Westbound

This summer has flown away-- I'm not sure where it went. But I do know where I've gone:

Gettysburg, PA
Washington, DC
Philadelphia, PA
Boston, MA (many, many times)
Worcester, MA
Wakefield, MA
Albany, NY
Manchester, NH
Walden Pond
White Mountains

And soon, it's back to Buffalo for me. I'm going with less trepidation, less nostalgia, and more hope this year. Last year was definitely a big transition, and I've dealt with many changes, losses (see Elegy for a Dog post), and anxieties. But I've realized that I have, indeed, dealt with them. I suppose I'm a real adult now, and whatever comes my way, I think I'll cope with it.

The Thesis, Part Deux

I wrote a thesis as an undergraduate student. When I finished my thesis (which had a rather embarrassingly stupid title when I turned it in to my advisor; I have since changed "Are You There God? It's Me, England" to "Looking for England: National Identity in Post-World War II Britain"), I was certain that I was going to study 20th century British literature, with a focus on Irish expatriates. I was sure of this up until halfway through last semester, when I realized that I kind of only liked Samuel Beckett and sometimes W.B. Yeats, and I had no desire to read James Joyce... ever. And I loved my 19th century American class. And I wanted to publish my paper on Washington Irving and Kierkegaard and include it in my thesis. I wanted to read more about the theater and its development in the United States. (And I wanted an excuse to write about Artaud again, because really, not enough people read him. Go read The Theater and Its Double. Right now.)

So, here I am, back at the American Antiquarian Society, reading obscure novels about actresses. I'm going to read more into Kierkegaard, education and seduction, and look up a performance history of Rip Van Winkle, and doubtless give myself carpal tunnel syndrome as I prepare to write another thesis.

The strange thing is, I'm starting to like research again. I really enjoyed the hours I spent in the reading room at the Antiquarian Society this afternoon. I think part of it is handling old books. I love leafing through a book that went out of print a hundred years ago, that perhaps no one else has read since 1920. Those books have lives and histories of their own, and I can take these flights of fancy wondering where they had been and where they would go next, how it is that I stumble upon them. There's a wonderful piece in The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, "The Mutability of Literature." Crayon picks up an old folio from the 17th century, and it begins speaking in an antiquated tongue. It had been on the shelf for over a hundred years, and couldn't believe that Shakespeare was more widely read than any other author of the time. I know that the books I'm reading might wonder at Hawthorne's popularity, Melville's ubiquity in American education, and, what interests me especially, the dissipation of theatrics and drama into every aspect of American culture except for the stage.

I'm almost done with being a student. I am still resolved to stop at my Masters degree and not get a PhD, but I'm now starting to appreciate the rare opportunity I have to conduct this kind of research, to read these obscure books, and to resurrect a few names that no one remembers any longer, but knowing myself that these names have something to say, that I should listen.

Summer Reading

Since my last post, I've gone on a whirlwind vacation to Gettysburg, Washington DC, and Philadelphia, and then returned to Massachusetts for the summer. I'm still missing my puppy a lot; I have to catch myself to not call to her when I walk in the door, and the house is so quiet without her. But, I'm getting used to it and my mom and I are working on the yard to make an area for the dogs, where we'll bury their ashes.

I've also started reading for fun, something I look forward to every summer. Jarrod and I have a tradition of reading massive books all summer; our first was James Joyce's Ulysses back in 2008, then Anna Karenina in 2009, last year was In Search of Lost Time (Jarrod didn't really stick to that one...), and this year, we're reading War and Peace. This is my second foray into Leo Tolstoy's literature, and I'm just as captivated the second time around. I love Tolstoy's characterization; every character has the inconsistencies and imperfections, the ugliness and beauty of humanity.

In the first book, I found the death scene of Count Bezuhov most fascinating, especially in comparison to the death scene of Nikolai Levin in Anna Karenina. Nikolai Levin's death spurred a deep meditation on mortality and a revelation of the fragility and mystery of life in his brother, Konstantin, but in War and Peace, the final sufferings of Count Bezuhov brought out only petty, ugly, undignified bickering over a will. The difference between a poor death and a rich death is striking in these two books. Nikolai died in a filthy hotel room, penniless, surrounded only by his mistress, his brother Konstantin, and Konstantin's wife Kitty. He was desperate to live and his death was terrible and painful. Count Bezuhov does not cling to life so fiercely, and dies in his massive estate, one of the largest in Russia, surrounded by his large family. A greater difference lies in the reactions of the spectators to the death throes, however; where Kostya is inspired with awe and terror, and contemplates his own mortality and the secret knowledge of death, the potential heirs to Bezuhov's fortune elide the mystery and horror of death. They fixate on what will outlive the Count, his enormous fortune, and fight with each other over the will with hideous cunning and selfishness. Their behavior was shameful, far more shameful than Nikolai Levin's desperation to continue living, his refusal to accept his fate.

A more direct confrontation with death occurs among the soldiers in battle at the beginning of Book Two; the young Nikolai Rostov experiences war and the imminence of death for the first time. I'll write more about this after I finish the second book, but for now, I notice a pattern in Tolstoy's writing, that people will use any means possible to avoid a confrontation with mortality and death, and so the only way to face it is to strip away all the distractions and view it in its naked horror.

Elegy for a Dog

I used to say that I loved Heidi so much because no one else would. She wasn’t the typical golden retriever; she was high-strung, neurotic, loud, bossy, at time cantankerous. She had a penchant for rolling around in the lush green lawns of our neighbors and for leaping into puddles. She was obsessed with Frisbees and tennis balls, although she had a peculiar idea of what fetch meant—she was convinced it involved her chasing after the tossed object and then dropping it at her own feet, demanding one of her humans to pick it up and launch it again. She also had a peculiar habit of climbing on my head during thunderstorms. She spent exactly one night in the veterinarian-recommended dog crate, because she cried so pathetically that I couldn’t stand the idea of locking her in a cage—from then on, she roamed the house freely. She was kicked out of obedience school for talking back; every command the instructor gave her, Heidi responded with yips, barks, and yowls.

I was always happy that she never became obedient.

Heidi had personality. She was spunky, feisty, bossy, recalcitrant.

She was sweet and incredibly attuned to our emotions. I remember the morning my grandmother died. I came downstairs to eat breakfast before school, and I immediately noticed my mom’s red eyes, her tear-stained face. I asked what was wrong and she choked out, “Grammy died.” She started crying again, and Heidi, an anxious look on her face, ran over to my mom, jumped up to put her paws on her hips, and stretched her neck in an attempt to lick my mom’s face. Heidi did provide some comfort that morning, making us all laugh.

She was my golden girl, my Heidi dog, my goofball.

She didn’t know when to stop. She would swim at the lake until she was absolutely exhausted and slept for three hours when we got home. When she was two years old, my dad and I took her out in the back yard to run around in the snow. She played fetched for well over an hour, tossed herself into snow banks, and her reddish gold fur looked like lambskin by the time we dragged her inside. At some point during the outing, she tore a ligament in her leg. I have no idea when, because she would have continued playing if we hadn’t called her in. She had surgery, and that entire spring, I walked her up and down the steep cemetery hill to make her spindly leg strong. She often resisted and was afraid to go into the cemetery too near dusk, but twice a day, every day, for months, I walked her and for years, I couldn’t tell which leg she injured.

She seemed to think that I wouldn’t notice her trying to climb up on the couch if she moved very, very slowly. One paw on the cushion—sideways glance at me—the other paw up—quick, nervous glance at me—lean forward, not too fast, no one will ever notice. Within five minutes, she’d be sprawled across my lap.

She didn’t try to sneak her way onto the couch when I was sick. Heidi was sure she could cure me by staying by my side every second. Scratching those curly ears did make me feel better. I wish I could have been there for her at the end, to give her some comfort.

Heidi minded it when I left her. She was five years old when I left for college. She stared at my piles of bags and blankets with a despairing look: “How can you leave me?”
I came home a week later, just for the weekend, but Heidi greeted me with such joy that suggested she thought she would never see me again. I’m afraid I broke her heart every Sunday for four years, though.

Heidi, do you know how you’ve broken mine now?

I will miss her greetings and her unrestrained exuberance. Thump-thump-thump: tail spinning against her dog bed as I came in the door at midnight after dropping Jarrod off at the train station. The clicking toes, and sometimes sliding paws, as she ran to me when I came home for the first time after almost two months in Buffalo. The slower greeting I received this Easter, the last time I saw her, when I first realized just how sick she was. She was too tired to jump up, and had been sleeping in my parents’ room for most of the day, but when I said her name, “Where’s my Heidi?” her tail still rotated around and around, thumping against the dog bed. She still seemed to know when I was leaving that Sunday.

I didn’t know that would be our last goodbye. So I want to give you a better goodbye now, Heidi.

I’ll miss you, my friend—your antics, the way you never got used to Jarrod’s sneeze, your firm belief that offering your paw would make amends for any wrongdoing and instantly grant you the treat you were seeking, your perseverance. You always were one to defy the odds, from the allergic reaction to your first vaccine to these last months of hanging on well beyond what the vet expected and what I dreaded. That dreaded time has come now, and neither of us would ever be ready for it. I’ll say goodbye the way I always did. You be a good girl, Heidi. You always were.

Summer, hurry up!

I am SO anxious for this semester to end. I have one paper due on Monday, then another due May 16th, and then I am freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Jarrod and I are going down to Washington, D.C. for a few days before heading back to Massachusetts for the summer, and I can't wait! We've both been so stressed this semester that we could really use a vacation. And it will be amazing to be somewhere warm! I'm usually not that into sticky summer heat, but after ten months in Buffalo, I want to wear shorts and flip-flops and swim in the ocean.

Gah, I need to focus and get these papers done!

Homeward Bound

I'm going home this weekend to celebrate Easter with family and friends! I have really missed New England, and all week, I've been thinking of places I want to go around my hometown, going to Mass with my nieces and then seeing Jarrod's family for Easter lunch at his grandparents' house. Although I have the specter of two final papers to write hanging over me this weekend, nothing can dampen my spirits. I can't wait to go home.

Home has a more complicated definition for me now, though. I've been in Buffalo for over nine months. While the city itself doesn't exactly feel like home, and can never feel like home the way Marlborough does since it contains my entire childhood, I realized last week just how much my apartment has become home to me. I spent Thursday through Sunday morning in another person's house, pet-sitting, and I was a little surprised to find how much I missed my apartment. Jarrod stayed in the house with me, which made it better, but we both felt displaced. It was more than just not having our things around or not knowing the layout of the house. It just wasn't our home, and I appreciated more deeply that our apartment is our home, not merely a place where we keep our stuff and sleep at night.

When I first moved here, I anticipated feeling the same way towards my apartment as I did towards my college dorm rooms; a place to stay, a space which becomes comfortable and welcoming, but which isn't really a home, just a pseudo-home, a temporary resting place. We will probably have a different apartment next year, somewhere closer to campus so we can save on gas money, so in that sense, it is similar to my college dorms. One year occupancy, then move on to another place. But this little second-floor, one-bedroom apartment feels more mine than my dorm rooms ever did, and I can't quite explain why. I do know, however, that spaces become meaningful because of the people that animate them, the memories that linger and follow you.

Memory absolutely fascinates me; I write and read a lot about nostalgia, perhaps because I'm very prone to this emotion. I'm interested in the ability to move yourself back in time emotionally, but only in part, returning to the same place and mental state, yet impossibly remote from it. Tonight I'll probably share my room with my sister for the first time since she got married six years ago. It will be a lot of fun and we'll probably stay up way too late, laughing and talking like we always have. But we're such vastly different people from who we were the last time we shared a room. There's something beautiful and sad and joyous in that, all at once.

Free Lunch

Buffalo is a very poor, segregated city with many homeless people. A lot of them flock to my neighborhood, which is in the wealthier, gentrified section of the city, and stand outside of the stores on Elmwood Ave (the main shopping area), begging. I encounter at least one or two every day, and I'm really torn on how to respond to them. Is it better to refuse the homeless person there before you in the flesh and donate to a charity or a shelter instead? I'm uncertain of that mentality, because it seems too abstract, even if it ultimately does more good than to give to an individual; that individual still matters, that person right before you, appealing to you for help. The endless obligation to the other, when confronted with the other face-to-face. The face-to-face matters, the reality and individuality of the other is far more demanding, and more difficult to respond to, than the abstract vision in the mind when donating to an institution. I feel really guilty when I refuse that, but I often do refuse. Most of the time, I apologize and say that I don't have any cash on me, which is true; I very seldom carry cash. This was the case yesterday; I was walking to the corner store to buy some oatmeal for breakfast, when I saw a woman leaning up against the side of the building. I've seen her multiple times before; mid to late 40s, heavy-set, disheveled hair, the same clothes every day, flagging down every person who walks by and asking for cash. She's not aggressive or threatening, like some of the other visible homeless who regularly frequent the area. I've given her cash before when I've had paper money on me. As I approached the entrance of the store, she asked me if I could spare any money; I only had my credit card on me, so I started apologizing as I thought of maybe asking for cash back when I purchased my oatmeal, when she asked if I could buy her food. I was a little surprised, because just a few days ago, Jarrod and I had talked about people begging on the street and how our responses are really constrained. Both of us wanted to buy something for the people-- food, a sweatshirt, something-- but didn't know how to offer it. The act of begging is inherently uncomfortable in the overt recognition of class differences, a stark demarcation of those with excess and those with nothing. There's instantly a tense dynamic between the beggar and the other, an accusation of being selfish if you refuse to give some of your excess, an accusation of being wealthy. Granted, as a grad student, I don't have much excess, but my very position as a grad student designates me as privileged.


I agreed; she asked me if I could buy her food and I said, sure and she followed me into the store, clearly surprised and pleased. The dynamics of this encounter weren't aggressive or threatening, but it was still strange. She disappeared into the aisles of the store as I went for my oatmeal, and for a minute, I thought she had gone back outside and was expecting me to choose her meal. Then I thought about it, and she was probably embarrassed by my acceptance, even though she was clearly happy that I had agreed to buy her a loaf of bread and sandwich meat. I was self-conscious myself, looking around for her, wondering if she was going to thrust the items into my hands and leave the store. I thought of the reversal of the physical discrepancies between the privileged and the poor in the 21st century; this woman easily outweighs me by 60 lbs, but heaviness no longer indicates wealth and the ability to feed oneself to excess. It's because she's forced to eat convenience store food, buying bags of Doritos and 99 cent donuts with the spare dollars she collects, while I walk another block to buy fresh produce at the local co-op. I rounded the corner and headed towards the check-out line and noticed her standing off to the side, holding a loaf of bread and a package of bologna. I made eye contact, and she placed her items on the counter before me. The cashier, a grim-faced older woman, asked me gruffly if I was paying for her things and I said yes. The homeless woman requested a separate bag, I paid, and headed for the door; she thanked me again and I just nodded and said no problem.


Did I handle this well? I obviously helped this woman; the loaf of bread and sandwich meat would probably make 10 sandwiches, so maybe she wouldn't have to stand outside and beg for the rest of the afternoon. I didn't look back to see where she went; she was still inside the store when I left, and I sort of didn't want to know what she did after. I had the impulse to disengage, to slip back into anonymity and have no one else confront me, recognize me, ask of me. I think I did something good, but am I obligated to do this every time I encounter a homeless person? Is it my personal responsibility to triple the cost of my order to buy food for others when I'm rationing that container of oatmeal so it lasts for the last month or so of the semester? I'm not sure if there's any good solution, if it's my responsibility to take on, but I also feel like I couldn't have refused. In total, it only cost about $10 for my food and hers, giving her $7 that she just didn't have, $7 that I could spare. Perhaps that's the difficulty of all of this-- what, exactly, can you spare?