working for the weekend

I sneak out of the door every day at work terrified that someone is going to stop me and make me stay another 10 minutes. I don't feel safe until I'm out of the elevator and past the little Korean-run convenience store (everything from gift cards to laundry soap and an ATM!). Don't get me wrong- I like my job. It's interesting and new and I work with some fascinating Afghan people. I've learned more about Afghanistan and the languages spoken there in the past 3 weeks than I ever knew before.

But. I'm now working in the "corporate" world. I go in around 8 and I'm expected to stay a full 8 hours, with time taken out for a lunch break of course. But many days I don't really have enough work to fill my time. Sometimes I do. But there are plenty of days that I'm dragging my feet on some assignment just to make sure I'm not done too fast and left with time to twiddle my thumbs. Or delete emails from my work inbox. Or shuffle papers around my desk. Because I don't really want to be one of those people who spend their time at work on facebook or writing blogs. But what am I to do when I'm already 3 weeks ahead of schedule?

So I've decided that I should be allowed to do my work, finish my task, and go home when I'm done. In a perfect world, my salary would be the same, but I would be a whole lot more productive because I wouldn't have to waste time at work trying to look busy. I could go home and do something else, and maybe I wouldn't long for the weekend quite as much as I do now. Ah, what a dream that would be! Don't you think it's a good idea?

English English English

I love the English language. But I haven't always felt this way. There have been times I've felt a tidge of "white guilt" for speaking it. Sometimes I hate English for being a killer language and running nice little tribal languages and regional dialects right out of existence (not that English is alone in this- Russian, Spanish, Chinese, Portuguese, and countless others are guilty of the same). Sometimes it's annoying to teach because there are so many dang exceptions to every rule. But that's what makes it interesting. Because when it really comes down to it, I LOVE English. And of the many many things I love about it (maybe I'll get into more detail about that when I'm feeling particularly nerdy), but I especially love its variety.

I've always been very conscious of the way I speak. Even as an elementary school student, I paid attention to how my words sounded. I aimed for a neutral accent rather than the strong upstate New York dialect of my peers; I even made fun of my poor father for saying "melk" instead of milk or "pellow" for pillow. I loved listening to actors with British accents, and I spent a good deal of time each summer talking to my best friend Jay like a Brit in word choice and accent (or so we thought). When I went off to college, I was suddenly surrounded by a new dialect group, mostly Utah based, which I deemed again undesirable. For myself at least. My eastern dialect was a bit more interesting now, and I gave in, at least to some features like to the strong a in "canal" or "pal."

Maybe because I myself tried to "train" my dialect, it doesn't surprised me when I hear about people studying to get rid of their accent. But it does make me kind of sad, when, for instance, a charming or unique dialect is viewed as less desirable, and it consequently declines in use. This article here talks about people in Boston who take classes to learn Standard American English. But it breaks my heart a little. I don't want people to sound the same! I want them to sound different! Diversity in language is what makes it interesting. Even though I personally don't want to sound like I'm from Utah, I'm quite fond of the dialect. It makes people sound friendly and approachable. English wouldn't be the same without it.

But all of this has a point. I'm just wondering if there are any particular dialects (or accents, if you prefer to think of it that way) that you love or hate. If you could choose to sound like you're from a particular place, where would it be? Or where would you hate to sound like you belong?

New things

I live in a new (and old) city. I have a new job. I'm meeting new people at church, in the neighborhood, and at work. I have a new dress code. There's a new style to my hair: frizz. There's a new Wegman's far from my new house, but not so far I can't make up reasons to go there. I'm giving my blog a new design. So many new things...

And thus far, these new changes have been pretty good. I think I'm going to like my new job (I'm a curriculum developer for a language company that does contract work for clients such as the US military or State Department. Basically, I'm writing textbooks for Dari and Pashto- both spoken in Afghanistan- with the assistance of people who actually speak those languages). My apartment is still kind of ghetto, but we'll only be in this place for another month and a half. Things are looking up for now.

I still miss all of you I left behind. But it's good to be doing something new.

Saying goodbye

I love change. Except for when I hate it. Like when I realize that moving to DC means I won't actually get to see my friends anymore. And I'll have to make some new friends. Or like when I realize that the idea of a new job is awesome, but actually starting a new job is something closer to terrifying. Change is good. I spend my time wishing for change. And then it scares the crap out of me when it actually happens.

I also hate saying goodbye. Like most of the unpleasant things in life, when confronted with saying goodbye, my preferred method of coping is avoidance. Can't I just sneak off to DC without seeing anyone "one last time?" How do you say goodbye to someone you truly care about, but most probably will never see again in your life? "Email me" seems a little shallow. And what about the person who starts to weep while you sit there awkwardly trying not to join her, racking your brain for something meaningful to say. Pat her gently on the shoulder? This is not to mention those who are actually closest to you.

There's a lovely poem I found in one of my ESL textbooks several years ago. I posted it once upon a time in a moment of despair when Zillah was leaving us to go off and do her doctorate somewhere far away. Although a little more serious than simply moving across country, yt seems appropriate yet again.

There is No Word for Goodbye
by Mary Tall Mountain

Sokoya,* I said, looking through
the net of wrinkles into
wise black pools of her eyes.

What do you say in Athabaskan
when you leave each other?
What is the word
for goodbye?

A shade of feeling rippled
the wind-tanned skin
Ah, nothing, she said,
watching the river flash.

She looked at me close.
We just say, Tlaa. That means,
See you.
We never leave ecah other.
When does your mouth
say goodbye to your heart?

She touched me light
as a bluebell.
You forget when you leave us,
you're so small then.
We don't use that word.

We always think you're coming back,
but if you don't,
we'll see you some place else.
You understand.
There is no word for goodbye.

*Sokoya- maternal aunt (in Athabaskan, a Native American language)

kicking against the wall

I've been really busy lately. Sometimes busy in a good way- visiting friends, going to dance class, cooking, frantically trying to finish the rest of the seasons of Battlestar Galactica with Phin- but mostly I've been busy in the irritating way - teaching, grading, preparing for classes, and other various unpleasant obligations I simply can't avoid. Normally I wouldn't mind my responsibilities. But with just barely more than a week left in Utah, I've been contemplating throwing responsibility to the wind. The other option is throwing a temper tantrum.

As a child, whenever I was naughty, my parents would make me stand in the corner or sit on a stool. All I had to do was be quiet for x number of minutes. I HATED it. Hated it with more passion than the normal child hates being disciplined. Instead of being quiet as quickly as possible so I could get out of the corner as quickly as possible, I would scream and kick the wall (because that was much wiser than kicking one's parents) for being forced to do what I didn't want to do. I wasn't quite rebellious enough defy my parents and walk away which meant I was torn with inner conflict- every inch of me longed to move, but I realized the punishment would be much more severe if I did. So I stayed and screamed with rage and frustration that I had to stay there.

That's kind of how I've been feeling about a lot of things the past couple of weeks.

don't "sister" me

I received an email from the BYU music department today. This is what was attached at the bottom.

Sister Hall Dr. Staheli Sister Applonie

Please note the titles of the respective conductors. Note that the one male in the group is graced with the noble title of "Dr" while the women retain their submissive "sister" title. At least that's how I see it. Sister is what you call someone at church. Or your actual sister. You don't, or shouldn't, refer to a woman in an academic setting as sister. How often do you ever hear people call their male professors "brother" (with the exception of religion classes)?

Please admire "Sister" Hall's academic achievements:

M.M., Choral Conducting, Brigham Young University, 1993.
Postgraduate Music Teacher's Certificate, London University, England, 1978
B.M., Royal Academy of Music, London, England, 1977.
Associate of the London College of Music (piano), London, England, 1977.
Licentiate of the Royal Academy of Music (singing), London, England, 1976.

And now "Sister" Applonie:

M.M. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT, 1990
B.M. (cum laude) Brigham Young University, Provo, UT, 1984
Kodaly Certification, Brigham Young University, Provo, UT, 1997

And now "Dr" Staheli:

D.M.A., Choral Music, University of Southern California, 1977.
M.M., Choral Music, University of Southern California, 1973.
B.A., Magna Cum Laude, Piano Performance and Music Theory, including emphasis in voice, Brigham Young University, 1972.

Yes, the ladies are both lacking in doctoral status. But they both have a wealth of experience and certification deserving of recognition higher than sister. Like maybe their names. Don't you think?

Cruisin' the Mediterranean

I feel a little spoiled: the past 2.5 weeks I spent with my parents, both sets of grandparents, and youngest sister on a cruise of the Mediterranean. And let me tell you, it was pretty awesome. While cruising may not be for the overactive or fly by the seat of your pants type (and while I was often panged with guilt at the luxurious treatment I received but didn't feel I deserved), it's certainly a fun way to get a brief introduction to some new parts of the world. Here's as short a recap as I can manage.

Start: Barcelona, Spain. We spent a few days here before the cruise- and might I add that aside from Catalan, the local language, the Spanish spoken in Barcelona is not really Spanish. They just pretend it is- and realized that Barcelona is fantastic and huge and has way too many things to see. I must go back. Oh, and Gaudi's cathedral really is as awesome and eclectic as I had always thought. And now I really want to learn Catalan.

Stop #2: Villfranche, France (just outside of Nice). Lovely, but unfortunately, we were there on a Sunday, which apparently meant that all shops be closed. We observed the rocky beach, took in the beautiful scenery, and had some dang good chocolate pastries.

Stop #3: Livorno, Italy (destination Pisa and Florence- there's not a whole lot to see in Livorno). I finally got around to seeing the leaning tower, and to my surprise, it actually was worth the trip. How it leans! Also. I ADORE Florence.

Stop #4: Civitavecchia, Italy (destination Rome). Is 3 cups of gelato in one day too many? Having a guided tour through the Roman Forum made it much more interesting than wandering through rubble on your own (which is what we did last time). I can also assure you that the Vatican is still there, and just as awe-inspiring as ever.

Stop #5: Athens, Greece. The Acropolis really is worth seeing. We were lucky enough to be the very first tour group there in the very early morning. I recommend it. Also. I love Greek food (cucumber salad and baklava and pitas, oh my!), but Athens itself isn't much to rave about. We took a drive to the southern most point of Europe to see more rubble in temple form. Worth the drive, I'd s

ay.

Stop #6: Kusadasi, Turkey. Although I may be biased because I love all things remotely Islamic, Turkey was one of my favorites. We saw the stunning ruins of Ephesus (think Ephesians from the Bible), bought lots of touristy things (including my parents and grandparents buying several expensive and beautiful rugs), ate tasty Turkish food, declined several passionate proposals, and desperately wished for more time to roam around.

Stop #6: Santorini, Greece. This is was the entire reason my mom decided to book this cruise. I was initially a bit skeptical, but it turned out to be every bit as beautiful as momma had hoped. My dad and I scaled the 800 or so wide steps up the backside of the volcano from port to town, dodging donkeys as we went. If I had money to spare, I mean a lot of money, I would definitely rent a cliff-side room with a view for a week or two. Maybe one day.

Stop #6: Salerno, Italy (destination Vesuvius and Pompei- basically Naples). I need to live here. Really. Truly. I won't survive life if I don't get to spend at least a year on the Amalfi coast. I didn't expect it, but this area of Italy was probably the most gorgeous part of the country I've seen yet. We hiked to the top of Mt. Vesuvius, observed the steam pouring out of the still-active-and-possibly-about-to-blow-any-day volcano, nearly froze in the strong winds and 40 degree temperatures (our cruise weather forecaster lied to us), and walked around the streets of Pompei, which, to quote my grandfather, "was the most impressive bunch of rubble I've ever seen!" It's shockingly well preserved; as you walk around it looks and feels like a real town. Except it was built over 2000 years ago. Another reason to live in Naples: their pizza is the best thing I've ever tasted.

In between some of the stops, we had 4 days of sailing at sea, during which we spent our time eating, sleeping, lying in the sun, attending special classes in belly dancing (well, some of us did. Can you imagine grandpa swinging his hips?), and chatting. The days at port were busy and long, but when you only have 1 day in a city, you can't spare a minute! I got to spend time with 4 of my grandparents while they're still healthy enough to get around and remember it. Mostly. I got to pretend I was 16 again (no, Kate and I are not twins, but plenty of people thought so), and my parents spoiled me rotten. All in all, a dang good trip. Thanks, parents!

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

This country bumpkin (me) did a scary thing today.

I drove around in the District of Columbia, just me and my trusty ole' GPS.

Not impressed? You should be. Let me describe a a typical DC driving scenario.

First of all, your street, even though it's in the "suburbs" has a traffic light on nearly every corner. Just leaving your street takes 4-5 minutes and several red lights. As you pull onto the main street closest to your house, you notice that although there are 4 lanes (2 each way), the road is exceedingly narrow. You pull into the right lane and drive along at 25 mph, which really means around 40. Things are going well until you notice that you're barreling down on a parked car in your lane. You quickly merge left rather than hit the car or slam on the brakes and cause an accident, getting honked at for almost cutting off the guy behind you.

Your heart beating a little faster, you suddenly see that the next traffic light is red, but the intersection is doing something weird with 2 roads intersecting over yours, and you stop uncertainly in between the 2 roads with a prayer in your heart that you won't get smashed. Then there's a patch of construction where all the lines shift; the GPS says to keep left, but the road you need suddenly turns; some roads are one-way, some aren't; some should be and as a car tries to pass you, it nearly scrapes the paint off your car.

When you finally arrive at your destination, your knees are weak, but your car is still in tact and so are you. Your journey has been a success.

Packing.

Packing.

Throwing copious amounts of stuff away.

Pack some more.

Grading, teaching, grading, testing.

Frantically visiting friends.

DC next week to leave Trav behind.

Europe the week after.

Then back to Utah to teach my final semester at UVU.

We're finally leaving.

Molly

Three weeks ago today, my 16-year-old cousin Molly got up in the morning and didn't feel well. She trudged down the stairs to tell her mom that she wanted to stay home from school and was going back to bed. My auntie knew that Molly had been feeling a little off, feverish and such, for the past few days, so she didn't think much about it. Molly went back to bed and slept and slept and slept. And slept.

Sometime in the early afternoon, my aunt went into Molly's room to check on her. She had, after all, been sleeping for more than even the average teenager should sleep. Auntie called her name, shook her, tried to wake her up, to no avail. She was breathing, but not responding. An ambulance was called. Molly was admitted to the hospital and dozens of tests were run. Still nothing.

By Friday morning, things weren't looking so good. Molly's brain had swelled during the night, and it was no longer responding to the tests the doctors were running. The family, hoping for the miracle Molly deserved, called Molly's two older sisters and told them to come back from college right away. But by the time they arrived late Friday night, Molly was brain dead. They kept her breathing long enough for the family to say good bye.

Molly was my younger sister Kate's best friend and like a sister to us. Like a sister in all the ways you have a sister- all the fun, as well as irritations, of a sister. She and Kate used to torture Kristi and me (though I'm sure if you ask them, they would say it was the other way around). They were annoying and loud and giggly and messy and juvenile. They were also adorable and funny and sometimes even sweet. Molly spent half of her time at my house, and Kate spent half of her time at Molly's house. Sometimes when they had slumber parties, I would make them pancakes for breakfast and pretend to be the waiter. They had to call me sir, or I wouldn't respond. When I did reply, it was only in a British accent. Sir didn't speak American.

Molly was one of the wittiest people I ever knew. Sometimes she and T-rav and I would make snarky comments about whoever was hanging around us. We would laugh about little things under our breath and then refuse to reveal their meaning. She understood jokes way beyond her years.

Molly was smart, beautiful, athletic, popular, and a little spoiled, but most of all, and most importantly, she was nice. Everyone who knew her loved her. Over 1000 people came to her calling hours; there were nearly 900 at the funeral, including her entire sophomore class. Everyone talked about how kind and friendly Molly was. She talked to the lonely girl in gym class or always smiled at the nerdy kids. She definitely wasn't perfect. But she was compassionate and thoughtful. And loving.

We don't know why Molly died. It makes me inexpressibly angry that she was taken from us, from Kate, her sisters, and especially from her parents. How do you go on with life when something like this happens? Why did this tragedy happen? I wonder when and if the anger will ever go away. This is the type of tragedy that is better read in a Reader's Digest article and not experienced on your own. It's not supposed to happen.

I know that somehow life will continue, somehow my poor aunt and uncle will carry on, somehow life will regain a sense of normalcy. But we will never forget her.

Molly, I love you.