Monthly Archives: July 2012

Hair

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The following is a work of fiction.

I have brown hair.  Not like my two older sisters, who both have this beautiful long spun-gold hair.  They got that from my mom; that, and their warm brown eyes that look like chocolate dipped in honey.

I’m my dad’s daughter.  Short and thin, with eyes that aren’t quite green and aren’t quite blue.  And, of course, the hair.  I keep it short, cut straight across the bottom. It’s so thick and lank and heavy, curling just a bit at the ends, that just having it on my head feels like a sin.  And my hair isn’t the only thing wrong with me, either.

 

My oldest sister, the one with the husband and three beautiful children, is a math professor at an elite college on the West Coast.  My other sister was a math major too, before she took a hiatus one semester shy of graduation.  A hiatus, they said.  But we all knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

Me, I never understood math all that well.  I used to drive my sisters crazy asking for homework help.  You’d have to be a dummy not to understand partial fractions, they said.  And I was.  I was, and am, not at their level – intellectually.  I got into this school, and bullshitted my way through three years of chemistry, on hard work and guts.  Trying to drive out the demons.

When we were all little, I was the bad one.  I always acted up, stealing my sisters’ things, getting put in timeout at school for scratching another kid until they bled.  I don’t know.  I was just angry, all the time, angry because I wasn’t Georgia, the smart one, or Genie, the pretty one.  I was just me.  Jane, plain as white bread.

I used to take dance classes.  I’d throw myself into the routines and the exercises, willing myself to become stronger and leaner, to stand out in something, at least.  One night, my dad was late picking me up from class.  All the girls went home while I sat in the lobby and watched episode after episode of 7th Heaven.  Finally someone came to pick me up.  It wasn’t my dad, or my mom either.  She said she was a nurse.  I asked her for the password, the one my dad and I had come up with to make sure that no evil stranger ever picked me up off the streets, and she told it to me.  Peanut butter pancakes.

My dad passed away that night, by his own hand.  He lost his battle with schizophrenia at last, after all the nights of arguing, the long walks down hot desert streets, the “vacations” he’d taken.  From that moment on, we all lived in the shadow, darker than my hair.  The fear that one of us girls would be chosen, by some twist of fate or genetics, to inherit the illness.

Genie broke with it during her senior year.  Her roommate found her huddled on the sill of their open window, telling an invisible secret agent that she wouldn’t let him track her movements through the gold fillings in her mouth.  She went to the hospital, then a group home, where she got sicker.  Even now, with the medication, she isn’t her old self.  She’s flat, somehow, like part of her has died.  She doesn’t want to go back to school.  She couldn’t help me with my p-chem homework one night.  She works in a restaurant washing dishes.

So there’s all that.

But then there’s my dad, who used to teach chemistry in high school.  His hair went gray early, but I remember looking at old pictures of him and my mom together.  Smiling on the slopes of Aspen, dancing on a Mexican beach.  Mom asked him out, not the other way around – he was too shy – but his face never ceased to light up around her.  She was his entire world, the one person clear in all his fogs.  His hair a ruffled seal-brown.  I often imagine them in their early married days, perhaps during their honeymoon in France, flicking soap suds at each other over the dishes, sleeping in late wrapped in each other’s arms.

One afternoon I came to him crying.  The girls at school had once again made fun of my thick eyebrows, my overly full face, my long round nose.  When I told Genie on the bus ride home, she simply answered, “So?  It’s true.”

“Dad,” I said, “why do I have to have plain brown hair?  It looks so ugly on me.  No one’s ever going to love me.  I’m ugly and stupid and I’m going to have to pullweeds for a living, since that’s what I am.”

Dad simply said, “Come here,” and took me into the bathroom.  Here, he cupped my straggly hair back from my face.  ”Who do you see in that mirror?”

“Me,” I replied, trying to stop the tears.

He sighed.  ”You look so much like your mother – minus the hair, of course.  She’s not pretty, you know.  No outside observer would look twice at her, she says, and maybe she’s right.  But you know what?  To me – to us – she’s beautiful.

And she’s not just beautiful because of what she looks like, either.  She’s beautiful because we love her, and we love her because of what’s inside of her.  Just like we love you, not because of your funny little nose, but because you’re smart and kind and charming.  And that lasts.”

I looked up at him and sniffed.  His eyes, muddy blue like mine, were sincere and lucid.  Yep, he meant it.  ”You … really think I’m smart?”

He laughed.  ”Yes.  Who helped me grade all those tests last week?  Genie?  No, she’s too busy brushing her hair and trying on makeup.  Nah, it was you.  You getchemistry.  And that makes me happy.”

Gosh, no one could make me feel smart and pretty like my dad.  No one else has, either.  I’ve never had a boyfriend, unless you count the one who stood me up for senior prom.  I live in fear of failing a class, being kicked out of school, or – worse, waking up one day in a white hospital bed, restraints on my wrists.

I used to hate my dad.  I still do, sometimes, because he abandoned his family, because he dared to pass on his flawed genes, because I cringe a little every time I look in the mirror and see the big muddy mess on my head.

But there are other times.  Like when I get a Skype call from my sister and her littlest son, the one with my dad’s eyes.  Or when I ace a neurochem test and walk out of that classroom with a little swing in my step.  Or last spring, at the academic awards dinner, when my mentor, who was also my orgo professor, raised her glass: “To Jane Smith, the most talented – and most beautiful – student I’ve had in a very long time.”

Times like that, I remember holding onto my dad’s hand and looking into his eyes as he tells me I am beautiful and loved.  I remember Genie’s hugs on Christmas morning, and how her hair always smelled like freshly mown grass and mountain air.  I remember, and I smile, because life is for the living.

Then, as I get ready for the next class or interview or luncheon, I pop a hand mirror out of my bag and check my appearance, the round, bookish face, the somber blue-green eyes, the potatoish nose.  Oh, and the hair.

“Who do you see in that mirror, Jane?”

“Me, Dad.  I see me.”

Rice OAK And the Fate of Kindness

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(First of all, let me apologize for the way this wordpress is turning out! I didn’t mean for it to be so personal and full of slightly creepy anecdotes. But hey, that’s the way my life is going right now. My deepest apologies.)

Last night, on Tumblr, I got into a pretty bad argument with a few social justice bloggers. I don’t even really remember what it was about, but it ended in this, when I apologized to one of them in a message and met with the most bitter and jaded response I could have hoped for:

n/a

The main thing about this was that I had never been belittled like that in my life.  I’d never had my kindness (genuine, mind you) rebuffed, never been called a bad person or oppressor, and certainly never had my depression and anxiety disorder, which has been as constant a part of my life as the color of my eyes, referred to as “privileged tears.”

At first I didn’t know what to do.  When I came up with Owl Acts of Kindness in May of this year, I knew in a sort of abstract way that some people would be suspicious of random acts of kindness, and worse, reject them rudely.  Let’s face it, not everyone in this world is as nice (or tolerant) as we’d like them to be.

In this case, I felt like I had finally run into one of those high school cliques that I mostly managed to avoid during my actual time in high school.  This was the culmination of a long history of more minor fights on social media websites and my growing confusion about what I was and was not allowed to say and to whom.  I assume Brittany wanted me to be terribly upset and to change my ways – to no longer be “hateful.”

But I wasn’t upset.  I actually laughed, if sadly, at the amount of unleashed anger I could feel behind her words.  And I’ll not change my ways.

I have been, over the course of my life, very sad and very angry about various social causes.  I’ve stood up for my differently-abled friends and argued for hours about contraception and other areas of politics.  There have also been times when I just hated the entire world, and I was rude to professors and friends and total strangers, because (for some reason or another) I could not be kind to myself.

That’s what sincere kindness is.  One cannot be truly kind to others unless they first accept and love themselves, completely and without constraint.  Any other kindness reeks of the passive-aggressive.  To me, someone who hates themselves and gives kindness to others (and I’ve done this many times in the past) is crying, “Give me some recognition, tell me that I am good.”  True change and positivity begins with oneself.

Some people don’t want kindness.  They’ll toss the gift basket you spent hours making.  They’ll spit your attempt at apology in your face.  And that’s fine.  Do not ever let someone’s reaction to an act of kindness cause you to become bitter and morose. First, because you can’t control other people, you can only control your interaction with the world; second, because rarely are we alone, and you never know who else might be watching, and who might really benefit from seeing such kindness.

Dear reader, I am proud to announce that OAK is going absolutely nowhere.  It’s staying right at Brown where it began, and with a little luck, it will soon be all over campus.  I don’t believe in false kindnesses, passive-aggressive snark, or sarcasm.  In the end, though, it’s totally irrelevant what you believe about me, because what actually matters is what you do the next time you see someone in need.

Be strong, carry your head high, and keep most all of Tumblr in your thoughts.  It looks like they’re going to need it.  (:

 

Ten Things I Learned About College During Freshman Year (Part I)

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It’s July again, and college assignments for the incoming freshmen are out.  I’ve seen proud declarations from newly minted Sidizens, Hanszenites, and Duncaroos (but no Will Ricers yet … where ARE you people?)

Regardless of what college you were sorted into, if you’re reading this and you are part of the class of 2016 (2017 if you’re unlucky or in architecture), congratulations!  From the bottom of my heart.  I know you’ll love your new home.

All this commotion has got me to thinking about my own entrance into the world of Brown almost exactly a year ago, and my own O-week experience in August of 2011.  I was so young then, so innocent, so … skinny.  I thought I knew what I needed to know to get by, but goodness, I couldn’t have been more wrong.  In a way that made my first year more fun … however, there are still certain things I did during freshman year that make me want to disappear under the bed when I think back on them.

Therefore, for your education and/or amusement, I present to you the ten most important things I learned during my freshman year:

1. Your Roommate Is Your Best Friend.

Seriously, you guys.  This is the number one most important thing you have to remember. You also have to remember that your roommate has most likely had little or no experience with long-term roommates, and s/he is as nervous as you are.
Roommates at Rice are generally well matched; this doesn’t mean that there aren’t some bad matches, however.  If you just absolutely hate your roommate, talk to him/her right away, or if that doesn’t help, go to your masters and they’ll help you work it out.
The reason that it’s important to do this immediately is because your roommate really does end up becoming your best friend.  S/he is the first to know if you’re sick or upset or having trouble with friends or in school, and at least in my situation, she’s the first person I come to with my problems.  Your roommate may not be one of those friends you hang out with in the outside world, but when it comes to the most difficult and personal of problems, s/he is always going to have your back … even if s/he just wants to shut you up so s/he can get some sleep.
This also, sadly, means you have to be nice to your roommate, barring a few stress-related or hormonally charged snaps.  You do not want an unresolved argument chilling the atmosphere in your room, and you certainly don’t want someone who is angry at you sharing your sleeping space.
2. You Will Fail Your First Midterm.
My first midterm was in Psych 101.  I managed to get a 90% (it WAS a 90, stupid TA who didn’t round up the .55%) but the next midterm, Chem 121, was a killer.  I had never, ever, ever, gotten anything less than a B on a test in high school, and suddenly there I was, looking at this tiny red 60 on my score sheet.  Basically everyone got a bad grade on that first exam.  It was horrible.  Smart kids weeping everywhere, drowning their sorrows in ice cream.
My advice?  Study your butt off for that first midterm, but don’t be surprised if you get a worse grade than you were expecting.  Studying for college isn’t like studying in high school; you need to understand the concepts more than just slugging through busy work, and finding a study plan that works for you is more a process of trial and error than anything else.

Here are some things that failing a midterm doesn’t mean:

  • You will fail the course.
  • You will be put on probation.
  • You will get kicked out of school.
  • You’ll never get into grad/med school.
  • You’re stupid/unworthy/useless.
As my master once said about my CHEM midterm, “Your CHEM grade is important – but is just a grade, and so is a very very poor indicator of your intelligence and a completely useless indicator of your worth.”  
So don’t sweat it.  Put that midterm aside and go downstairs and have some tea and a chat with a friend.  Think about it – with three midterms a class and eight classes a year, that’s ninety-six midterms.  And you just completed one.  Calm yo’self.
3. Get Enough Sleep.
I get at least eight hours of sleep a night.  Every night.  I don’t understand people who use the night as their free time.  It makes sense if you’re studying, cramming, or trying to finish homework, but if you budget your time wisely you’ll see that all-nighters become few and far between.
More sleep means less stress, more retained information, more energy, less weight gain, and a happier mood overall.  Better grades?  Well, there have been a few studies linking consistent procrastination to poorer GPA’S, but I’m too lazy to dig them up right now.  I’ll do it later.
4. The Other Colleges Aren’t Really That Bad.
I love Beer Bike as much as the next girl, but sometimes intercollegiate rivalry can get a bit out of hand (particularly when fueled by alcohol.)  Here’s the straight up truth – all of the colleges are filled with a mix of great, smart, friendly people, and … well … bad apples.  (Truthfully, though, I’ve met very few “bad apples” at Rice.)  Yes, Martel IS a college, Will Rice DOES have nice people, and Jones, while they may be ardent animal lovers, respects all creatures’ right to bodily integrity.

When you hear anti-cheers directed at your college, sometimes it’s hard not to leap a tree and just go for that depraved heathen.  But control yourself.  Anti-cheers are less the actions of a bully and more those of an annoying but loving sibling.  And you know what my favorite part of cheer rally is?  When all those asinine college cheers and anti-cheers stop and everyone starts up “RICE, FIGHT.  NE-VER DIE.”

Because above all, we’re Rice.  And we can take comfort in the fact that, working together, all of us colleges can beat the crap out of Texas A&M any day.

5. Your Professors Are Human.

Let me begin with a charming anecdote about my first (and hopefully, only) 200-level social sciences course, ASIA 212 (Perspectives on Modern Asia.)  I, being a science major used to writing cut-and-dry descriptions of gel electrophoresis, was extremely nervous sitting in that class on the first day of school.  As the deadline for the first essay approached, I remained tongue-tied (finger-tied?)  I decided to go to a student organization meeting one night, just to get away from the blank Word document, and what did I find?
One of my ASIA 212 professors!
We only talked for about ten minutes, but at the end of that time I felt so much more confident about the course.  He gave me advice and told me I’d do fine (“most students get  high B’s or above,”) and the best part was, when I got home, I sat down at my desk, imagined I was telling him all about what I’d learned so far in the class, and the words just poured forth.
I was lucky with my chemistry professor, too.  I stormed into his office one day, intending to give him a piece of my mind, and instead sat down and burst into tears.  We talked for perhaps half an hour, enough for him to remember my name and call on me when he saw my hand in class.
As you can tell, I really love my professors and I hope to keep in touch with all of them, even though I no longer take their classes.  It’s a huge bonus to you and your professor if you take the time to go to their office hours and ask questions in class.  You’ll learn more in an active environment, and you’ll show the professor that you’re interested in his/her subject, and the professor gains a new friend!
Yes, it’s true!  You can become friends with your professors, especially at Rice, where the classes are so small.  And it’s an incredible experience if you do.  Any given professor has gone through years and years of education to get to where s/he is today, and is so in love with his/her area of expertise that s/he could talk about it for hours, so if you have a question – any question at all – trust me.  Go to the office hour.  In fact … run there.