Nightmare, be gone!

I had a scary dream last night.

In this dream, I was at a party in a large house. I left my purse in one of the bedrooms upstairs and then went on to play video games (???) and dance. But suddenly the electricity flickered and went out completely. I was kind of freaked out and decided to leave the party, but I had to get my purse first. I went upstairs using someone's flashlight, hurriedly grabbed my purse, and ran down the stairs. Unfortunately, a long green ghost had seen me and started to chase me. He stabbed me in the back with a huge knife that pirates use. (You know, the ones with a curved blade.)

It was a weird and scary dream, but I wouldn't call it a nightmare. No screaming, no jitters. I lied in bed after I woke up, thinking about the dream, and I realized that I have only had one nightmare in my entire life---a dream that I had back in elementary school. Since then though I haven't had any nightmares.

I wonder what makes people have nightmares. I know Justin has them all the time and my friend Cassandra had them from time to time when I was her roommate. What causes our brains to produce nightmares? Is it a dark memory from our past? Or just a random hormonal cause? In either case, I'm glad that I don't have nightmares frequently. I get squeamish watching scary movies and I can't imagine hosting my very own scary movie in my head. At night. In the dark. Yech!

Feeling Lucky

There are two kinds of readers in the world: the reader who likes to feel and the reader who likes to think. I'm part of the former category: I really like to feel. In fact, I love to feel. Ever since I was a little girl I have often been swept up in various emotion, from getting so mad at my brother that I sat on him (he stole my Velveteen Rabbit book) to feeling so happy that I could weep from the joy. Yep, I'm an emotional girl.

And so, I'm naturally drawn to emotionally-powerful books. None of the sappy stuff, mind you. No Nicholas Sparks or Jack Weyland for me! I love books that make me sad like The Age of Innocence and books that make me mad. And of course, I love books that make me happy, like The Princess Bride.

Emotional resonance is not reserved to works of fiction. Both Nickel and Dimed as well as A Problem from Hell (a Pulitzer-prize winning book on genocide) made me angry and sad by the selfishness and hatred in the world. Last night I read another such book. It didn't anger me as much as it saddened me. It made me realize how ugly the world can be, but it also revealed to me the strength and resilience of the human spirit.

Lucky is a memoir by Alice Sebold who was raped during her freshman year at Syracuse University. She was assaulted and raped at a park near campus. It was a random act of violence. She was nineteen years old. After the rape, Sebold went directly to the police who informed her that another girl was raped and murdered in the same park a few months before. They said she was lucky.

The memoir begins with Sebold's rape and chronicles her recovery---both physical and mental. She details the reaction of her family and how they struggle to find healing too. And it follows Sebold when her rapist is caught, tried, and imprisoned for eight years.

I enjoyed reading this book on many levels. As I mentioned before, Lucky is extremely powerful emotionally and especially to female readers. (Which probably comprises most of Sebold's readership.) Most women don't know what it's like to have been raped, but they do know what it's like to feel vulnerable. I know I always feel a twinge of nervousness when I walk to my car in a parking garage after dark. And it is this vulnerability that really pulled me into Lucky.

I also enjoyed Lucky because Sebold is a very honest writer. Her style is detailed but not flowery, realistic not stark, heartfelt not sentimental. I love how she followed one of the most fundamental rules of writing: show, don't tell. I think this was most apparent when she talked about her family. Instead of telling readers that her mother was an alcoholic and that her father escaped the alcoholism through his research as a professor, Sebold showed us. I formed a complete characterization of Sebold's family through the stories she relates.

Sebold will remain one of my favorite writers. Her novel The Lovely Bones is a fine work of literature, too. But would I recommend Lucky to anybody? Well, it's a memoir that isn't for the faint of heart. It focuses on rape, which is a topic that most people feel uncomfortable with. The first chapter of the book, which recounts in detail Sebold's assault and rape, is probably the most bone-jarring piece of literature that I have ever read. Yet I think it's important that we read books that tackle difficult issues because they challenge us and they teach us greater empathy. I have never been raped and I hope with all hopes that I'll never have to experience such an act of violence. But the sad truth of our world is that there are many women who, like Sebold, are survivors of rape. If reading this memoir helps me to empathize more with these women, then it was more than worth it.

Election 2006!

Today is election day! And I am very excited because this is my first time voting. Yes America, I will be participating in our democratic processes today!

I'm really interested to find out what exactly happens in the voting booth. I have this silly childhood notion in my mind that the booth consists of a complicated system of levers, pulleys, and flashing blue buttons. With such a notion in my head, I know I will be sorely disappointed to see what actually resides behind the curtain.

Anyway, the elections have provided hours of entertainment for Justin and me in the past few weeks. It seems like every minute CNN or MSNBC puts out a new poll that shows the Democrats or Republicans leading. You can't escape the elections! They're splashed across our newspapers and broadcasted on our television sets. You can't watch a TV show these days without coming across a campaign ad.

The Senate campaign ads in Maryland have been run-of-the-mill. Commercials from Ben Cardin's camp (D) portray Michael Steele (R) as Bush's lapdog. And ads from Steele's camp depict Cardin as a Democrat dummy. Eh. I've seen the same mud-slinging before.

If only I lived in Virginia! Ah, Virginia. The Senate race there between incumbent George Allen (R) and challenger Jim Webb (D) is as exciting---and controversial---as a Tarantino movie. On one side is Senator Allen, a Southern drawlin' country boy who wears cowboy boots on the campaign trail. A few months ago Allen was touted as a potential presidential candidate for 2008. But this was all before he called a Webb campaigner of Indian descent a "macaca." And before a couple of his old football buddies recalled the Senator throwing around the n-word back in college.

The Virginian Senator who once enjoyed a healthy margin over his opponent now is battling to cross the finish line. Polls show the two in a dead heat. Elections at its finest! I wish I could vote in Virginia just to participate. I feel like my vote would be worth more. I also really like Jim Webb---he doesn't have a lot of political experience, but he has a lot of military know-how. I think Washington needs more people like Webb, people who haven't been calloused and weakened by our political machine.

Oh well. Maryland is a good state, too.

The Elevator Ride

Yesterday evening after work I stepped into the elevator at Grosvenor Metro station, ready to finally head home. The elevator was full of working women in dark slacks and trenchcoats. It was seven o'clock and we were a bit of a haggard bunch---tired and hungry.

An older woman with long gray hair remarked, "Isn't this amazing? A whole elevator-full of women returning home from work at this hour." She chuckled before adding, "Times sure have changed, haven't they?"

Indeed, they have. It really is amazing that a woman in her sixties has witnessed such social change in the span of her life. I'm sure when she started working forty years ago, the workplace was a very different world where women were secretaries and men did everything else. I am so grateful to have been born in this period of history when women are encouraged to development their minds and to pursue their dreams.

And so, I have written a list of things that I am thankful for due to the feminist movement:

1.) Voting (Go Susan B.!)
2.) PhDs, JDs, MBAs, MDs, MAs, etc.
3.) The ability to walk around the city without a chaperone
4.) Pants

That last one is absolutely wonderful. I would hate wearing skirts or dresses every day in the winter. Yay for feminism and yay for pants!

Not Delicious

On my way to work today, I noticed a dead bird in the middle of the street. There wasn't any blood or spilled intestines, just a fluff of feathers and two spindly legs.

I started to wonder how this bird died. Did it keel over in the road and then a car just happened to flatten it? Or was it struck by a car as it was fishing for its afternoon meal?

I do adore animals, but any bird that is hit by a car deserves to die. If you have wings, you have the means to escape from an oncoming Ford Explorer! Not to mention you have two little legs that can hop you along to safety. And why are you looking for food in the middle of the road, anyway? I'm sure the hot dog stand just around the corner has crumbs aplenty.

Still, I wonder what happened to that little gray bird. Why was it in the middle of the street and how did it end up so flat?

The Fourth (And Very Necessary) Branch

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who read Time and those who read Newsweek. My family falls into the latter group. We worship Newsweek just as much as we worship the Redskins or my grandma's meatballs. Each issue arrives in our mailbox every Monday afternoon in pristine condition. By the next day, it's pages are usually dog-eared and the cover crinkled. What can I say? We take our news seriously.

Last week, the editor of Newsweek Mark Whitaker stepped down from his position to take a job at the Washington Post (another periodical that I adore). In his last issue as editor, Whitaker summarized in a letter to his readers the highs and lows of his eight-year tenure at the helm of the magazine. At the end of the letter, Whitaker reaffirmed the continuing mission of the magazine to inform and to educate the American people. He wrote: "We believe the mission of a free press is to shine light into corners the powerful would keep dark."

I agree with Whitaker whole-heartedly. In many ways, the press acts as the fourth branch of our government---a branch that keeps the other three in check. By uncovering illegal activities and breaches of power, the press can be viewed as the clucking hen of the U.S. government. It tries to keep our leaders from going too far and it isn't afraid of asking them the hard questions. A key example of this is the Watergate scandal that was exposed by two Washington Post reporters.

Of course, the press isn't perfect. In recent years, 24-hour news networks have made a mockery of real news. I shudder at the thought of Nancy Grace and the entirety of Fox News. Even CNN and MSNBC are prone to sensationalize every minor issue. George Allen has a Jewish mother? STOP THE PRESSES! Lance Bass is gay? BREAKING NEWS! Old McDonald has a farm? THE EVENT OF THE CENTURY! And so on and so forth. These 24-hour news networks take sensationalism to the next level; they are more concerned with entertaining than informing. What a disgrace.

Yet I still have a lot of faith in print journalism. Broadcast journalism seems to be going down the tubes, but print journalism still has a lot of merit. Periodicals like the Post and Newsweek aren't perfect either, of course, but they carry on the banner to educate the masses. They continue in the old tradition of writing the first draft of history. (And I think they're doing a good job too.) As long as reporters and editors hold onto the mantra to "just tell the damn truth," then I think the press and the American people will be OK.

(I tried to put in a picture, but blogger is being dumb. My apologies.)

Caroline 2008

I am going to run for president! I've had enough with the current administration and I am not too keen on the supposed candidates for 2008. (Please not George Allen! Hillary or McCain would be OK though.) It's time for an average, regular joe citizen to take control of the White House and I'm ready and willing to fulfill such a position. Three cheers for Caroline in 2008!

I am not a registered Democrat or Republican so I will run as an independent. Some of my platforms:

1.) Build a stable and safe Iraq. I'm going to sit down with the generals in Iraq and ask them what needs to be done to secure the country. Do they need more troops? Do they need better equipment? I'll give it to them. I want stability to be established as soon as possible. Then, I will talk to the various military officials, including generals, who fought in Iraq but who are now speaking out against the Bush administration. I want to know what needs to change in our tactics and strategy. I want to fix what we're doing wrong right now.

At the same time, I will consult a variety of scholars, diplomats, and foreign officials who have a thorough understanding of Iraq and the Middle East. How can we establish a liberal democracy in Iraq? How can we quell the fighting between Sunnis, Shiites, and Kurds?

2.) Continue waging war in the War on Terror. This means going after Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaeda. This means making Afghanistan safe and building up its economy. This means eradicating the radical madrassas that brainwash their students with anti-Western rhetoric and train them to become suicide bombers. (I'm not sure how we can do this latter option, but I'm open for suggestions.)

Waging this War on Terror also means securing American borders. And no, I'm not talking about building a wall along the Rio Grande. I'm talking about securing our ports, trains, and subways. I ride on the DC Metro every day and I know firsthand how vulnerable it is to a terrorist attack. Again, I am unsure how to make our transporation systems more safe, but I will talk to anti-terrorist experts (like Richard Clarke) who may have some good ideas.

3.) Increase humanatarian aid both domestically and internationally. I want to adequately take care of Hurricane Katrina and Rita victims and I also want to do something about Africa. First off, we need to stop the genocide in Sudan. I don't think we currently have any spare troops to send into Darfur, but we do have a lot of political weight to throw around. We need to give the Sudanese government an ultimatum---let the UN peacekeepers in or we're going to bomb you. (Something like that...) I am so sick and tired of reading about the ongoing slaughter in Darfur! Something has to be done and I won't let a genocide occur under my watch.

4.) Universal health insurance. OK, this sounds a bit expensive so we probably can't implement a universal health insurance plan during my tenure as president, but at least we can start making health insurance more affordable. I'm going to talk to Mitt Romney and see how he created a new health benefits plan in Massachusetts to insure that everyone is covered. Perhaps somehow this can be implemented on a national scale. Either way, millions of Americans live without health insurance and I find that very risky. (I know, I was one of them.)

5.) Raising the minimum wage. About a month ago, a bill entered the Chicago legislative council that would require big businesses to increase the minimum wages of their employees. (Around $10 per hour, I believe.) Unfortunately, this bill was struck down, but I would like to create a similar sort of law on the national level. I especially want to target Walmart. Ah, evil Walmart. If you don't think Walmart is evil, then I suggest you read Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich. I don't want to put Walmart out of business, but I do want it to start paying a living wage to its employees. Beware big business! Caroline is out to get you.

6.) Education. The American public school system sucks. That is my slogan when it comes to education. It is appalling that we are the world's foremost superpower but our schools are only sub-par. Something needs to change. Is there any way we can pay teachers more money so more people will want to teach? Is there any way we can improve our depressing lackluster inner-city schools?

7.) Appoint Fareed Zakaria to an important position in my administration. Vice President? Secretary of State? I love Fareed. I think he is incredibly intelligent and has an excellent grasp on both domestic and foreign affairs. He'll definitely be someone I talk to often, along with John McCain, Bill Clinton, Richard Clarke, and Justin. :o)


So there it is. Of course, there are many other issues that I will need to address, like illegal immigration, and I will tackle such subjects to the best of my ability. There are two topics, however, that I won't include in my agenda: abortion and gay marriage. Abortion has been legal for over 30 years and I think we're wasting a lot of time and money on this issue that has been established as legal by the Supreme Court. And I think individual states should decide on the legality of gay marriage. Marital law has traditionally been a state right and I will leave it as such. In all honesty, there are genocides occurring in our world and my time and energy is far better spent on ending such turmoils than debating the legality of Bill and Ted's wedding.

You might be wondering, gentle voter, how I will fund all of my platforms while diminishing our national debt. Unfortunately, I am going to have to tax the rich. I'm sorry, but I must. No more tax breaks for you, Mr. Richie Rich! I also plan to "reorganize" federal spending. I work for the government currently and I feel so much money is being wasted---and I'm only at the Smithsonian! With my trusty accountant friends, I will attempt to metaphorically re-upholster our national spending.

If that doesn't work, we will rob Canada!!!

Is it really so hard?

My name is Caroline. Pronounced Ka-ra-line. Most people don't have any problems with the first two syllables, but the last one trips them up. They call me Carolyn. My boss calls me Carolyn and so did my 12th grade psychology teacher. At my college convocation, the speaker announced my name as "Carolyn Tung" even after I had explicitly written on a piece of paper: "Pronounced Caroline. NOT Carolyn."

I thought I hit a breakthrough last Wednesday when my boss introduced me to the museum's new Guggenheim fellow.

"This is Carolyn, my assistant," my boss told the new fellow. I grimaced, but I didn't correct him because I've worked here for nine months and I don't have the heart to do so.

Later that day, I told the new fellow that my name is indeed Caroline and not Carolyn.

"Oh, OK," he said. "No problem."

And what does he say to me this morning?

"Hey Carolina!"

ARGH!

Me and My Brain

Dear Brain,

What's going on up there? Are you on vacation?

I'm a little concerned because I keep losing things. First, my pair of black pants from Express are nowhere to be found. I love these pants (they're so comfy!), but I can't find them anywhere. Second, I lost a key to a cabinet at my desk. This wouldn't be such a big deal, but my boss's video camcorder is locked up in this cabinet. Where did I put the key? It wasn't in the trusty drawer where I had left it. And third, I even lost my MP3 player. I rarely take my MP3 player out of my purse. Where did it go?

So Brain, please help me out here. Stop losing so many things. Geez.

Sincerely,
Caroline

The Plight of the Underclass...and Me

The first time I really thought about health insurance was in middle school. I was only a pre-teen at the time, but I kept hearing buzz about First Lady Hillary Clinton and her plan for universal healthcare. Being 11, I didn't really understand this term, but it sounded serious because all sorts of people were getting up in arms.

Up until this past month, health insurance has never crossed my mind again. As a kid, I was fully provided under my parent's BlueCross/BlueShield health plan. When I was in college, I enrolled with BYU's insurance. (Awesomely cheap health care! I'd pay a measly $150 per semester.) And after I started my position at the Smithsonian, I was ushered into the welcoming arms of a co-payment plan with Kaiser Permanente.

Such a storied existence couldn't last forever, of course. In a week and a half, my full-time position at the Smithsonian will terminate---taking with it my cushy health insurance plan. I will continue to work at the museum part-time (as well as part-time as a research assistant hopefully), but part-time employment and covered health insurance aren't co-existing terms.

I am beginning to fully empathize with the millions of Americans who live without health insurance. Most blue-collar jobs do not come with a neat little benefits package; and in the off-chance health insurance is offered, it often only covers emergencies. (Ie, Walmart) Thus, no check-ups for the kids and no prescription drugs for an arthritic back. The poor and the lower-middle class have to do their best to stay healthy---or else pay exhorbitant fees. (Barbara Ehrenreich does a good job of discussing this in her book, Nickel and Dimed.)

At times like this, I wish I lived in Canada or England where universal healthcare is a way of life. Back in 2003 when I lived in London, my American friend Leilani came down with a brutal illness. She was throwing up everywhere, extremely weak, and suffered from major headaches. After weathering the sickness for a few days, one of my professors took her to the hospital. A few hours later, she emerged from the emergency room looking a little less pale and with a jar of pills in her hand. The fee? Absolutely nothing. I just couldn't fathom that a foreigner could enter a British hospital and receive free medical care. Even American citizens do not have such a luxury in their own country.

I'm not an economist so I cannot fully endorse universal healthcare in the U.S., but I do recognize that there is a huge problem concerning health insurance in this country. We have the best hospitals in the world, but many Americans can never afford to step into their doors. We live in the most prosperous nation on the planet, but we have millions of our own citizens who can't even afford to go in for a routine check-up. Something should be fixed.

In the end, I am one of the lucky few who is able to get her hands on health insurance without the aid of my employer. I've decided to stay with Kaiser Permanente and pay the monthly fee on my own. Expensive? Oh yes. Is it worth it? Hopefully. I'm willing to pay these costs because I don't want to live with the alternative---taking a chance that I won't need to go the doctor. Unfortunately, a lot people are forced to take this gamble.

Mommy, why am I the way that I am?

Why am I a liberal?

I can go into a long diatribe about the inequalities of a capitalist economy and the importance of individual liberties, but these explanations don't explain why I'm a liberal.

1.) Is my liberalness a part of my biology? My dad is pretty left-wing, but we never discussed politics in-depth when I was growing up. A smattering here and a smattering there, but only on rare occasions.

Yet I see a correlation between the political leanings of parents and the political leanings of their children. My friend Amanda has two very liberal parents. Her mom and dad are card-carrying members of the Democratic Party and are proud to proclaim it. Unsurprisingly, Amanda is a Dem too. Conversely when I lived in Utah, I met a lot of people who were Republican because their parents were Republican.

But there are anomalies too. My friend Allison is one of the most liberal friends that I have. She joined the Peace Corps after college and taught health education to Armenian women. Her parents, on the other hand, are among the few remaining Marylanders who still support Bush. Why did Allison become a liberal if she grew up in a conservative household?

2.) Is my liberalness a product of my geography? I was born and raised in Maryland, a bastion of the Democratic Party. Presidential hopefuls don't bother coming here because they know our electoral votes will go to the Democratic candidate---even if the candidate is a 90 year-old man named Poncho.

Maybe my home state's liberal tendencies seeped into my blood.

But then again, I spent some of my formative years (age 17-22) in Utah, which is probably the most conservative state in the union. Why didn't my liberalism fade when I lived in the beehive state?

3.) Is my liberalness a product of my youth? I've heard many times that the younger generation is prone to liberalism but as they grow older they turn to conservatism.

But I encountered numerous young Republicans when I was at BYU. I mean, my entire campus is populated by Reaganites. Why haven't my fellow Cougars been infected by the liberalism bug? We're young after all! We should trump such ideologies.

* * * * *

I think my liberalism stems from something inside of me. Just as some people are born with a tendency for art or a tendency for science, I was born with a tendency to lean to the left. I don't know why this happened. I don't know why my innate self has such an appetite for liberalism.

If I was born a liberal, then there must be people who are born conservatives. But then again, there are some people who switch sides or bounce from one side to the other.

I'm talking in circles. My eyes have gone cross-eyed.

Finally...

When I was in high school, I was constantly bombarded with wonderful literature in my English classes: To Kill a Mockingbird as a freshman, The Martian Chronicles as a sophomore, The Great Gatsby as a junior, Tess of the D'Urberville's and One Hundred Years of Solitude as a senior. It seemed like in every direction I turned, I was faced with another stunning work of fiction.

The tradition continued in college where I read The Lovely Bones, Possession (work of art), and Cat's Cradle. As a history major, I didn't get to read as much fiction as I would have liked, but it always remained a peaceful outlet for me when my history texts became too taxing.

Since I graduated from college a year ago however, my well of good fiction has seemed to run dry. I don't know if it's me or if it's the books, but I can't seem to find any fiction that just pulls me in and shakes me. I've read a few novels that I really admire, like Lolita and The Old Man and the Sea, but I have yet to recreate that euphoric feeling I got when I finished Mockingbird and Gatsby. This was the kind of feeling that made me want to run through the streets and pass out copies of these books to perfect strangers. It's the kind of feeling that made me want to shake their shoulders and yell: "You've got to read this!"

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that there is a dearth of good fiction in the world---because there is plenty. I'm only saying that it's been a really long time since I've read a novel that has held me from cover to cover and has left me feeling breathless. I need to read a book that makes me feel, that makes me think, and that is written like a masterful tapestry.

Luckily, the rains have come again and the drought has ceased!

How?

The Things They Carried. Written by Tim O'Brien.

Call the Fashion Police!

I saw a man on the Metro yesterday wearing powder blue crocs. A grown man in a nicely pressed polo shirt and khaki shorts wearing nasty and ugly crocs.

Crocs are not proper footwear for the office nor are they proper footwear for the home. The only people who are allowed to wear crocs are young children who are skipping along at the beach. Anyone who is not a young child running in the sand is committing a dire fashion no-no.

Here is a rule of thumb: if your shoes resemble a block of swiss cheese, then throw them away. They are not trendy and they are not cool. They are ugly.

The world would be a better place if it were not for plastic shoes.

Can you still be proud of me, Betty Friedan?

(I apologize for the long delay in writing. Hopefully, this entry can explain why my blog has been so paltry for the past few weeks.)

A few months ago my roommate Charlee said to me: "I'm so glad I live with such a liberal feminist."

I was a bit baffled. Me? A liberal feminist? Sure, I am a champion of women's rights and education. (I am a woman, after all.) And sure, I am an avid supporter of women's equality. (Shouldn't we all be?) But I wasn't some raving feminist lunatic who believed all men should be quarantined and shipped out to Neptune. I wasn't that kind of a feminist.

In the end, I took Charlee's statement as a compliment. I am a feminist. I love being a woman and I abhor the unequal treatment of my sex. I believe women should be pushed to go to college, to attend graduate school, and to pursue a career. I believe a woman is just as capable as a man to become a successful surgeon or to lead a Fortune 500 company. And yes, I wholeheartedly support Hillary Clinton's bid for the White House. I'm a feminist and I'm proud of it!

As a member of a conservative (and some would say patriarchal) church, I have reveled in my feminist streak. I cheer for Mormon women who are able to balance a career and motherhood. I do a jig for female BYU students who apply to graduate school. I am a card-carrying member of the Relief Society and I think more of its members should speak during General Conference. Perhaps some would label me as a black sheep, but I embrace my feminism and my Mormonism.

For the past few years, I have tried to prove to the world that I can be a feminist and a Mormon. I wanted to show people that my future did not revolve around a kitchen and a minivan. Rather, my dreams included getting a PhD and teaching at a liberal-arts college. In my free time, I would travel the world and write best-selling novels. And so, to kick off my celebration of feminism, I planned to move to Europe for a year and get my MA from the London School of Economics.

And then I met a boy. Classic story. We started dating and the question swirled in my mind, "What if I deferred for a year?" At first, I panicked. Deferment wasn't an option. I had planned on grad school in England for a year and a half. I had already signed up for classes and paid my deposit for a flat. This would be a great opportunity for me---how could I give it up for a boy?

I also became concerned about what other people would think: my best friends from high school, my PhD-toting co-workers, my relatives, my parents. They would all look down on me for sure.

I fretted for a week, bouncing back and forth between going to London and staying home. Justin refrained from swaying my opinion either way. "This is your decision," he told me, "You have to make it for yourself and not for anyone else."

I took his advice to heart. What did I really want? Both choices were good ones, but which one did I want more? In the end, I chose to defer. I knew if I went to London, I would always look back and wonder "What if?" I didn't want such a regret. With this idea in mind, the decision came easily.

Of course, I still have bumps in the road---like finding a new job---but I am perfectly content with my deferment. Granted, I will miss eating Hobnobs (wonderful British cookies) and I will miss out on the chance to see my friend Lindsey and her new baby, but I know I've made the right decision for myself.

Slowly, I have realized that my choice to defer graduate school is an exercise of feminism in its own right. I was not pressured by my boyfriend or my parents to make this choice. Quite the opposite. I was the only person who made this decision and I am the only person who controls the outcome of my life. Ironically, my choice to defer has helped me to realize that I don't have to travel across the world to prove my feminism to others. I could do it right here at home.

I am not deferring grad school for a boy. I am doing it for me.

***If you are wondering, I am not engaged. Just to be clear. :o)

LB 4Ever

Shame of all shames: I am addicted to Laguna Beach.

I tried to resist. I really did. But I got sucked in and now I can't wait for another episode to air.

Why do I love you, LB? I don't miss being in high school. I didn't even like high school all that much. I mean, it was OK, but I was really ready to graduate when the time came.

And it's not like the LB cast is full of lovable and heart-warming characters. Rather, it's filled with mean girls and stupid boys who fret about clothes, cars, and hooking up.

My sister, who is 14 and thus in the age demographic for the show, even thinks the show is dumb.

"This season is going to be stupid," Kristy says.

"But we're going to watch it, right?" I ask.

"Yep."

So why do I love Laguna Beach? I don't know. I'm just another victim of MTV culture.

Random Musings at Work

One of my co-workers just gave me her lunch of kung-pao chicken. Yummy. She discovered while she was warming it up that it has peanuts in it---and she can't eat peanuts because she's breast-feeding. I wonder why you can't eat peanuts when you breast feed? Maybe her baby is allergic. Maybe peanuts make breast milk taste bad. If I knew any babies, I would ask them.

I'm currently editing my third oral history this week. Thus far, I have edited over 300 pages of oral histories. I only have about 100 more pages to go! After this, I will re-type an edited oral history. And after that, I am sure I will tackle something that is related to oral histories. Ah. My life is grand. Haha.

In the Washington Post and in the NY Times last week, there were numerous stories about Pluto and whether or not it should be a planet. An international council of astronomers will vote on Pluto's planet-ness next week. My boss, who is an astronomer, is currently in Prague at this conference and will cast a vote. I think every human being should vote on this topic because, after all, it is our solar system too!

I've decided to write a novel. I've always wanted to write a book---it's been a lifelong goal since I was a kid. I'm pretty good at starting novels, but awful at finishing them. I have maybe three in the works, but they're all in the beginning stages. So, I'm going to try to force myself to write a lot in the next few months. Wish me luck.

Well, after eating all of that kung-pao chicken, I am quite thirsty. I'll be back later.

A Few Reasons Why I Haven't Posted for Awhile

I apologize for the long delay in writing. It's not that I don't want to update my blog, but certain events have prevented me from posting in the past few days.

1.) Illness --- I'm sick. Right now, I just have a bit of a head cold and a cough. But on Sunday, I felt like I had malaria or something. I was cold, then really hot, then cold, then really hot. My little sister was gracious enough to plug in a fan by my head. Thank you, Kristy. I really did try to mumble a thanks to you, but I was kind of loopy on Nyquil. The next time you're sick, I will be nice to you.

2.) Busy-ness --- That's right. I'm actually busy at work! My boss gave me over 350 pages of oral histories to edit. I'm kind of grateful for this assignment. I've been bored for the past few weeks so this is a welcome change of pace. Unfortunately, listening and editing oral histories definitely cuts down on my blogging time. Alas!

3.) Laziness --- I really could write a few more blog entries a week, but sometimes I find the task daunting. I always spend way too much time on my blogs so the entire endeavor is kind of time-consuming. Egads! I am lazy. I apologize.

4.) Thinking-ness --- There has been a lot on my mind lately. Rather than write about it, I just ruminate over it in my mind. Subsequently, my brain is a disheveled mess. I'm in the process of cleaning it out.

I promise to post a real entry soon! I already have two in the drafting process...we'll see if they can make the final cut.

To Choose or Not to Choose

I applied to eight colleges during my senior year of high school. Over the course of four months I mailed out eight transcripts, sixteen letters of recommendation, and a plethora of college essays to various corners of the country. By March, I headed to my mailbox every day after school to check for any responses.

I got into five colleges, one of which was BYU. I was rejected from the rest: UCLA, Rice, and Duke. Ironically, these were the three schools that I would have chosen to attend before BYU. In fact, I took it as a sign from heaven when I received my last rejection letter from Duke University. (This sort of reasoning eased the pain of my wounded ego...)

But I've never regretted my decision to attend BYU. Deep inside my seventeen year-old heart I knew that I wanted to go to there. I denied it to my parents and especially to my friends, but I knew BYU was the right place for me. If I had to do it all over again, I would choose Brigham Young in a heartbeat.

Yet I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had chosen a different school. Or if I had gotten into UCLA, Rice, or Duke. How would I be different? Would my ambitions still be the same? Where would I be right now?

I entertained this thought this past weekend when I visited Duke University with my boyfriend. Justin graduated from Duke in 2005 and I thought it would be fun if he showed me around campus. We drove around East Campus where the freshmen live. We walked in the Gothic library where I marveled at the stone steps and the arched doorways. (It reminded me of England.) We sat in the gardens where I smelled the pink and white roses.

Duke University has a gorgeous campus full of green trees and grassy lawns and gray stone buildings. It's much more quiet than BYU; and in many ways, it fits me better than my alma mater ever will. But I know I followed my heart when I chose BYU and I will never regret that decision. I can admire the architecture and the landscape of Duke, but I will never have ask to myself "What if I went here?" I'm sure I would have had a lot of good experiences at Duke or at UCLA, but for some reason I belonged at BYU.

Six years ago, I chose the route that led me to the greatest amount of happiness. And now, I'm faced with another big decision. I feel like I've been plopped down into the Robert Frost poem where two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Currently, I'm standing at the fork in the road and wondering about which passage I should take:

One path is well-groomed, lined with birch trees and flooded with sunlight. The other road is a bit more rugged and a tad messier. I cannot see very far down this path, but I feel something great could await me at the end.

I cannot stand at the crossroads forever. I need to take my first step, but which path do I take? I can only hope that I will choose the journey that will lead me to the greatest amount of happiness. I can only hope that when I reach the end of this road, I will never look back and wonder: "But what if?"

The Death of the Bookworm?

A couple of weeks ago I flew from Salt Lake City to Washington, DC and I found myself sitting next to two kids from a small town in Utah. Ten year-old James occupied the seat by the window while his sister Andrea, age 8, sat next to me in the middle. The duo was flying to visit their father and Andrea proudly stated that they had flown to see their dad---all by themselves already---last Christmas.

I made small-talk with Andrea and James for awhile, asking them about airplanes (they wanted to see the cockpit) and about their family (their stepdad went on a business trip to Japan not too long ago). Inevitably the conversation drifted to school and I asked Andrea about the books she had to read for class.

"Oh, I don't like to read," Andrea said matter-of-factly. "I like cartoons."

"Don't like to read?" I was a little surprised. "Not even Harry Potter?"

"Nope."

"The Harry Potter series is really good. I think you'd like them."

"Those books don't have any pictures in them."

I nodded. She was right after all, but I wanted to spark some sort of literary interest in this little girl. How can a childhood be complete without a few good books?

"You know," I said, "when I was in the fifth grade I read a fantastic book called Maniac Magee. Have you heard of it?"

Andrea shook her head.

"Well, it's about a boy named Maniac Magee who runs away from home. He lives in a zoo and then he unties this enormous knot that nobody in town could untie."

Andrea stared at me blankly.

I scrambled for more enticements. "And he can run on the railroad tracks! Not besides them or close to them but on the top edge of the tracks."

Andrea's face was still. "I like SpongeBob."

The rest of the flight was uneventful. Andrea and James played solitaire on my laptop and I taught them how to play minesweeper. When the plane landed and the passengers deboarded, I waved goodbye to the two and wished them well. By now they're probably on their way back home to Utah and have long forgotten about me, but for some reason I can't seem to forget the conversation I had with Andrea. Part of me wonders if I'm crazy: why should I care if a little girl from Utah doesn't like to read? But the truth is that I care very much. I wanted to give Andrea copies of Matilda and Shiloh and Maniac Magee and usher her into the magical realm of books.

When I was in elementary school my nose was often stuck in a book---not because I was at the top of the class or because I was particularly smart---I just liked the feeling of losing myself in a story. I loved falling into a book and running around its pages, chasing the plot and main characters to the finish line. My love of reading probably stems from my father who often took me and my little brother to the bookstore. On our excursions, my dad would nestle himself in a chair and read a magazine while my brother and I wandered through the long aisles. On one trip to the store I picked up E.L. Konigsburg's From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler and immediately sprang for my father.

"Oh, can I get it?" I asked him breathlessly. "It's about a brother and a sister who live in a museum. Oh please can I have it?"

My dad smiled, pulled out his wallet, and I went home that day as the proud owner of a new book. I still own this copy of From the Mixed-Up Files and I even read it last year for nostalgia's sake. Even as a 24 year-old married woman, I felt a surge of excitement when Claudia and Jamie see the Angel statue for the first time.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of kid's books. Whenever I go into a bookstore I often drift into the children's section. I love how the walls are painted a happy yellow and how the carpet bursts with energetic patterns. And there's nothing cuter than a little rugrat scurrying on the floor, pulling a dog-eared picture book behind him. I find so much comfort in surrounding myself with the beloved books of my past: Ramona Quimby and Harriet the Spy, the Sweet Valley High and Babysitter's Club series, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh and The Giver.

These books deal with the same issues as adult ones---love and hate, happiness and sadness, figuring out life and messing things up. The only difference is that the kid's books are infused with a wonder and a hope that I rarely find in adult fiction. These books seem to say: "Sure, life is hard, but we just have to look on the bright side of things. Look at that flower over there! Look up at the sky. Aren't we so lucky?"



I don't know what will happen to Andrea or her brother James. I don't know if they'll ever fall in love with reading as I hope they will. But I do hope that one day they will have one of those life-changing teachers. And this teacher will gather her students around her desk and pull out a well-used copy of Maniac Magee (or any other childhood favorte).

"We're going to read a story now," the teacher will say. "It's a fantastic story and I know all of you will love it."

"But I don't like to read," someone will cry.

"You will," the teacher says. "Just wait and see."

The Eye of the Mountain

My flight arrived at the Salt Lake City International Airport on Thursday night around 11PM. I would be in Utah for a few days to visit friends before I headed out to grad school. As I waited to deboard the plane, I looked out my window and saw the black outlines of the Wasatch Mountains. As always they were stately and silent, watching me with stone eyes. As always they were strong and steady, reaching for me with their granite arms.

It's been seven months since I left Utah. In December 2005, I moved back to DC to start a job at the Smithsonian. Seven months ago I was ready to leave the West behind me: I was tired of the people and I was tired of the culture. My last four months in Provo were bleak and exhausting and I wanted nothing more than to return home to Maryland where there were trees and thunderstorms. Other than the friends I was leaving behind, I didn't think I would miss anything in Utah.

But once you live in the West, in the cradle of the Rockies and the Wasatch, you will always long for the mountains. As I drove around Lehi and Provo this past weekend, I couldn't tear my eyes from the landscape around me. The mountains, flushed with summer, burst with green trees and shrubs. The craggles and cliffs blushed with red and purple when the sun rose and set. Marylanders may claim that we do indeed have mountains---the Appalachians---but while we have greenery and lushness in abundance, the East Coast can offer no substitute for the high peaks of the Rockies.

I haven't always looked at the mountains so favorably. When I first arrived in Utah in 2000 to start my freshman year at BYU, I was flabbergasted by my new western surroundings. Where were all the trees? And the little rolling hills? Why was everything brown and dead? The mountains were foreign to me---giant globs of rock and dirt that belonged in paintings and calendars but not in my backyard.

"Maybe I'll do a semester at BYU and then transfer to the University of Maryland," I told my mom as we drove from the SLC airport to Provo.

My mom smiled. "Well, just give BYU a try first."

I didn't reply. I just stared out of the car window at the vast sky and the towering mountain peaks around me, wondering if I had made a mistake.

Once school started, however, I adjusted quickly to my new life and new surroundings. I loved college---staying up late and waking up late, making friends with the girls on my dorm floor, flirting with boys in the cafeteria, and basking in my newfound independence.

And slowly, I began to appreciate the mountains that circled me. They greeted me every morning as I walked to school from my dorm. They followed me as I travelled from class to class and watched me as I fell in love with boy after boy. They quickly became a regular feature of my life and eventually I barely even noticed that they were there. Yet the mountains always loomed above me, watching me year after year as I grew from a naive 17 year-old freshman to a not-so-naive 22 year-old graduate.

They watched me find my Y Group on DT field and they noted the jittery butterflies in my stomach when I met my first BYU crush. They watched me take my first test at the Testing Center. They watched me head to Wendy's at midnight to satisfy my late-night snack attacks. They watched me in Kiwanis Park, standing beneath a tree and kissing in the rain. They watched me as I headed into my interview for London Study Abroad. They watched me as I posed for pictures after commencement ceremonies in the Marriott Center.

And so, the mountains surrounding Provo have come to mean much more to me than mere globs of rock and dirt. In a way, they are a testament to a significant chapter of my life. The mountains will stay steady as the rest of BYU and Provo alters rapidly. They will remain unchanging as my own memories fade and betray me.

I'm sure many years from now I will return to Provo to bring my children to BYU. As I drive around the city and as I walk around campus, I will marvel at the changes that have occurred during my absence. I'll wonder what happened to U Hall and why Cafe Rio went out of business. I'll try to take my kids up to Bridal Veil Falls only to find out it dried out five years before. I'm sure I'll feel a little disoriented, a little sad, and very much nostalgic. I'll ask myself: What happened to the BYU that I knew?

And then I would look up above me and see the familiar shape of the Wasatch range. Ah yes, I would realize---I'm not the only one who remembers this place as it once was. I will find comfort knowing the mountains will continue to guard the memory of those six precious years that I spent in their presence.