idea, the answer by process of elimination was choice B, “: government”. Once again, the proper response to this problem was to refer back to popular knowledge and what is considered to be “normal knowledge.” But even with my limited knowledge of curses, I would say I personally feel that the curse bestowed upon Job far surpasses any curse that Disney gives to its princesses. It seems bizarre to me in the face of standardized testing, that I cannot elaborate on ideas (at least not in the multiple choice sections)—and even more so, as I’ve been trying to say about the verbal section of the GRE, that there exists an absolute truth to be studied, memorized, and picked on an exam.
Furthermore, the vocabulary on standardized tests such as the GRE and SAT promote Western culture in such a way that I feel takes away from optimally progressing in knowledge. Words like “doublet”, “mail”, “mace”, and “foil”—of the Medieval times—are all over a practice set in my prep book. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with learning these words or about medieval times. My issue with their presence, however, is that they are words that many non-Western students would not even remotely know. Standardized tests force its test-takers to learn Euro-centric words such as these, definitions such as that of “curse” and “anxiety”, and test-taking strategies that are useless outside of their four hours of testing. Understandably, all students hoping to get into a college in the United States will take the SAT and those wishing to get into graduate school will take the GRE. Unfortunately, however, the school system of the United States is missing out from the diversity offered by the non-Western cultured community who were either not prepared to learn Western culture or chose against doing so.
On the GRE, in a situation where you don’t know the meaning of one word in a word pair, you can study the patterns between the other pairs that you do understand and use process of elimination. For instance, Anathema: Curse as A) wattage: bulb or B)
Furthermore, the vocabulary on standardized tests such as the GRE and SAT promote Western culture in such a way that I feel takes away from optimally progressing in knowledge. Words like “doublet”, “mail”, “mace”, and “foil”—of the Medieval times—are all over a practice set in my prep book. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with learning these words or about medieval times. My issue with their presence, however, is that they are words that many non-Western students would not even remotely know. Standardized tests force its test-takers to learn Euro-centric words such as these, definitions such as that of “curse” and “anxiety”, and test-taking strategies that are useless outside of their four hours of testing. Understandably, all students hoping to get into a college in the United States will take the SAT and those wishing to get into graduate school will take the GRE. Unfortunately, however, the school system of the United States is missing out from the diversity offered by the non-Western cultured community who were either not prepared to learn Western culture or chose against doing so.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
there's only one dry-cleaning place in grinnell
Last week while serving drinks at the Main pre-Waltz, some girl accidentally spilled some of her drink on me. I don’t know what drink it was exactly, most likely a Woo Woo (cran, peace schnapps, and vodka), but she got that shit all the Cache dress I was borrowing from Julia. This morning, I set off on an adventure to get it dry-cleaned somewhere in town. I started off at some place I found online called “Village Laundry”. I walked in and immediately saw boards on the walls listing dry-cleaning prices. Salvation was in sight. After peeking my head around corners in search of an owner and waiting a little while, salvation was in sight. Salvation was probably as surprised to see me as I was to see her. My dry-cleaning expert came in the form of this tiny little Asian woman. Why were we surprised to see each other? We’re both in Grinnell, Iowa. Even though the vast majority of dry-cleaning store owners in the United States are believed to be Asian, let’s not pretend like anyone expected there to be enough diversity in Grinnell to attract the poster laundry-mat owner. After our initial awkwardness, I asked her if she could dry clean my dress. I even pointed at the board with all the dry-cleaning prices. She told me that they didn’t do dry cleaning, but Jerry did. I asked her where I could find this Jerry character and she mumbled something about a gas station always being open and him being around its corner.
I got back into my car and decided that instead of following her extremely vague instructions, I would just go to the Maytag in town. When I got there, the lady behind the counter said that they also did not do dry-cleaning. She also told me to go behind the gas station that’s always open off of highway 6. I figured by the gas station that’s always open, she meant Kum and Go, which is, quite literally, almost always open.
Once again, I got into my car and drove two blocks down towards this four-lane road, no different than any residential street in the town, called highway 6. While approaching it, there was the Kum and Go on my right. Across the street from it, I saw a gas station called “Almost Always Open”. Surely enough, behind it, there was a tiny little hut looking like building called “Jerry’s Cleaners”. I’m scheduled to pick up my dry cleaning by the end of the week.
I got back into my car and decided that instead of following her extremely vague instructions, I would just go to the Maytag in town. When I got there, the lady behind the counter said that they also did not do dry-cleaning. She also told me to go behind the gas station that’s always open off of highway 6. I figured by the gas station that’s always open, she meant Kum and Go, which is, quite literally, almost always open.
Once again, I got into my car and drove two blocks down towards this four-lane road, no different than any residential street in the town, called highway 6. While approaching it, there was the Kum and Go on my right. Across the street from it, I saw a gas station called “Almost Always Open”. Surely enough, behind it, there was a tiny little hut looking like building called “Jerry’s Cleaners”. I’m scheduled to pick up my dry cleaning by the end of the week.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
post Costa Rica
It's been a little over a week since returning from Costa Rica. It's a Sunday night which means I should go to bed early in anticipation of very busy Monday, but I can't sleep. What else makes logical sense but to update the blog?
My time in Costa Rica showed me that it was a beautiful country. From what I gathered, the people are as open and friendly as those in Senegal-- I just wish that I could speak Spanish and that I had the time to just hang out with the locals. The alternative which we did instead, however, was also very enjoyable: Mark, Jeff, Andrew, Brian, and myself spent our entire time in Monteverde hiking through the rain forest. I think we calculated the distance covered to be something around 10 miles over 24 hours. Much of it was over steep slopes which were trying on my very out of shape body; despite that, however, we had an incredible time. We, like in Montezuma, cooked together for our meals. One of the nights, Brian bought some steak, cilantro, corn tortillas, red peppers, onions, etc. from the Supermarchado and made the most delicious fajitas perhaps ever. The one time Mark and I ate out, it was at some pricey restaurant where we enjoyed what his sister acclaimed "the best mocha in the world" with our meals. Though I'm no mocha connoisseur, Im going to have to agree with her statement.
Coming back to school, I was immediately enveloped in writing papers, working at the grille, and starting the histological process for my neuroscience research course. Hands down the most interesting course I'm taking this semester, this class is taught by my advisor who does research in anxiety research of the prefrontal cortex. With her, we've set up experiments using behavioral tasks to test the anxiety effects of pharmacological drugs and lesions on a specific part of the brain (the prelimbic area of the PFC). So basically, after surgically removing a part of the rats brain using ibotenic acid (=lesioning), we ran our rats through a zero maze to observe their anxious behavior (=behavioral measure). Now that that phase is done, we have to make sure that our lesions actually got the specific part of the brain we're researching, requiring that we make brain slices of the rats brain. To do this, we spent last week performing perfusions on the rats, then once their hearts stopped, we extracted their brains. This week, we get to do the actual slicing and then eventually see the results of our lesion surgery.
My experience in the health clinic in Sebikotane in conjunction with the surgical procedures of this course have really increased my already pretty high tolerance of blood and the inner parts of the human body. Though I hope it never gets to this point, one could almost argue that I'm almost crossing the line to complete detachment. This tolerance for an extremely narrow scope of research juxtaposed by my desire to somehow study the international community/affairs reflects the crossroad that I am about to approach going into my senior year. Though a fairly trivial matter in the big scheme of things, it is something consuming my mind as of late. Do I go to grad school for public health? for something sociological based? or less likely, to do hard science-related research? Even more, do I take a year off to "find myself"? Two years? Do I want to remain in the United States?
My time in Costa Rica showed me that it was a beautiful country. From what I gathered, the people are as open and friendly as those in Senegal-- I just wish that I could speak Spanish and that I had the time to just hang out with the locals. The alternative which we did instead, however, was also very enjoyable: Mark, Jeff, Andrew, Brian, and myself spent our entire time in Monteverde hiking through the rain forest. I think we calculated the distance covered to be something around 10 miles over 24 hours. Much of it was over steep slopes which were trying on my very out of shape body; despite that, however, we had an incredible time. We, like in Montezuma, cooked together for our meals. One of the nights, Brian bought some steak, cilantro, corn tortillas, red peppers, onions, etc. from the Supermarchado and made the most delicious fajitas perhaps ever. The one time Mark and I ate out, it was at some pricey restaurant where we enjoyed what his sister acclaimed "the best mocha in the world" with our meals. Though I'm no mocha connoisseur, Im going to have to agree with her statement.
Coming back to school, I was immediately enveloped in writing papers, working at the grille, and starting the histological process for my neuroscience research course. Hands down the most interesting course I'm taking this semester, this class is taught by my advisor who does research in anxiety research of the prefrontal cortex. With her, we've set up experiments using behavioral tasks to test the anxiety effects of pharmacological drugs and lesions on a specific part of the brain (the prelimbic area of the PFC). So basically, after surgically removing a part of the rats brain using ibotenic acid (=lesioning), we ran our rats through a zero maze to observe their anxious behavior (=behavioral measure). Now that that phase is done, we have to make sure that our lesions actually got the specific part of the brain we're researching, requiring that we make brain slices of the rats brain. To do this, we spent last week performing perfusions on the rats, then once their hearts stopped, we extracted their brains. This week, we get to do the actual slicing and then eventually see the results of our lesion surgery.
My experience in the health clinic in Sebikotane in conjunction with the surgical procedures of this course have really increased my already pretty high tolerance of blood and the inner parts of the human body. Though I hope it never gets to this point, one could almost argue that I'm almost crossing the line to complete detachment. This tolerance for an extremely narrow scope of research juxtaposed by my desire to somehow study the international community/affairs reflects the crossroad that I am about to approach going into my senior year. Though a fairly trivial matter in the big scheme of things, it is something consuming my mind as of late. Do I go to grad school for public health? for something sociological based? or less likely, to do hard science-related research? Even more, do I take a year off to "find myself"? Two years? Do I want to remain in the United States?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I wish I spoke Spanish..
Its almost seven thirty in the morning here in Monteverde Costa Rica and I'm awake already because of the beautiful, beautiful sunlight shining through the large windows of our room at the hostel. Ive been up so long, in fact, that I've already taken a brief walking tour of the town just to explore and see what's where.
The terrain is hilly much like San Ramon where we stayed our first night here with Mo's host family. Thankfully, I was in no rus
h in my walking tour and had no need to run like crazy people as Mark, Mo, and I did Thursday morning. We were running late to catch the bus into town (we couldnt miss it otherwise we'd miss the bus necessary to catch the bus to Puntarenas and then the ferry across to Paqueras) . So Mo, Mark, and I after we had sped walked to the top of the hill, saw that the bus was already at the bottom of the hill waiting and ready to go. So what do we do? We make a run for it. Mind you that we were in a huge rush that morning and half our belongings weren't even in our bags yet, that Mo had in her hand an open container of cereal and milk, and on top of it all... her bag ripped and all her toiletries, shoes, etc. were flying out. Mo led the pack in running towards the bus and for some reason, Mark ended up holding her cereal and running after her. Trailing behind the two was myself as I was picking up all the stuff that came flying out of her bag. The bus driver was kind and he waited for us. After two bus rides, a taxi, a ferry, and another bus ride, we finally made it to Montezuma Thursday night.
Meanwhile, back in real time... in my walk around town, the only things I was able to find open were the supermarket and coffee shop next door.... both things we'll be visiting today for sust
inence, but I want to wait for the guys to wake up. Speaking of "the guys".. Mark, Mo, and I randomly walked into three Grinnellians on the beach at Montezuma-- Brian, Jeff, and Andrew. Since then, we've been hanging out with them. We cooked dinner together that first Thursday night at Montezuma and drank some forties (in good Grinnellian form) on the beachlater hat night. The next day, we prepared a "picnic lunch" and went on seach of the waterfalls. Like the guidebook said there were three of them... all absolutely beautiful. The second two, however, requierd quite a bit of climbing, balancing, scaling, etc. to find-- but also well worth it. Though all terribly sunburned, cut up, and bruised, I think its fair to say that we all really enjoyed all the jumps, swings, and "hot tub-sitting" from that adventure.
Yesterday, we all left and took the ferry back across where Mo left to go home (she is, afterall, supposed to be doing an internship here as apart of her study abroad experience). After the dustiest bus ride I've ever experienced (far worse than Senegal), we got into Monteverde last night around time for dinner. The hostel we wanted to stay at was booked but we managed to find a pretty dece alternative for just five dollars a night.
I think its almost time for the guys to wake up now... so Im going to head off and maybe update later.
The terrain is hilly much like San Ramon where we stayed our first night here with Mo's host family. Thankfully, I was in no rus
h in my walking tour and had no need to run like crazy people as Mark, Mo, and I did Thursday morning. We were running late to catch the bus into town (we couldnt miss it otherwise we'd miss the bus necessary to catch the bus to Puntarenas and then the ferry across to Paqueras) . So Mo, Mark, and I after we had sped walked to the top of the hill, saw that the bus was already at the bottom of the hill waiting and ready to go. So what do we do? We make a run for it. Mind you that we were in a huge rush that morning and half our belongings weren't even in our bags yet, that Mo had in her hand an open container of cereal and milk, and on top of it all... her bag ripped and all her toiletries, shoes, etc. were flying out. Mo led the pack in running towards the bus and for some reason, Mark ended up holding her cereal and running after her. Trailing behind the two was myself as I was picking up all the stuff that came flying out of her bag. The bus driver was kind and he waited for us. After two bus rides, a taxi, a ferry, and another bus ride, we finally made it to Montezuma Thursday night.Meanwhile, back in real time... in my walk around town, the only things I was able to find open were the supermarket and coffee shop next door.... both things we'll be visiting today for sust
inence, but I want to wait for the guys to wake up. Speaking of "the guys".. Mark, Mo, and I randomly walked into three Grinnellians on the beach at Montezuma-- Brian, Jeff, and Andrew. Since then, we've been hanging out with them. We cooked dinner together that first Thursday night at Montezuma and drank some forties (in good Grinnellian form) on the beachlater hat night. The next day, we prepared a "picnic lunch" and went on seach of the waterfalls. Like the guidebook said there were three of them... all absolutely beautiful. The second two, however, requierd quite a bit of climbing, balancing, scaling, etc. to find-- but also well worth it. Though all terribly sunburned, cut up, and bruised, I think its fair to say that we all really enjoyed all the jumps, swings, and "hot tub-sitting" from that adventure.Yesterday, we all left and took the ferry back across where Mo left to go home (she is, afterall, supposed to be doing an internship here as apart of her study abroad experience). After the dustiest bus ride I've ever experienced (far worse than Senegal), we got into Monteverde last night around time for dinner. The hostel we wanted to stay at was booked but we managed to find a pretty dece alternative for just five dollars a night.
I think its almost time for the guys to wake up now... so Im going to head off and maybe update later.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
cultural encounters
(I apologize for the trite title).
While researching for a presentation on the cultural influences of health and illness, I can't seem to keep myself from drifting back and forth between my presentation notes and daydreams of past experiences. At a French department meeting last Friday, I responded to a question from Madame Gross about my multi-cultural experience in Senegal with, "Well, frankly.. I learned quickly to emphasize my Chinese heritage. That way, I found myself treated for the most part like an equal by the Senegalese. I didnt find myself getting special privileges for being an American nor terribly taken advantage of because I was an outsider."
Chinese-Senegalese relations are pretty good. As outsiders, the Chinese interact a lot with the Senegalese on a personal level than do "les blancs" or "les toubabs". Whites for the most part are usually in Senegal as ambassadors on business-- thus very detached from Senegalese society except for the few occasions they decide to get cultured and try to play the tom toms, buy a Youssou N'Dour CD, or hop on a boat for a history lesson at Goree. On the other hand, the Chinese who export a the majority of Senegal's imported goods, are (for the most part, once again) there working side by side with the Senegalese trying to make a living. I remember talking to NDiaye about this subject and he told me that he particularly liked the Chinese because they seemed to be willing to take on any task and whatever it is, work their hardest at it. "The whites" on the otherhand, are "less honest"-- they had the cushiony jobs and were overpaid for them.
That is not to say, however, that my experience as a Chinese-American have always been a simple one. Here in the United States, though I prefer to claim to my Taiwanese heritage, I grew up with the label Asian-- I was apparently not even "good" enough to earn the Asian-American label... instead, I was just stuck with the big yellow sticker. I remember sitting in the car one day with my mom and Carlos, a childhood friend from the neighborhood of the first house I ever lived in... I was sharing with them about a picture I colored in class that day (I was in elementary school) and in the process I told them that my skin color was yellow like the crayon I used. They told me that yellow was just a label for race, that my skin color was not actually yellow. I didn't buy one bit of it.
Then I remember the experience of buying a new house. The real estate agent of the people we were trying to buy a house from decided half way through the exchange that he, too, wanted to buy the house he was trying to sell. To get us out of the deal, he tried every dirty trick up his sleeve. At first, he tried outbidding us only to reveal that he didn't real have as much money as he said he did. Then, he tried adding the family's (of the house we were trying to buy) owed tax money to the price of the house--- apparently something over eighty grand. We managed to get that nixed right away. Then he decided to play the I'm-a-WASP-and-therefore-think-I-am-the-shit game. I remember my dad coming to me one day while I was doing my homework and asking me to proofread some document for grammatical errors. I didn't understand what was going on at the time, but I did what I was asked and handed it back to him. He looked pretty concerned, asked me again if I was sure it was okay, and I assured him it was perfect. I learned later on that apparently, in every meeting with my parents, the real-estate agent would correct each grammatical mistake in each and every sentence my parents spoke. Buying a house from him was basically playing a game of "ching chang chong" with the maturity of a fourteen year old dressed in a suit and tie.
I'm no saint at cultural sensitivity, though. While in Senegal, those in my Wolof course were growing frustrated with the professor because her lessons were moving at too slow of a rate. I decide to take initiative and told her that we were hoping that she would move faster in the grammar lessons. She was in the most foul mood after that conversation and I just couldn't understand why. That is, until now. I tried using a Western form of conflict resolution which unfortunately conflicts with the utmost respect the Senegalese have for their teachers. Basically, I downright insulted her by telling her that she wasn't good at her profession.
Growing up in high school, perhaps what I am most ashamed about, is the Asian versus white dichotomy I bought into. I saw things in two colors-- either white or colored. Everything I read in school taught me that Western logic, style, and religion was the best. (As a matter of fact, the majority of the things I learn today still preach that lesson... just more subtly). I was ashamed of being "Asian" because it was a label forced upon me and I confused my hatred for predjudices with, well, justification for being racist against myself. At some point in sophomore year I forced myself to choose between my white friends (who all played soccer, basketball, or did Poms) and my Asian friends (who played volleyball). I chose the latter. After that, I still got to occasionally be the token Asian, but for the most part, I hung out in "chinatown" during lunch-- the back auxilary gym hang out spot for all minorities, though mostly people of Asian heritage.
While sitting in our Country Analysis and International Development courses in Dakar, we had this one professor who was unforgettable. He spent every class just bitching about globalization and outright saying "YOU GUYS"-- as in us Western raised kids-- "are the source of all the problems in the world". My initial emotional response was like that of what I think was the majority of the class-- anger. He was blaming us for imperialism, for the colonization of Africa, for slavery, and for basically all injustices that the Senegalese have experienced. After the initial shock subsided, however, I could understand his perspective. Though we were not present in the times of all those atrocities, we still choose to live in a society that upholds the same culture that led to the atrocities. Furthermore, we still chose to live in a country represented by Bush (at that time), we still held onto our Western outlooks, and basically, unconsciously were beakens for Western civilization.
I could probably end this post better, but I don't feel like it would be appropriate. There are no clean conclusions to the discussion of culture.
(God, that instead in intself was pretty lame. Sorry.)
While researching for a presentation on the cultural influences of health and illness, I can't seem to keep myself from drifting back and forth between my presentation notes and daydreams of past experiences. At a French department meeting last Friday, I responded to a question from Madame Gross about my multi-cultural experience in Senegal with, "Well, frankly.. I learned quickly to emphasize my Chinese heritage. That way, I found myself treated for the most part like an equal by the Senegalese. I didnt find myself getting special privileges for being an American nor terribly taken advantage of because I was an outsider."
Chinese-Senegalese relations are pretty good. As outsiders, the Chinese interact a lot with the Senegalese on a personal level than do "les blancs" or "les toubabs". Whites for the most part are usually in Senegal as ambassadors on business-- thus very detached from Senegalese society except for the few occasions they decide to get cultured and try to play the tom toms, buy a Youssou N'Dour CD, or hop on a boat for a history lesson at Goree. On the other hand, the Chinese who export a the majority of Senegal's imported goods, are (for the most part, once again) there working side by side with the Senegalese trying to make a living. I remember talking to NDiaye about this subject and he told me that he particularly liked the Chinese because they seemed to be willing to take on any task and whatever it is, work their hardest at it. "The whites" on the otherhand, are "less honest"-- they had the cushiony jobs and were overpaid for them.
That is not to say, however, that my experience as a Chinese-American have always been a simple one. Here in the United States, though I prefer to claim to my Taiwanese heritage, I grew up with the label Asian-- I was apparently not even "good" enough to earn the Asian-American label... instead, I was just stuck with the big yellow sticker. I remember sitting in the car one day with my mom and Carlos, a childhood friend from the neighborhood of the first house I ever lived in... I was sharing with them about a picture I colored in class that day (I was in elementary school) and in the process I told them that my skin color was yellow like the crayon I used. They told me that yellow was just a label for race, that my skin color was not actually yellow. I didn't buy one bit of it.
Then I remember the experience of buying a new house. The real estate agent of the people we were trying to buy a house from decided half way through the exchange that he, too, wanted to buy the house he was trying to sell. To get us out of the deal, he tried every dirty trick up his sleeve. At first, he tried outbidding us only to reveal that he didn't real have as much money as he said he did. Then, he tried adding the family's (of the house we were trying to buy) owed tax money to the price of the house--- apparently something over eighty grand. We managed to get that nixed right away. Then he decided to play the I'm-a-WASP-and-therefore-think-I-am-the-shit game. I remember my dad coming to me one day while I was doing my homework and asking me to proofread some document for grammatical errors. I didn't understand what was going on at the time, but I did what I was asked and handed it back to him. He looked pretty concerned, asked me again if I was sure it was okay, and I assured him it was perfect. I learned later on that apparently, in every meeting with my parents, the real-estate agent would correct each grammatical mistake in each and every sentence my parents spoke. Buying a house from him was basically playing a game of "ching chang chong" with the maturity of a fourteen year old dressed in a suit and tie.
I'm no saint at cultural sensitivity, though. While in Senegal, those in my Wolof course were growing frustrated with the professor because her lessons were moving at too slow of a rate. I decide to take initiative and told her that we were hoping that she would move faster in the grammar lessons. She was in the most foul mood after that conversation and I just couldn't understand why. That is, until now. I tried using a Western form of conflict resolution which unfortunately conflicts with the utmost respect the Senegalese have for their teachers. Basically, I downright insulted her by telling her that she wasn't good at her profession.
Growing up in high school, perhaps what I am most ashamed about, is the Asian versus white dichotomy I bought into. I saw things in two colors-- either white or colored. Everything I read in school taught me that Western logic, style, and religion was the best. (As a matter of fact, the majority of the things I learn today still preach that lesson... just more subtly). I was ashamed of being "Asian" because it was a label forced upon me and I confused my hatred for predjudices with, well, justification for being racist against myself. At some point in sophomore year I forced myself to choose between my white friends (who all played soccer, basketball, or did Poms) and my Asian friends (who played volleyball). I chose the latter. After that, I still got to occasionally be the token Asian, but for the most part, I hung out in "chinatown" during lunch-- the back auxilary gym hang out spot for all minorities, though mostly people of Asian heritage.
While sitting in our Country Analysis and International Development courses in Dakar, we had this one professor who was unforgettable. He spent every class just bitching about globalization and outright saying "YOU GUYS"-- as in us Western raised kids-- "are the source of all the problems in the world". My initial emotional response was like that of what I think was the majority of the class-- anger. He was blaming us for imperialism, for the colonization of Africa, for slavery, and for basically all injustices that the Senegalese have experienced. After the initial shock subsided, however, I could understand his perspective. Though we were not present in the times of all those atrocities, we still choose to live in a society that upholds the same culture that led to the atrocities. Furthermore, we still chose to live in a country represented by Bush (at that time), we still held onto our Western outlooks, and basically, unconsciously were beakens for Western civilization.
I could probably end this post better, but I don't feel like it would be appropriate. There are no clean conclusions to the discussion of culture.
(God, that instead in intself was pretty lame. Sorry.)
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Last Words about Mefloquine
Last Monday marked the last day that I was on anti-malarial medicine. The first two months of taking Mefloquine were rocky; however, I did manage to normalize in the last two months. Because I shamelessly embrace my passion for research, I will go more into the describing this interesting experience(/experiment if you count my peers on the program as the controls).
During the months of September and October, I experienced bipolar-like transitions in temperament, dizziness the first few days after taking the medicine, and was plagued by a feeling of dread (like I had never experienced before in my life mostly in unconscious states such as during sleep or during monotonous activities). To describe the mood changes, I would say that they were similar to what I experienced when on birth control-- extreme highs and lows. That said, it is possible that the emotional imbalance resulted either, one, as my body's sensitive response to chemical change, two, the always possible direct result of Mefloquine, or three, other (what I feel are less likely) causes such as culture shock, climate, etc. Furthermore, the dizziness experienced usually the first few days after taking the medicine can be described as light headedness, lethargy, and occasionally also accompanied by nausea. I believe that the climate of Senegal during these two months made it very difficult for an outsider like myself to stay hydrated, and I also think that it is a possibility that Mefloquine may have exasperated that problem. If dehydration was not the cause of my dizziness, then I would say that I cannot think of any other reason other than Mefloquine by itself that caused this side-effect. The last symptom that really stood out while I was on this anti-malarial drug, the feeling of dread, was (is) arguably the most severe. It first manifested itself before I even left for Senegal. As I mentioned in one of my past entries, I would wake up either from vividly gory dreams or from the feeling of dread. As time progressed, the dreams subsided and the feeling of dread during sleep as well. However, occasionally (emphasis on the low frequency of this), I would find myself routinely walking home at night experiencing intense pangs of fear like that a little child would from the imaginary monster beneath its bed. I suppose that it is fairly relevant to state that this was something new to me as I usually take nighttime strolls and have been known to go exploring around foreign cities by myself-- therefore, I don't feel like the excitement of this experience directly caused it in any way. It is always a possibility, however, that something about Dakar or Sebikhotane really got underneath my skin and spooked me-- but whatever that may have been, I was not conscious of it as I consciously believed both environments to be extremely safe and the people hospitable and friendly.
The possible side-effects of Mefloquine just about completely disappeared during the months of November and December. Coincidentally, November and December were the months that I spent in Sebikhotane. I would also say that of my study abroad experience, this was the time I enjoyed most. This is possibly due to the fact that my body adjusted to Mefloquine. Or perhaps, I just liked the independence and more personal experience of the country experienced during my internship phase in Sebikhotane. Even more, the more mellow weather may have been a huge influence in this uplift in overall experience.
Any more last words on Melfoquine.. Let's see... It was fairly annoying how the pill would dissolve almost the very second you placed it in your mouth-- the taste of it was fairly baking soda-ish/ not pleasant. Also, to anyone filling any prescription: pay attention to what youre prescribed and what they actually give you. I didn't notice until I got to Senegal that they only gave me a 3 months supply and if you include the pre- and post- dosages, I needed 4 months worth. Luckily, my friend switched off Mefloquine while there and gave me what he had left which was more than enough.
Hope this recap helps all those debating whether or not to take Mefloquine. Feel free to email me if you have any questions :) sheudoro@gmail.com
During the months of September and October, I experienced bipolar-like transitions in temperament, dizziness the first few days after taking the medicine, and was plagued by a feeling of dread (like I had never experienced before in my life mostly in unconscious states such as during sleep or during monotonous activities). To describe the mood changes, I would say that they were similar to what I experienced when on birth control-- extreme highs and lows. That said, it is possible that the emotional imbalance resulted either, one, as my body's sensitive response to chemical change, two, the always possible direct result of Mefloquine, or three, other (what I feel are less likely) causes such as culture shock, climate, etc. Furthermore, the dizziness experienced usually the first few days after taking the medicine can be described as light headedness, lethargy, and occasionally also accompanied by nausea. I believe that the climate of Senegal during these two months made it very difficult for an outsider like myself to stay hydrated, and I also think that it is a possibility that Mefloquine may have exasperated that problem. If dehydration was not the cause of my dizziness, then I would say that I cannot think of any other reason other than Mefloquine by itself that caused this side-effect. The last symptom that really stood out while I was on this anti-malarial drug, the feeling of dread, was (is) arguably the most severe. It first manifested itself before I even left for Senegal. As I mentioned in one of my past entries, I would wake up either from vividly gory dreams or from the feeling of dread. As time progressed, the dreams subsided and the feeling of dread during sleep as well. However, occasionally (emphasis on the low frequency of this), I would find myself routinely walking home at night experiencing intense pangs of fear like that a little child would from the imaginary monster beneath its bed. I suppose that it is fairly relevant to state that this was something new to me as I usually take nighttime strolls and have been known to go exploring around foreign cities by myself-- therefore, I don't feel like the excitement of this experience directly caused it in any way. It is always a possibility, however, that something about Dakar or Sebikhotane really got underneath my skin and spooked me-- but whatever that may have been, I was not conscious of it as I consciously believed both environments to be extremely safe and the people hospitable and friendly.
The possible side-effects of Mefloquine just about completely disappeared during the months of November and December. Coincidentally, November and December were the months that I spent in Sebikhotane. I would also say that of my study abroad experience, this was the time I enjoyed most. This is possibly due to the fact that my body adjusted to Mefloquine. Or perhaps, I just liked the independence and more personal experience of the country experienced during my internship phase in Sebikhotane. Even more, the more mellow weather may have been a huge influence in this uplift in overall experience.
Any more last words on Melfoquine.. Let's see... It was fairly annoying how the pill would dissolve almost the very second you placed it in your mouth-- the taste of it was fairly baking soda-ish/ not pleasant. Also, to anyone filling any prescription: pay attention to what youre prescribed and what they actually give you. I didn't notice until I got to Senegal that they only gave me a 3 months supply and if you include the pre- and post- dosages, I needed 4 months worth. Luckily, my friend switched off Mefloquine while there and gave me what he had left which was more than enough.
Hope this recap helps all those debating whether or not to take Mefloquine. Feel free to email me if you have any questions :) sheudoro@gmail.com
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
When in Senegal...
On the second to last Thursday in Senegal I sent out a mass text message to just about all the participants on my study abroad program with the question, "how well do you know about MLK Jr and the Civil Rights Movement?" I sent the desperate text after leaving my usual cyber cafe in Sebikhotane... Half way through checking my email that afternoon, a man approached me where I was sitting at my computer and spoke to me in English. With my
minutes running, he introduced himself as the teacher of the English course at the school. In our conversation, he talked about how he was so pleased to be able to talk to an American as not all Americans he's met before were so open and willing to converse. Shortly after that, he asked me to give a speech to his English course the next day.
Just as quickly as he gave his proposal, I refused it. I told him I had work the next morning at the health clinic and that it was my last weekend with my family at Sebikhotane, and therefore, I had no time. As if he could read right through me, he appealed directly to my conscience and told me that it was a once in a lifetime opportunity that his students could learn about the civil rights movement of the United States from the lips of an American-- especially now right after the election of Barack Obama: "the idol and paragon of all people of color". I told him that I don't know enough about the Civil Rights Movement to give a speech on the topic. He then guilted me with his disbelief that an American wouldn't know the story of Martin Luther King Jr and the history of the Civil Rights Movement (dates, locations, and everything) by heart . He assured me that I could speak to the class in English and that I would walk out with time to spare to get to work. Not wanting to be the mean American that many Senegalese claim to envision of those who inhabit the United States, I finally gave in to his "offer".
I walked home kicking sand in all directions-- not only because its fucking difficult to walk on sand or because by then it was pitch black at night with no street lights to see the dips between sand mounds, but-- from anger. I was enraged that that man dared to use guilt to put me in such a situation and also pissed that I could be guilted to put myself in a position with which I was so uncomfortable. I didn't say hi to one person I walked past on my way home to my host family's house-- which is a huge social faux-pas in Senegal. Though, in retrospect it was probably a good decision on my behalf considering the amount of anger bubbling inside me and what could have potentially spewed out of my mouth in my broken French.
After buying a new card of credits, I called up those who replied to my text and with their help, started to write my speech. I told myself I would only spend one hour on it because it would not be fair to my family nor myself to be completely absorbed by something that really shouldn't have concerned me. When I finished, I sat in the salon with my host siblings, chatted, and watched Spanish/Italian soap operas as we usually do. Towards the end of the night I whipped out my notebook and worked on my 20-page final research paper. At that point, I was only on page twelve.
The next morning I arrived at the school at 7:45AM, ready to give my speech. In typical Senegalese fashion, the teacher did not show up until 8:10AM. I started my speech in a Senegalese manner, thanking the audience for the opportunity, then introducing myself, and then my topic. I very briefly went over the civil rights movement, then made mention of head figures like Martin Luther King Jr, Malcom X, and Rosa Parks, and proceeded to discuss what I felt was most important-- the fight for human rights by way of equality between races first. While talking, I made sure to enunciate and speak slowly, throwing in hand gestures as much as possible to help with the students' comprehension-- a few tips I personally picked up as the non-native French spe
aker and non-native Wolof-speaker in this French colonized country whose native language is Wolof.
When I finished talking, the level of the students' English was made obvious by their nervous smiles and semi-blank stares. They applauded, the teacher thanked me, and then he asked me to say it again in French. After a moment's hesitation in which I silently cursed at him in my head with every insult in every language that I knew, I summarized my ten minute long speech as best as I could in French. When I finally finished talking, I half expected him to then ask me to say it again in Wolof. Thankfully, he didn't. By this time, there were ten minutes left for me to walk from one end of the village to the other in order to get to work on time at the health clinic. Despite the teacher's promise that I would get to work on time, it seemed clear to me that I would be late for my last day at the health clinic. As I tried to grin and say goodbye to the teacher and be off on my way, he told me that I must meet the school's headmaster to let him know of my "guest appearance." As he dragged me across the national highway to the other building of the school, I decided that my fight was lost and there was no way that I would get to work on time. After meeting the headmaster, he said it was imperative that I met the village's mayor. In the process, I also met the school's treasurer, secretary, and the teacher's own cousin and brother.
By the end of that experience, I finally walked away from school fifteen minutes late for work and the words "when in Senegal"(...let a guy completely take advantage of the fact that you're American?) burned into my mind.
***(neither picture has any relevance to the experience described in this entry. The first is just a picture of two of my host brothers studying at home. The second is a photo of the Koranic school by my house.)
minutes running, he introduced himself as the teacher of the English course at the school. In our conversation, he talked about how he was so pleased to be able to talk to an American as not all Americans he's met before were so open and willing to converse. Shortly after that, he asked me to give a speech to his English course the next day.Just as quickly as he gave his proposal, I refused it. I told him I had work the next morning at the health clinic and that it was my last weekend with my family at Sebikhotane, and therefore, I had no time. As if he could read right through me, he appealed directly to my conscience and told me that it was a once in a lifetime opportunity that his students could learn about the civil rights movement of the United States from the lips of an American-- especially now right after the election of Barack Obama: "the idol and paragon of all people of color". I told him that I don't know enough about the Civil Rights Movement to give a speech on the topic. He then guilted me with his disbelief that an American wouldn't know the story of Martin Luther King Jr and the history of the Civil Rights Movement (dates, locations, and everything) by heart . He assured me that I could speak to the class in English and that I would walk out with time to spare to get to work. Not wanting to be the mean American that many Senegalese claim to envision of those who inhabit the United States, I finally gave in to his "offer".
I walked home kicking sand in all directions-- not only because its fucking difficult to walk on sand or because by then it was pitch black at night with no street lights to see the dips between sand mounds, but-- from anger. I was enraged that that man dared to use guilt to put me in such a situation and also pissed that I could be guilted to put myself in a position with which I was so uncomfortable. I didn't say hi to one person I walked past on my way home to my host family's house-- which is a huge social faux-pas in Senegal. Though, in retrospect it was probably a good decision on my behalf considering the amount of anger bubbling inside me and what could have potentially spewed out of my mouth in my broken French.
After buying a new card of credits, I called up those who replied to my text and with their help, started to write my speech. I told myself I would only spend one hour on it because it would not be fair to my family nor myself to be completely absorbed by something that really shouldn't have concerned me. When I finished, I sat in the salon with my host siblings, chatted, and watched Spanish/Italian soap operas as we usually do. Towards the end of the night I whipped out my notebook and worked on my 20-page final research paper. At that point, I was only on page twelve.
The next morning I arrived at the school at 7:45AM, ready to give my speech. In typical Senegalese fashion, the teacher did not show up until 8:10AM. I started my speech in a Senegalese manner, thanking the audience for the opportunity, then introducing myself, and then my topic. I very briefly went over the civil rights movement, then made mention of head figures like Martin Luther King Jr, Malcom X, and Rosa Parks, and proceeded to discuss what I felt was most important-- the fight for human rights by way of equality between races first. While talking, I made sure to enunciate and speak slowly, throwing in hand gestures as much as possible to help with the students' comprehension-- a few tips I personally picked up as the non-native French spe
aker and non-native Wolof-speaker in this French colonized country whose native language is Wolof.When I finished talking, the level of the students' English was made obvious by their nervous smiles and semi-blank stares. They applauded, the teacher thanked me, and then he asked me to say it again in French. After a moment's hesitation in which I silently cursed at him in my head with every insult in every language that I knew, I summarized my ten minute long speech as best as I could in French. When I finally finished talking, I half expected him to then ask me to say it again in Wolof. Thankfully, he didn't. By this time, there were ten minutes left for me to walk from one end of the village to the other in order to get to work on time at the health clinic. Despite the teacher's promise that I would get to work on time, it seemed clear to me that I would be late for my last day at the health clinic. As I tried to grin and say goodbye to the teacher and be off on my way, he told me that I must meet the school's headmaster to let him know of my "guest appearance." As he dragged me across the national highway to the other building of the school, I decided that my fight was lost and there was no way that I would get to work on time. After meeting the headmaster, he said it was imperative that I met the village's mayor. In the process, I also met the school's treasurer, secretary, and the teacher's own cousin and brother.
By the end of that experience, I finally walked away from school fifteen minutes late for work and the words "when in Senegal"(...let a guy completely take advantage of the fact that you're American?) burned into my mind.
***(neither picture has any relevance to the experience described in this entry. The first is just a picture of two of my host brothers studying at home. The second is a photo of the Koranic school by my house.)
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
To be a Senegalese Woman...
To be as strong as a woman living in Senegal is to...
...sweep the desert sands out of your house only to watch as your family litters all over the place and never even think of helping you clean.
...express your love to your husband while he does the same back to you and one, two, or three other women.
...find the energy to cook dinner over an propane tank, bathe the children often with
out running water, do the dishes by hand, and then tuck the kids into bed after a full day of work while your husband watches television....endure multiple childbirths and refuse to number them so that it will be easier to hold yourself together when one passes away before you
education even though you yourself have a Masters and...encourage your daughter to pursue an grin through outrageous sexual discrimination in the office so to support your family.
...watch your men shamelessly pursue Toubab (white, for the most part) women knowing that it would not be socially acceptable for you to do the same.
...without complaint, prepare for hours on end three meals a day and in place of a word of thanks, listen to complaints about serving the food too hot..
...come second to all men when Attaya is served and then without protestation clean up after the mess of afternoon tea.
...wash the clothes of everyone in your family by hand, iron it all from heated coals, meticulously fold it in Senegalese fashion, and when all the above is done, put it away for everyone while all the
men sit in the salon....find the time and will to look beautiful-- matching top and pagne, earrings, bracelets, necklace, and weave-- after a day like this.
...love your sons and husband with all your heart although the love they return is not even half as selfless or unconditional as you have showed them.
...raise your daughters to be as strong as yourself so that they can survive in a patriarchal society.
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