So, my mom died, and this is the first thing I've written since

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In September 2013, my mom was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer, a recoccurence of the cancer that was removed from her lung in April 2009. On January 24, 2014, my mom died at the Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco. I wrote this in September 2014, and it is the first thing I've written since her illness.

They say the dead never truly die as long as we remember them. These days, though, the dead live on in cyberspace and databases as well as in our unreliable, organic memories. Even as they rest in peace under the earth or scattered to the winds, they linger on in the Cloud, a 21^st century version of eternal life that features demographic nuggets encoded in strings of 1s and 0s, instead of chubby angels, pearly gates or golden harps,

I think of my mom every time I go to Safeway because I continue to use her Club Card, which will be forevermore linked to her former landline, disconnected these many months. I never got around to getting a Club Card of my own back when they were a thing in the early 90s, and now never will. (Who even has a landline anymore?) Though I’ve turned off her Facebook and shut down her email, I will continue to collect gas points and free sandwiches in her name. And why not? At least the Safeway Club Card gives something back, unlike the piles of newsletters and appeals from her favorite causes that still clutter my mailbox every day. Ridding myself of them is an ongoing process: Please remove Whitney Roberson from your mailing list. She has died, and the last thing she’d want is for Your Organization to be using resources that could be better spent elsewhere.  Sincerely…

Since it takes exactly three weeks for every single catalog purveyor to discover a person has moved, it’s too bad the same thing doesn’t happen when you die, only in reverse.  One organization gets the word of your passing (just as some computer, somewhere clues in that a person has moved), and then your name is rapidly removed from all the lists, a virtual unraveling of a lifetime of one-time donations, ill-advised form-filling-out and change-of-address slips.

         
Following her death, my sisters and I dealt with our mom’s stuff—her 'personal effects,' as they suddenly became-- with efficiency I would have loved to have seen from the mailing list folks. We rented a dumpster, cleaned out the garage and gave away almost all of her clothes. This wasn’t out of a sense of hostility, but there was some desperation involved. There was so much to do, sort, process, deal with, that Goodwill was a godsend, along with brothers-in-law who could haggle with estate dealers, and the San Francisco real estate market that swallowed her house in a matter of weeks.  We even had a table at her funeral with her religious items--crosses, prayer books, Bibles and the like--valued tools of her trade we couldn’t imagine donating. We invited people to take what they wanted. Her friends did the rest and thanked us for our thoughtfulness, holding their keepsakes close. We took none for ourselves. We had the stark memory of her last days etched in our brains, which felt so much more real than any icon or statue.

It’s possible that we will regret this. I don’t yet, but there has finally been enough distance to wonder if there will be a time when moldy legal pads filled with her handwriting would have helped me remember the sound of her voice. I can still hear it now, just as it was when I last heard it: full of pain and bewildered frustration that she was still alive when she had been praying so hard to die. Though I have a good collection of photos, my strongest emotion when I look at them is still disbelief, not sadness, that the healthy, smiling woman pictured is actually her. The pictures of us on Christmas mornings, in Muir Woods, around the City, mock the pictures I have in my head: my mother throwing up everything she tried to get down; my mother dictating emails because it was too hard to type; my mother stage managing her Last Rites, which is a surprisingly good memory, but miles away from the picture from Easter of 2013 of hunting for Easter eggs with her grandsons.

My final memory of my mother alive was of her demanding that the hospice people help her die, and my having to explain why they couldn’t, but that I knew what she needed to do. She taught me how to read, and then 37 years later, I read a hospice pamphlet—could it have been strategically placed?--which said, in so many words, that if the patient stops drinking liquid, they will die in about two days. She scrimped and saved to help send me to journalism school, and then 21 years later, I reported this information to her with Pulitzer-worthy dispassion while sitting on the edge of her bed and looking into her sunken eyes. It was only after she asked the hospice aide to help her go to sleep and not wake up that I’d realized what I’d done. My sisters, clustered around her bed, thought I was brave. The visiting nurse from Iceland praised me.  An hour after she fell into the sleep she would never wake from, I met my best friend at a nearby restaurant, and he told me I actually hadn’t killed my mother. I ate the first full meal I’d had in weeks, but my hands were shaking.  It was months later that I realized I hadn’t said good bye before the heavy drugs kicked. None of us had. At that point, her death had become just the next step in the brutal forward momentum of her cancer. That it was also the final step didn’t seem as important as that inextricable movement toward the end.    

We all die in different ways. There’s a hospice pamphlet about that, too. The time leading up to my mother’s death was an asteroid on a collision course, an avalanche that brings down the whole mountain, a tsunami with the power of the Pacific. It overtook her and all of us. We knew that we would emerge, and she would be lost.  We also knew that there was no steering and no rescue. But when her death actually came, almost exactly two days after she had fallen asleep, it was quick and gentle: a comet shooting across the sky, the sound of snow falling, the tide ebbing until it was all the way out.

We all mourn in different ways. We mourn in a way that’s unique to our personality, but much of our individualized grief stems also from our relationship with the deceased. In the months of chaotic and painful momentum, I took comfort in the things I could do for my mom that only I could do—things like writing regular updates to our family and friends, talking details with lawyers, educating myself on cancer and her health options. It felt sometimes as if I’d been practicing my whole life to fulfill these final tasks because so much of what I did had its deepest roots in things she had taught me.  

It could be that I’m trying to make meaning where none exists. That once the junk mail stops coming and the estate is fully settled and Safeway comes up with another way to provide money-saving illusions to loyal customers, I will have replace my comforting memories with the finality of her death. But I like to think the dead live on much more than virtually, in what we remember and in what they have taught us.

Book sip #2: Up in the air

Book: Cockpit Confidential by Patrick Smith
Drink: chocolate milk

When Asiana 214 crashed short of the runway at San Francisco International last month, I did what you may have done in this age of Twitter feeds and instant uploads.  I clicked with sick fascination through pictures of the ruined plane, checked on the status of the wounded several times in the days that followed and had a feisty internal debate about whether to watch the video (I didn't).  What I didn't do was wonder what the media would say the minute 'pilot error' became a possible cause of the crash.  As expected, automated flight systems were the first to come under attack.  What I also didn't do, which you may have done, was nod my head in agreement as pundits squawked about pilots not even having to fly the plane anymore.  I knew better, thanks to Patrick Smith, a United airlines pilot, Salon.com columnist and author of Cockpit Confidential, a peek into the what it's like to become and remain a commercial pilot in the airline biz these days. 

I  thought about this book when I flew this summer, and I probably will every time I fly from now on.  There's nothing like five or six long hours at 35,000 feet to contemplate life in all its mysteries, not the least of which is how the tin can you are buckled into remains aloft, at high speeds for thousands of miles at a stretch.  That we don't have at least three airline disasters a week can be credited to the much-squawked-about computerized systems, which ferry millions of passengers across the globe, month after month, year after year, with nary a mishap.  Yet even the smartest computer can't get a 747 off the ground in Los Angeles, guide it around storms and hundreds of other airplanes, and land it safely in Tokyo, a point Smith makes repeatedly and emphatically throughout the book.  Learning to pilot a plane--from taking classes, to accumulating hours, to inching your way up an airline hierarchy (a process that can take an entire career)--is a labor of love to rival any artistic or athletic pursuit.  The odds of a pilot making it onto the flight deck of a major carrier are about the same as making it to the major leagues, with just as many potential pitfalls along the way.  

That was one of the biggest surprises from Smith, who also explains esoteric details like plane design, airline branding and Bernoulli's principle with chatty aplomb.  There is a fascinating section that reveals the truth about turbulence, as well as the naming conventions of runways and airports. People behaving badly while flying also make an appearance, but Smith doesn't snipe.  His goal is educating the public about an activity they do all the time and think they know a little about.  In truth, we know almost nothing, as Smith generously informs us with fun facts, interesting anecdotes and pithy commentary.  One of his constant reminders is that both plane crashes and hijacking used to be much more common than they are today, something that unfortunately serves to magnify the scrutiny on the blessedly few tragedies, like Asiana 214, that do occur. 

Speaking of tragedies, Smith keeps it light most of the time, though there is a long, sickly fascinating chapter on the worst and most famous plane crashes.  For this reason, I paired this book with chocolate milk, a sweet, comforting drink that you will never find on an airplane beverage cart--
and one, like this book, that is best enjoyed on the ground.   

The Supreme Court shows its bangs

What do the sassy bang-style choices of Emerati women and DOMA have in common?  Quite a bit, as it turns out. As most of you know, I lived for two years in Abu Dhabi, capital of the United Arab Emirates.  While there, I gained insight into a Gulf-load of fascinating cultural phenomena, including the way many Emerati women choose to wear their abayas (full-length black gowns) and hijabs (the matching head covering).  Needless to say, bling on the abayas and bangs peeking out the hijabs did not go unnoticed by this sharp-eyed blogger.  At the time, I was a little envious of the many bedazzled options available to the savvy abaya wearer (pink and purple sparkles, sweeping rose-flower patterns, rococo gold squares on the cuffs and hem--the list goes on and on).

But of the ladies who chose to wear their bangs, often tinted and teased, peeking out of their head coverings...well, that seemed to defeat the whole point.  Sure, spiff up your abaya all your want, it's still a relatively shapeless garment that hides your curves, if not the size of your wallet (those blinged up versions aren't cheap.)  But either you think strangers should see your hair, or you don't.  To me, there didn't seem much point in half-in/half-out, especially when inside sources assured me that Emerati women would go to the salon solely to get their bangs prettified.

How can something like that be just a little OK?  Modesty dictates that women cover their hair.  Except a large section near the front that frames the face and can be tinted a striking henna hue?  It seems to go a bit beyond the letter and the spirit of the law, especially because a woman's bangs are quite a bit of the overall effect. At least a quarter of the total hairdo!  UAE advertisements even featured women thus coiffed, exposing the masses to bangs on some, but not others.  To the outside observer, it was bewildering.  Just what was the point of the whole hair-veiling exercise?  (The Quran, by the way, does not require Muslim women to cover up.  It's a cultural addition, post Prophet M., peace be upon him.)

Which brings us to the partial repeal of DOMA.  The Supreme Court ruling which has so many of us rightfully jubilant forbids the federal government to deny same-sex couples the benefits (and responsibilities) of lawful marriage in states where such marriage is legal. As of today, that's 13.  Thirteen states and the District of Columbia.  A little more than 25% of the union. 

The "bangs" of the United States, if you will.

Justice Anthony Kennedy read out his ruling, filled mostly with legalese, but also with these resounding sentences:

"By seeking to displace this protection and treating those persons as living in marriages less respected than others, the federal statute is in violation of the Fifth Amendment."  (The Fifth Amendment, most famous for bringing congressional hearings to a screeching halt, also grants equal protection under the law to all citizens.)

The bang problem, though, is that this equal protection only applies to gay and lesbians citizens of certain states.  How can something be just a little unconstitutional?  Either marriages should be viewed equally, or they shouldn't.  The whole institution shouldn't be shrouded in a black abaya of states rights with just a teased-up pile federal perks peeking out on top for the lucky quarter.  It makes absolutely no sense, legally and humanly.  Edith Windsor lived with Thea Spryer for decades, and Edith now is eligible for a $360,000 federal tax refund, not because she was married for 40 years, but because she happens to live in New York?

As someone who has lived in this country with a pulse for almost 40 years, I understand why the Supreme Court punted.  Shadows of Roe vs. Wade hung heavy in this decision, at least according to the punditry.  But it is possible to acknowledge the vast chasm of social values and cultural contexts that exist in the United States today without throwing the Constitution under the bus.  I bet you thought I was going to say "throw gays and lesbians under the bus."  Well, I wasn't.  This isn't just about gay rights; it's about what civil rights truly mean.

Abortion and civil rights are completely different issues.  Civil rights don't cause harm of any kind, in any way a sane person would argue. Civil rights don't cost money or charge a fee.  Civil rights don't put life-changing outcomes of multiple stakeholders in direct conflict.  All these can and have been legitimately argued in the course of the abortion debate.  The fact is granting civil rights to oppressed groups often improves life outcomes in countless ways.  In his decision, Justice Kennedy evoked the "tens of thousands" of children of gay and lesbian families, claiming that DOMA subjected them to humiliation, and that overturning DOMA would allow them "dignity," "recognition," and "protection."  Though only if they live in certain states.  

The most relevant court case isn't Roe vs. Wade; it's Brown vs. the Board of Education.  That ruling was messy and ugly and still hasn't really worked, but can you imagine what would have happened if states were allowed to decide how they wanted to deal with desegregating public schools?  Can you imagine what would have happened if the Warren court had taken the "values" of each state into account when making that decision?  Put like this, gay marriage is a walk in the park!  I can't imagine even the most fire-breathing homophobes blocking courthouses to prevent gays and lesbians from obtaining marriage licenses, as separatist whites attempted to block public schools in the 1950s and 60s.  I can't imagine Obama sending the National Guard down to Mississippi, or state troopers turning fire hoses on lesbians in wedding dresses.  This fight is different.  As the above examples show,  it's much less violent and culturally charged than the fights of the past.  The battles that raged in the South should never be forgotten or belittled, and I don't mean to do so here.  My point is this: given the current context, the Supreme Court should have been inspired to more bravery, not less.  They should not have seen themselves as wading into yet another cultural conflict but providing the first steps of cultural healing.  Would Birmingham have an African-American mayor today if Brown vs. Board of Education had been thrown back to the states to decide?  

This post started out tongue-in-cheek to get your attention, but it's ending in utter seriousness.  Civil rights matter.  They are not cute and hippie.  They are important.  Discrimination subjects real people to degradation and humiliation, and, when reversed, allows them dignity and hope.  The Supreme Court has said as much, and every single person who was sobbing with relief or cheering or partying in the Castro on Wednesday proves my point.  Rules unequally or arbitrarily applied are unsettling and strange, whether it's bangs peeking out from a head covering or the partial repeal of DOMA.  As citizens of a nation celebrating 237 years of independence and freedom, we have to be better than 25% right.

Down the telephonic rabbit hole

When I was younger, I longed to book passage to Oz or Narnia or any of the other magical worlds that seemed all-too accessible to my favorite literary characters.  My California beach town was sorely lacking in, say, mystical wardrobes or handy tornadoes.  Flying boys and large white rabbits were also in short supply, along with elfin spells, wizard staffs and fairy dust.  Why did all the enchanting stuff happen in books and not on my street?  It just wasn't fair!

Of course, like many kids, I wanted an escape from my daily life of school and chores and siblings. Not that I had much to complain about, but let's face it, battling evil and making friends with talking lions is a lot more fun than homework or even sleepovers.  I devoured stories about worlds my favorite authors created for me, and even learned to recognize and appreciate the most magical aspects of our physical reality: the solar system! Secret codes!  Venice!

Whose childhood phone looked like this?

Little did I know that throughout my childhood there was a gateway to a magical world sitting right on the desk in the kitchen.  Or, later, on my bedside table.  I didn't need a wardrobe or a wizard.  I just needed to pick up the phone.

If I had--and if I had been a little more techy or possessed of that tinkering spirit that has made so many young men rich in the past 30 years--I would have heard more than a dial tone on the end of the line.  I would have heard a siren song, beckoning me into a playground of musical tones, hidden operators and fantastical hardware.

Alas, I wasn't beckoned.  I, like you, just drummed my fingers on the desk waiting for the rotary dial to swing round or the long-distance call to go through.  But some people heard more than beeps, clicks and thunks. Like the lucky children who stepped into Narnia rather than touching the back of the wardrobe, some people found a way to enter that secret world and make themselves at home.  

They called themselves phone phreaks, and they are the subject of a wonderful new book by Phil Lapsley called Exploding the Phone: The Untold Story of the Teenagers and Outlaws Who Hacked Ma Bell.  In addition to delighting the reader with an endless cast of brilliant eccentrics and oddball geniuses, Lapsley gives us a close look at the Telephone System That Was, a truly fascinating alternate universe that existed under our very noses.

Until the mid-1980s, the telephone system was a giant analog web of wires that were physically connected to each other.  It was developed by AT&T, that government-sanctioned monopoly, and its research arm Bell Labs.  It costs billions of dollars to build, spanned the nation and connected us to the world.  Before transistors and microchips, before wireless networks and fiber optics, the geeks of that time still managed to connect millions of calls across thousands of miles every single day for more than 60 years.

A map of the long-distance phone system, 1961

When the phone phreaks figured out how they did it, the telephone network became their playground.  The key was learning how a call to your grandma got from your house to hers.  Remember, the connection was physical, in the sense that your wires talked to other wires who were connected to larger wires called trunk lines that connected cities to each other then tapered back down into smaller, local systems.  The phone phreaks figured out the secret language of the phones, the frequencies of the tones that allowed the telephone wires talk to each other.  They then figured out ways to mimic those tones to disconnect a call and then re-connect all over the system for free.  Some used high-tech frequency generators called blue boxes.  Others used musical instruments like recorders.  A few talented phreaks, many of them blind, just whistled to copy the tones.

The book is full of stories about how the phone phreaks discovered the mysteries of the system (a lot of trial and errors and sore dialing fingers) and what AT &T did to fight back.  But what fascinated me most was the sheer scale and wonder of the secret telephone world.  Bell Labs, in a rare fit of poetic extravagance, wrote that their switching stations "sang" to each other.  It wasn't too far from the truth.  Anyone who made a call from a landline in the 1980s knows what I'm talking about.  You dialed a number and then could hear similar (but not exact) tones playing down the wire.  Sometimes, you could hear what sounded like clicks or ker-chunks.  (If you made calls in the 1960s and 70s, you definitely heard these ker-chunks).  What was happening, as I learned from Lapsley, was that your number (in the form of tones) was being routed to a huge switching station the size of a city block called a crossbar switch.  There, the dialed digits actually changed the position on the switch and connected it other parts of the switching matrix (ker-chunk!)  This would serve to transfer your number to another trunk line. Your call might be routed through several of these huge switches before it got to its destination, necessarily making the connection fainter with each step.  Later, metal punch cards and light-detecting photo cells were used instead of moving switches.  Who remembers shouting into a long-distance line?  Well, now you know why. 

Just one small part of a crossbar switch

Imagine a telephone switching station the size of a city block!  Imagine bending this switching station to your will, speaking its language to tell it to connect you to Seattle or Duluth or Nova Scotia.  Imagine figuring out which tone disconnected the line but left it open (2,600 hertz, actually) and which numbers would get you to an internal operator who would know how to route the calls that big switches weren't smart enough to do.  Many phone phreaks were simply interested in exploring the system, using their knowledge to call unlisted phone company numbers like test lines.  Some tried to see how far they could get (Spain? India? Timbuktu?) or how complicated a routing they could generate based on what they knew.  Some discovered early "conference" lines on open circuits that those in the know could dial into.  Plenty of others (including Apple founders Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak) profited by charging their friends a flat fee for a free long-distance call or by selling the blue boxes.

Regardless of their motives, the phone phreaks were explorers of a magical world that existed right alongside our daily life.  You may find little appeal in this wiry, auditory landscape, but reading about it in Lapsley's book makes it seem as vast and mysterious as Middle Earth--and populated with almost as many mysterious artifacts, astounding journeys and otherworldy characters.  

Dog is (now) my co-pilot

As a person approaches 40, it's not unusual to observe some shifts in behavior or attitudes that previously seemed fixed but are suddenly fluid.  This can take the form of the stereotypical yearning for a Harley Davidson, or can include subtler changes, like embracing meditation, weight-lifting or Twitter. 

Much to my surprise, I have become a dog person. After years of sporadic and dubious (on my part) interaction with animals (several cats excepted), I find myself admiring every dog on the street, relishing trips to dog-related stores and enthusiastically dedicating whole weekends to dog-centered activities. 

The change happened gradually and involved many people with many kinds of dogs, but culminated in falling in love, not only with my girlfriend Allison, but also her standard poodle Dixie. It wasn't that I hated dogs before; I just didn't see what all the fuss was about.  Why did so many people find slobber, constant shedding and begging at the table appealing? Sure, dogs love their owners unconditionally, but they also love almost everyone else unconditionally.  They are evolutionarily programmed to love people.  Which meant the only difference between dogs and robots, in my mind, was that you don't have to clean up after a robot or worry about it keeping the neighbors awake at night.

I didn't know it at the time, but what I needed were ambassador dogs to show me the way toward canine acceptance that involved more than putting their cold nose on my leg (ewwww!) or breathing heavily at face level during a nap on the couch (uuugh!) or, in a story that is now legendary in my family, plucking my latte from where it sat in the middle of the large, square coffee table, drinking it all, then replacing the cup on the table precisely in its previous location.  In case you don't think Labs can execute a plot worthy of 007, yes they can.  And aaaaargh! 

Interestingly, though, it was that latte-drinking devil dog, Cali, who taught me one of the key lessons of  acceptance: dogs can change.  In a way I've never witnessed in other animals, dogs do grow; they mature.  They even get, dare I say, more refined. This makes them not only more interesting than I'd imagined, but also more satisfying to relate to. Cali went from a huge, clumsy mess to a good-natured, limits-respecting dog (for the most part).  Even I could see that, despite my ongoing latte grudge. I hope she is romping in dog heaven with an endless supply of food to steal, doors to open, and bare legs to nose.

If Cali taught me about doggie growth, Bedford (another (mostly) Lab) taught me the joy of dog walking.  Ella, the first poodle I met, taught me about how smart dogs play.  Last year at the school where I worked, four teachers got puppies in the same month.  Since faculty dogs were allowed on campus, the halls were transformed into romping grounds for a rainbow array of chubby, big-pawed cuteness.  There's a reason those adorable animal pics are all over Facebook, no matter how cynically one tries to avoid hitting "like." Having a constant parade of Youtube-worthy puppies scampering by my room every day was almost more than I could take.  But I had never lived with a dog for any length of time.  I needed an introduction to the doggie lifestyle.

Enter Allison, the girlfriend, and Dixie, the poodle.  Since meeting them, I have experienced almost  every aspect of dog ownership except a visit to the vet--and I'm sure that'll come soon.  I've seen a lot of sunrises I wouldn't have ever seen during early morning visits to the patch of grass outside; I've joined the daily routine of fetch with an inside toy.  I have a dog blanket in the back seat of my car, and a Chuck-It, spare tennis balls and even a dog seat belt in my trunk.  I know how to feed Dixie and what to do to avoid getting soaked while bathing her. I'm learning about gentle leaders, biodegradable poop bags, favorite treats and the combo heart worm/flea pill.  But most of all, I have experienced dog parks.

Dixie at Pt. Isabel dog park

Dog parks are like taking a flight to Hawaii every day.  Unfortunately, dog parks are not tropical paradises full of palm trees and beautiful beaches. What I mean is dog parks are imbued with an air of celebration, of joyous holiday-esque spirit that reminds me of the feeling of going on vacation.  It's not a shock to discover that doctors have uncovered healthy benefits of being around dogs.  The sense of relaxation I feel walking around an area full of off-leash dogs and owners is palpable.  Happy dogs are contagious: that unconditional love they offer also comes with an uncomplicated sense of fun. Dixie can jump so high in anticipation of a game of fetch that all four legs spring off the ground. Other dogs waddle around the park, or amble, or dash.  Owners are congenial; generous with compliments, magnanimous if an apology has to be offered .  Almost everyone is smiling, dogs included. What's not to love?

As a new dog person, I now can't pass a dog on the street without my heart melting a little, much like my friend Kris, whose example was instrumental is adapting to the doggie lifestyle.  Kris and her husband rescued a Turkish street dog named Ruby, fostered her seven puppies in their tiny faculty apartment near Istanbul, found them all homes (not easy in a dog-hostile culture), then transported Ruby (now fixed) back to Denver.  With such a paragon of dog devotion for a friend, there is nothing Allison does with Dixie that seems the least bit excessive. Because nothing is.  I'm fully converted to fetch and treats--not to mention counting each minute until we can go to Pt. Isabel again. 

Can a Youtube-worthy puppy be far behind? 

Dixie and me, February 2013

Book sip #1: A hard look at origin stories

(This is the first in an occasional series that will pair books with beverages: a literary-libation pairing, if you will, much like a food-wine pairing.  This doesn't mean I drank the particular selection while reading the book.  It simply means, as you will see, that the refreshment in question pairs well with the themes of the text.  I'm experimenting with this form because I think it has potential to make book reviews even more enticing than they already are. We'll see how it goes...)

Book: A History of Future Cities by Daniel Brook,  W.W. Norton, March 2013
Drink: Hangar One vodka, straight up with a twist of lemon

Origin stories are to cultures as advertising is to products. Origin stories provide a foundational identity that shapes a place and its people, reaching back into the mists of time to offer reasons why our world looks like it does today.  Like advertising, origin stories rarely do more than tip their hats to the truth, yet their sticking power is awesome to behold.  As the years pass, it becomes impossible to separate fact from fiction.  Or maybe not impossible but irrelevant.  The fiction has become fact simply because so many people believe it to be true.

Daniel Brook's highly readable and fascinating new book A History of Future Cities delves into the factual origins of four cities: St. Petersberg, Mumbai/Bombay, Shanghai and Dubai and incisively teases apart myth from reality, self-perception from statistics and data.  What unites these cities in history is their intentional creation as showpieces of modernity and freedom by autocractic regimes or colonial overlords with something to prove.  What points the way to their roles in the "future" mentioned in the title is the way these cities have grown and stretched (as well as retracted) in ways their creators could never have imagined or desired.  As such, they point the way to one possible future for urbanity, one mired in deep economic and political disparities and supported by a vast, unstable workforce of rural transplants. It's a recipe for revolution, and it's happened before.  One only need to look back 300 years at the creation of St. Petersberg, Tsar Peter the Great's "instant" city on the banks of the Neva, backward Russia's "window to the West."  Peter wanted a city like Amsterdam: beautiful, sophisticated and worldly.  He just didn't want any of the pesky democratic ideas and freedoms that came with it.  His successor Catherine continued the tradition, even to the point of requiring her nobility to hold French-style salons  where any topic of discussion was officially allowed (*though only for that evening).  It worked for awhile but, as Brook points out again and again, people can be exposed to openness and liberal thought only so long before they want to try it out themselves.  Catherine's successors, the Romanovs, know best how the story could end, in a pillaged dacha just outside of Peter's "window" to modernity.  As someone who spent two years living in the shadow of Dubai, just the latest "instant" global city built by autocrats by impoverished workers, I have seen this future in action and didn't pass a bus (non-air conditioned even in the heat of summer) full of workers, or a building site bristling with construction cranes without wondering how long any of it could last. 

Russia is where it started, which is where the vodka comes in, but only a little.  Hangar One vodka made by St. George's Spirits, is a Bay Area success story.  It was founded (and still operates partially) in an old airplane hangar on the decommisioned Alameda Naval Air Station.  The company makes vodka and a variety of other spirits, including whiskey and absinthe.  The Hangar One website includes multiple testimonies to the company's small-batch, handcrafted philosophy.  What it doesn't mention remotely as prominently is that the brand has been acquired by Proximo Spirits, a multinational importer based in New Jersey.

I cast no aspersions on Hangar One vodka as a beverage (it's delicious) or St. George's as a distillery, which still makes an array of truly local spirits. But there is a striking contrast between Hangar One's marketing slant (grounded in its origin story) and the reality of its place as a small piece of a larger corporate pie.  This seems to pair quite well with Brook's in-depth examination of the issues
that lurk behind appealingly marketed facades, whether they be brand names or global showpieces.

Which is why, paired with this book, I recommend Hangar One vodka straight up with a twist of lemon, but with nothing to truly disguise what you are getting.  For some, a refined beverage with a quick payoff.  For others, a bitter--and potent- drink to swallow.

If you build it...

I would challenge even the most curmudgeonly conservative to find anything wrong with a farmers' market. Although they attract latte-drinking, well-heeled urbanites like flies to raw organic honey, they are manned by those close to the land and positively reek of self-sufficiency and honest labor.  The fact that mini versions of these markets are setting up in front of public schools all over Oakland should set hearts racing across the political spectrum.
Healthy food for all kids! Healthy food taxes don't have to pay for!  Healthy food where moms and dads can't miss it! Healthy food miles from the nearest latte-drinking urbanite!

But, if you build it, will kids really come?  Will they really ignore the jingle of the ice cream man's handcart?  Will they walk by the mama-preneurs hawking deep fried dough, self-bagged chips and bright lime suckers dusted in chili powder?  Will they really choose baby carrots over hot chips at the corner store?  Really? 

I was dubious, having confiscated a 7-11's worth of chips and candy in class through the years.  With a corner store down the street, would Doritos-loving kids really gravitate toward health food? I watched carefully as farmers' markets set up shop outside four of the schools where I work. At one school, they put the little white tents right on the yard. Unlike the Saturday version in a middle-class neighborhood near you, these are modest markets with a few tables.  One day each week, they offer nuts, fresh veggies, a limited selection of seasonal fruit, jars of honey, fresh eggs (in one location) and a few bars of local soap.  Nothing fancy.  But the stalls are usually packed three parents deep at dismissal time, doing a brisk business.  

But what about the kids?

The answer came, as many answers do, in the form of an 8-year-old struggling reader I'll call Z.  Z is whip thin and vibrates with energy.  Often that energy is excitement and enthusiasm.  Just as often, it's pouting and eye rolling.  Sometimes it's fear, as when he didn't want to come with me to read because his older brother was outside playing basketball and might see him needing "special help." This mood turned to jubilance when we then took the little known "secret agent" route to the reading center.  (We cut through the cafeteria kitchen, went out the side door, cut through the school garden and hugged the classroom's side wall all the way to the open door. Safe and sound.)  Z has had lots of volunteer tutors, most of whom can hang with his energy, but some of whom cannot.  As the reading specialist at his center, I'm often asked to step in during tougher weeks.  Thanks to the "secret agent" trick and others, I'm just as often able to give his mom a glowing report at the end of the session.  The surprised look on her face speaks volumes of her typical check-ins with teacherly figures.

Recently the exchange went something like this:

Me: Z had an excellent session today!  I wanted to let you know how focused he was.

Z's mom: You should know he's--wait--really? For real?  Really?

Z (vibrating with excitement): Really!  Really!

Me: Really!

Z's mom:  Well. Well!  You know what this means...(if possible, Z vibrates every more)...you get some (Z is practically levitating)...farmers' market!

Z's mom takes $2 out of her bag and hands it to Z, who bolts for the white tents.  Yes, the white tents.  Not the ice cream man, not the corner store--the white tents.  For the record, I have no problem with parents surprising their kids with treats following awesome behavior (though I'm not a fan of bribing kids, before the fact, to encourage expected behavior).  I'm definitely a fan of rewarding kids with a trip to the farmers' market that happens to be set up right in front of their school.  It could be that Z's mom would have driven him to the nearest supermarket for a healthy snack.  But we can all agree how unlikely that is.  What's much more likely is that healthy snacks are now more a part of the family routine since it is a convenient option.  And a kid handed $2 to spend is excited to spend it. Period.  The white tents don't represent organic goodness as much as tables laden with stuff they can now buy.

The next week, I worked with Z again, and I couldn't wait to ask him what he bought. The market does, after all, sells kettle corn and honey sticks. "It starts with P and ends with achios," he crowed, skipping down the stairs (no older brother today, so we could walk openly to the center).  Pistachios for good behavior.  Farmers' markets in front of our schools.  It's hard to argue with that.

This Train's Year in Books 2012

I've been suffering from writer's laryngitis lately.  While outwardly be-bopping along in typical fashion, my blogging soul has gone temporarily voiceless for reasons that are hard to pinpoint and have been even harder to cure.  Like laryngitis, I haven't exactly been sick (with writer's block or anything nearly as dramatic.)  Just a little weary, a little wavering and more or less voiceless.

That is going to change in 2013.

Why? Well, to start,  I have a whole list of book recommendations, an injection of hot tea and lemon for the ailing literary nerd's soul.  2012 has been a humdinger of a year for books, with delightful new additions to genres far and wide.  I've also been far and wide in 2012, landing back in the Bay Area after four years of nomadic wandering.  As my 94-year-old grandmother says every time she sees me, "You are back where you belong." If both travel and teaching have taught me anything, it is that there are many ways to belong, and that life works a lot better when you can find as many of those ways as possible.

So, in honor of my grandmother, who has seen more of life than anyone I know, I'm hereby declaring 2013 "The Year of Belonging In More Ways Than One."  As the new year dawns, may you find yourself ever rooted in belonging. I, for one, am grateful beyond measure for the sense of belonging you bring me by reading these words and (with any luck!) discovering profound enjoyment from the following books. (As always, this annual odyssey recounts the month I read the book, not when it was released.)    

January--Cleopatra, a Life by Stacy Stiff

Cleopatra VII of Egypt is someone we've all heard of and know nothing about.  Was she really a snake-wielding femme fatale, lover of Julius Caeser, downfall of Mark Antony, who sold the independence of her kingdom for misguided passion?  Not surprisingly, the historical record, putty in Schiff's masterful hands, tells quite a different story, both about Cleopatra's physical appearance (she was much more charismatic than hot) and the way she led Egypt through the sad inevitability of Roman rule.  What stayed with me throughout 2012 was the lasting sense of how brightly historical inaccuracy can shine through the dim fog of time and how aptly Schiff shifted my perspective.  So much of what we think we know about Cleopatra is wrong (and it's not exclusively Shakespeare's fault), yet the truth is equally dysfunctional and captivating.

February--The King's Gold (and all the Captain Alatriste books, starting with Captain Alatriste) by Arturo Perez-Reverte

Run--don't walk--to your book vendor of choice and check out this wonderful series by Arturo Perez-Reverte.  The author's name may ring a bell.  He won some fame about 10 years ago for his intricate literary thriller The Club Dumas.  While ably done, The Club Dumas doesn't hold a candle to Reverte's swashbuckling tales featuring Captain Alatriste, a rough-hewn Spanish soldier with a heart of gold, and his faithful sidekick/surrogate son Inigo.  The adventure novel is falling out of favor (oh, but why?), yet Reverte keeps it alive and kicking in these sparkling gems of the genre. There are villains, beautiful, faithless ladies, crooked clerics, bold thieves, innocent pawns and, of course, the Spanish Inquisition.  Set in the fading days of 17th century Iberian glory, Captain Alatriste holds honor dearer than fame or gold, and so will you after just a few chapters.

March--Stiff: The Curious Life of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach (along with Spook: Science Takes on the Afterlife and anything else you can find by Mary Roach)

Dedicate your body to science these days, and you could end up in a lot more places than a medical school lab table.  Mary Roach traces the 2,000-year history of how we've put human cadavers to work, from testing seat belts and weapons to solving crimes. With a perfect mix of humor and respect, her expert reporting also spotlights the people through the ages who have defied taboo to learn from the dead.  Roach, known for her quirky subjects, is laugh-out-loud funny but never glib.  I was most moved by a chapter about an anatomy course at UCSF medical school where students hold a memorial service to celebrate the lives of those whose bodies aid in the training of future healers.

April--The Outlaw Sea: a World of Freedom, Chaos and Crime by William Langewieche (Also highly recommended by this author: Sahara Unveiled)

Anarchy reigns on the open seas, and anyone who wants a peek into the darkest corner of lawless commerce on the planet need look no further than Langewieche's book.  The huge container ships we see docked at ports near home are likely floating death traps, sold down the supply chain from sparsely regulated European and American companies to never-regulated operations registered in nations where a few thousand dollars can buy any safety inspector's stamp.  In addition to the hazard to human life and the environment (these ships, huge as they are, can literally break apart and disappear without a trace in a northern Pacific storm), container vessels shuttle cargo from port to port at a volume that is impossible for even the most vigilant country to oversee.  It is estimated that only 2% of all containers are even opened for inspection worldwide, and most for just a cursory glance.  Langeweiche's reporting tracks ships from the building yard to the polluted beaches of southeast Asia where they are finally run aground and dismantled by hand by some of the world's most impoverished workers.  This stark investigation of the reality--and freedom--of the open seas will change the way you look at those tankers bobbing picturesquely in the Bay.

May--Inventing English: A Portable History of the Language by Seth Lerer

Books about the English language always get my literary nerd's heart pumping.  Lerer's masterpiece on the evolution of our fascinating tongue has been out for awhile but was recently released on Kindle.  Needless to say, I gobbled it right up, and it proved the best book I've read (and I've read more than my share) to explain why English spelling is so screwy (blame Old Norse!) and how the Great Vowel Shift  means that modern Americans sound more like Shakespeare than any current resident of Stratford-upon-Avon.  Long on fun facts and short on esoteric explanations of consonant clusters (though there are a few of those too), Inventing English is an excellent starter book for anyone who wants to learn more about the world's lingua franca.

June--Redshirts: A Novel with Three Codas by Jon Scalzi

This year's science fiction offering is not for everyone.  But it should be! A send-up of television space dramas (Star Trek in particular), it features denizens of a starship where ordinary crew members (uniformed in red) have noticed a disturbing trend: anyone who goes on a mission with a ranking officer is inevitably killed in the most grizzly way possible while the officer survives regardless of the odds. In an effort to save his skin, Ensign Andrew Dahl and a group of  fellow "red shirts" go in search of a legendary crew member who, it is rumored, holds the key to unlocking the mystery and stopping the carnage.  This story contains both "meta" and "physics" but never together.  Instead, Scalzi's writing is accessible and highly entertaining, even as he sends his characters on a inter-dimensional adventure through time, space and Burbank, California.  I maintain that anyone will appreciate both the fast-paced prose and sardonic, well-written characters who would be more at home on an episode of Seinfeld than Deep Space Nine.  But don't take my word for it: check it out for yourself.

July--The Violinist's Thumb and Other Tales of Love, War and Genius as Written in Our Genetic Code by Sam Kean

Sam Kean wrote The Disappearing Spoon, surely the best book ever written about the periodic table of elements.  He's back with a similarly far-ranging and readable look at the history of DNA and our search to understand why we look and act the way we do.  Kean starts the journey with a personal, ethical and practical discussion about DNA testing, then takes us on a romp through the history of DNA discovery and various genetic mutations, both amusing (ever wonder why some people seem a little too attached to their cats?) and grim. Kean is never one to pull his punches when commenting on historic events, and his quick-witted take on scientific personalities is a highlight of this book.  Those  put off by flashbacks of high school chemistry brought on by The Disappearing Spoon may find this book less intimidating but no less entertaining.

August--The Dog Stars by Peter Heller

If novelists mine the undercurrents of our culture, bringing to light truths that are hidden within the seams of daily life, then there are a lot of people out there with Armageddon on their minds.  The Dog Stars is the latest entry in the booming sub genre of literary post-apocalyptic fiction, following the likes of The Road and The Age of Miracles up the bestseller list.  While Heller's first novel is less grim than some, early reviews that hailed it as an "uplifting" view of the End of Days were taking things a little far.  True, Earth is not a wasteland: farming and fishing are still possible; resource gathering, while difficult and violent, has not devolved into a daily pitched battle.  But when we join our protagonist Hig 10 years after a plague wiped out 99% of the population, humanity is spread thin and lonely.  Heller writes lyrically of loss of life in every sense, not just of people dying but of the homes, communities and sense of belonging that is gone forever. The solitude is echoed brilliantly in the syntax, with periods cutting off thoughts mid-stream, and two-word sentences trying (and failing) to shore up the desolation.  In this apocalypse, Hig and his dog Jasper live in an old municipal airport, converted into a fortress and a convenient place to park Hig's Cessna, which he uses for supply runs and reconnaissance. With them is Bagley, a volatile survivalist who stands in contrast to Hig's more introspective (read: depressive) mien. The men and dog do just fine until another death and a faint signal picked up on the Cessna's radio set a series of events into motion that lead to new connections in a world where most connections have dissolved in disease and distrust.  This is surely what reviewers meant by "uplifting."

This was my favorite work of fiction this year.  In fact, after finishing The Dog Stars, I spend at least 90 minutes curled under my bedcovers.  Heller's spare prose painted such a stark picture of the fallen world that I could almost see the San Francisco skyline replaced by smoldering hulks; the cranes of the Port of Oakland bent and broken; the abandoned rumble of the Cal campus a few blocks away.  Hig cannot escape what humanity had wrought. None of us can, if it comes to that.  The sliver of hope offered at the end of the book just throw this possible truth into even sharper relief.  It's a powerful technique, one that Heller and other writers of the literary apocalypse use to great effect, in a world that may or may not be slipping ever closer to the edge.

September--How Children Succeed: Grit, Curiosity and the Hidden Power of Character by Paul Tough

Who should develop the parts of our personalities that make up our character?  Traditionally, 'character' has fallen under the purview of families, communities and religious institutions.  But the near-universal consensus these days is that it should be something taught in school.  While touching briefly on character education's sparse history (which never moved far from consistent enforcement of the Golden Rule), Tough spends much of the book making a case for why developing character is crucial, especially for children of poverty.  He shows again and again how school achievement, college completion and other indicators of adult success have more to do with tenacity and teamwork than raw IQ or early exposure to math or reading. Much of the book focuses on two experienced educators and the different ways they approach character development with their students.  One of the educators, Dave Levin, is a founder of the KIPP charter network, who just stepped down as superintendent of the 11 KIPP schools in New York City.  The other, Dominic Randolph, is the headmaster of Riverside School, one of the city's most elite private schools.  Through a  series of conversations, Levin and Randolph developed two different approaches to developing character in their students, focusing particular on self-control, perseverance, optimism, curiosity and how to work successfully with others.  Levin developed a detailed rubric that lists behaviors students display when they are mastering each trait.  Randolph's version is less exacting, based on push-back he got from his staff.  Most teachers believed kids who go to Riverside don't "need" the kind of explicit character development that disadvantaged students do. This, for me, was when the book got most interesting--and a bit frustrating.  Tough stops short of offering a critical class analysis of who "needs" character development and who doesn't, but (to his credit), he makes it crystal clear that all children--regardless of background--will benefit from character education that teaches them how to press through difficult situations and pick themselves up when they fail. Tough also offers an astute and welcome critique of the ways education reform has replaced a broader spectrum of social welfare programs designed to get low-income families on their feet.  Helping students build the character tools they need to succeed in life starts in early childhood with interventions geared to reducing stressful family relationships. Poverty, Tough reminds us, cannot be eradicated by schools alone.

October--A Plague of Lies by Judith Rock,
The Beautiful Mystery by Louise Penny, 
The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken by Tarquin Hall

October is mystery month, and what a month it was!  From 17th century France to modern day New Delhi, the genre had something for everyone in 2012.  The month began with the third Charles du Luc mystery from Judith Rock (aka: my godmother)!  This time, Charles must navigate the intrigue of Versailles, complete with poisonings, vicious rumors and a rebellious princess of the blood royal.  Rock has hit her stride as a novelist, and this is her best one yet.  As always, the story is full of finely researched details and features some real historical figures, even as Rock crafts masterful fictional plots for them to play in. The map detail at the front of the book was drawn by my godfather, Jay!

The characters in Louise Penny's books are so vividly written that my literary nerd's soul aches every time she beautifully details their every mistake. While the mystery at the center of this latest book stands alone, as all of her novels do, the relationships between the characters span the whole series.  In A Beautiful Mystery, the hubris of the murderer mirrors that of several regulars, resulting in plot twists that will leave you both satisfied, grief-stricken and longing for the next installment.  (Read Louise Penny's novels in order, starting with Still Life.)

I've recommended Tarquin Hall's mysteries set in modern New Delhi before, and this year's offering is no different.  Punjai detective Vish Puri might write earnest letters to the Times of India and wear a deer stalker hat (a la Sherlock Holmes), but his knowledge of New Delhi's underbelly and savvy use of a stable of creatively nicknamed sidekicks makes him (and Hall's plots) more cagey and sophisticated than they first appear.  The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken features the familiar cast of characters, though several are granted more depth, especially the ever-enigmatic Mama-ji, Vish's aged mother and an expert at teasing out complex family relationships, Indian-Pakistani politics and what it means to truly go home.

November--The Signal and the Noise by Nate Silver

We all need more gay quants in our lives.  I mention Nate Silver's sexual orientation because I think it's important to point out how this author personifies the primary aspect of his "quant-ness" (i.e.: the ability to make a noticeably higher percentage of accurate predications.)  Silver promotes the theory of "probabilistic" prediction making, meaning that a prediction can and should change as circumstances change.  A situation that may appear likely from one angle proves ridiculous from another.  And often forecasters will make predictions based on personal biases they are not willing to even acknowledge, much less incorporate consciously into the prognosis at hand.  So, for example, many people might say the likelihood of the guy who designed a system for forecasting a professional baseball player's performance and made a quasi-living playing online poker before starting a political forecasting blog named after the number of votes in the Electoral College being gay would be slim to none.  And they would be wrong.  Nate Silver as a writer and statistician defies stereotypes, societal pigeonholes and any attempt to shove him into a single category, which would please him greatly, I think, since he devotes so much time in The Signal and the Noise exhorting us to avoid these very blunders.

For the record, Nate Silver doesn't talk about being gay explicitly even once in the book's 544 pages. What you will discover instead is Silver's self-deprecating humor, engaging writing style and insightful critique of the systems that perpetuate our addiction to inaccurate forecasting in all its forms.  It's one of the few books I read this year that I want to read again soon--not just because it was fun, but because it contains crucial information that all of us should know.

December--Hell-bent: Obsession, Pain and the Search for Something Like Transcendence in Competitive Yoga by Benjamin Lorr

We began this year with a biography, so we'll end with a memoir.  I rarely read either genre, but am enthusiastically recommending Lorr's story of his experience as a competitive practitioner and teacher of Bikram yoga.  And not just because I, too, practice Bikram yoga and will gladly talk your ear off about it if given the opportunity.  Not that I'm at Lorr's level or want to be. And while I appreciated learning some fascinating medical facts about the effect of exercising in 105 degree heat (perfectly fine as long as we stay hydrated), I most enjoyed hearing about Lorr's journey to better health and the way his example rubbed off on his friends (not always in the way you'd think). Lorr has something many memoir writers lack: an awareness of which parts of his story will be interesting to an audience.  So, he is able to step out of the spotlight when necessary and let other subjects take center stage, including the ever-controversial Bikram himself, and Bikram's yogic opposite, a former disciple turned guru in his own right.  It is this guru who ends the book on the note of transcendence mentioned in the title, and a moving reminder that yoga is an ancient, compelling, surreal, non-Western practice that means something different to everyone.

And, as always, this book list will mean something different to everyone, too.  Please feel free to add your own comments/recommendations below.  When I mentioned that 2013 will be different in terms of blogging what I meant was this: you can expect at least one blog post per month (if not more!) this year, a resolution I have now stated publicly and plan to keep.

Let the Year of Belonging in More Ways Than One begin!

The meaning of service

In honor of the Independence Day, I'd like to dedicate this post to the Americorps program, which you may have heard of but am betting know almost nothing about.  Over the past few weeks, I've discovered every single thing I thought I knew about Americorps was wrong.  Every single thing.  Now in place of all that misinformation, I'm armed with facts that have left me blown away by the depth of commitment, dedication and grit displayed by the over 80,000 Americans (many of them college age or recent college grads) who are serving our country in this way.

Before we get into the particulars, please know this: Americorps, like public libraries and national parks, is one of those 100% good things your tax dollars pay for; something that costs a paltry $550 million per year and pays big dividends in places many of us would rather ignore.  The reading intervention nonprofit I now work for employs Americorps members to staff reading centers in public schools nationwide.  It will be part of my job to train and manage a group of them, something I'm now bursting with excitement about doing.  Keep reading to see why...

Unlike, say, the Peace Corps or Teach for America, Americorps is not an organization that people apply and are accepted to as such.  Instead, a person applies for an Americorps position at nonprofit organization.  Once hired, members are trained on the job and receive health insurance, the promise of an education grant at the end of their service and a living allowance that is almost no money. Seriously.  No money. Unlike the Peace Corps, Americorps members are not living in the developing world (where you can live pretty well on almost no money).  Unlike Teach for America, which is a wonderful organization but not a service program, Americorps members don't earn a full-time professional salary.  Instead Americorps members do full-time, often professional-level work essentially for free. By choice.  They qualify for (and definitely use) food stamps. By choice. In the Bay Area, the stipend is well under $20,000.  I'm still not sure how they live, but they do because service is what they are about in every sense of the word.  I served in the Peace Corps, but it was different than the Americorps process I just described.  For one thing, I was taken care of every step of the way.  Sure, I lived and worked in a small village in Africa for two years, but I didn't have to find my own job or figure out how to pay rent.  Now, I'm not saying Peace Corps service isn't worthy or challenging.  It is. But Americorps, though it's often called "the domestic Peace Corps," demands an added level of social consciousness worth mentioning, since Americorps members choose a life below the poverty line along with their year(s) of service.  In Cameroon, the $200/month living allowance made me downright well off, especially since I only had to support myself.  I could enjoy all the country had to offer, not to mention the inherent privilege of being an American overseas.  Americorps members serve without those perks, even as they collectively log over 65 million hours every year for organizations like the Red Cross, Habitat for Humanity and the Boys & Girls Club.

So this 4th of July, raise a sparkler, a glass and an American flag to a government-sponsored program we can all be proud of, and the members throughout the country who are dedicating a year or more of their lives to helping make this land (from California to the New York islands, from the redwood forest to the Gulfstream waters) a better place.

Let's end with the Americorps pledge. Check it out!

I will get things done for America -
to make our people safer,
smarter, and healthier.

I will bring Americans together
to strengthen our communities.

Faced with apathy,
I will take action.

Faced with conflict,
I will seek common ground.

Faced with adversity,
I will persevere.

I will carry this commitment
with me this year and beyond.

I am an AmeriCorps member,
and I will get things done.

Now Voyager

The Voyager 1 probe is about to leave the solar system, according to a recent spate of publicity.  It will be the first human-made object to do so on its own power with the ability to transmit data back to Earth.  No one knows how long the Voyager crafts will continue to function after they clear the heliopause, that invisible boundary where the solar wind finally dies down and the final frontier begins.  Both Voyager 1 and 2 with their 1970s-era technology and now-primitive radio transmitters have exceeded their shelf life by decades as they've hurtled through the outer solar system, snapping pictures of Jupiter's moons and Saturn's rings.  I love the thought all that analog technology lasting so long--its staying power flying in the face of NASA's perpetual critics.  In my perfect world, well-informed curmudgeons from America's heartland would straighten their John Deere caps reverently at the news of the Voyagers' mechanical prowess rather than roll their eyes at operating budgets and taxpayer dollars. 'Yep,' one would say to the assembled crew, leaning in for effect. 'They sure don't make interstellar spaceships like they used to.'

I've re-developed a minor obsession with Voyager recently, ever since hearing about its upcoming break out of the solar system on NPR's Radiolab program (Find a link to the potentially life-changing podcast here) I say re-developed because as a young astronomy buff growing up in the 80s, I followed the Voyager mission as closely as a school kid could in the days before the Internet.  My mom even took my sister, friend and me down to the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena (Voyager mission control to this day) where we toured their small museum, viewed ethereal color snapshots of the gas giants that revolutionized space science and saw a replica of Voyager 1, complete with its golden record (more on that later).

While my sister gawked appreciatively, and my friend (a math prodigy) quizzed the scientist on call in the museum, I wandered around in a poetic daze, my head full of the half-formed musings of a literary nerd-in-training. Primed by the lush language of kid-friendly astronomy books and countless Star Trek re-runs, I embraced outer space for its metaphors: the mystery, possibility and triumph of the human spirit.  The Voyager mission was a beeping, spinning embodiment of hope and optimism (humans reaching ever outward!) along with the melancholy of our loneliness (two little probes so far from home)

Turns out, my feelings haven't changed much in 26 years...

I listened to the Radiolab program while driving a U-Haul truck from Austin to Berkeley and re-entered that 12-year-old daze of awe and admiration.  The world has changed so much since the Voyagers set off in 1977, but in a way, everything that's happened almost doesn't matter.  In astronomical terms, these 35 years have been a mere blink of an eye as Voyager has spanned the tiniest fraction of the immensity surrounding us.  As I thought about my own life--the transitions, triumphs, failures and mundane day-to-day--I added another metaphor to Voyager's list: perspective.  The poets of space science, the late-great Carl Sagan among them, write about our place in the cosmos in a way that makes, say, the end of a relationship, an interstate move and the start of a new career trajectory (all in just three weeks) seem a little less significant.  As I drove through the Arizona high desert listening to Voyager's rendering of the whoosh of solar wind 9 billion miles from home, I found my transition angst lifting somewhat.  When I heard about "The Pale Blue Dot," it lifted almost entirely.

"The Pale Blue Dot" is the last photograph (to date) that Voyager 1 has taken.  It is also a book by Carl Sagan, who was the main advocate for the picture in the first place.  The Voyagers' cameras are no longer on to save power.  But before NASA turned them off in 1990, scientists turned Voyager 1 around and pointed its camera back at Earth.  The resulting photo is called "The Pale Blue Dot" because it shows Earth as a tiny half-pixel of blue light, captured in the slanted light of the distant Sun against a black field of outer space.

Then Carl Sagan wrote, as only Carl Sagan could: 

"Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam." 

Yeah...that kind of puts my little problems into a lot of perspective.

But for those of you tempted to resort to nihilistic shrugging, the Voyagers also offer hope, ridiculous, wonderful, galaxy-sized hope.  That's where the golden record comes in.  Each Voyager probe has a gold record attached to its side--you may have heard of them.  These records encapsulate the very best of the human spirit, and not just because they contain greetings in 55 different languages and 116 sounds and images from our planet, including music by Mozart and Chuck Berry.  Etched on the records are pictures of human beings and an interstellar map to Earth, using big astronomical landmarks like pulsars to guide the way.  It didn't matter to the people who made the golden record that it will take Voyager 1 about 40,000 years to reach the next star.  It didn't matter that the chances of an alien race 1) encountering a tiny craft in the vast expanse of space and 2) being able to play a record, for the love of Pete, are beyond miniscule.  We humans slapped those messages into our spaceship bottles and tossed them into the largest sea in existence because that's how we roll here on Earth.  We screw up all the time.  We're petty and self-important.  We poison our oceans and trash our forests.  We're mean to each other based on all sorts of nonsensical prejudices and assumptions.  Yet when it comes down to it, we have this hope in a future that spans all time, and we'd like to believe we're not alone out here on our pale blue dot.  We don't mean much, but we mean something, and we reach out--to each other and to the universe.  As long as we keep reaching out, I think we'll be OK.  We might even be here in 40,000 years when our new alien friends come calling, even if by then absolutely no one knows what a 'record' is.

Ode to the Lone Star State

"That's right; you're not from Texas.
But Texas wants you anyway." --Lyle Lovett

As I prepare to leave Texas for California (another state that believes it should be its own country), I feel moved to record here all that I've learned and loved about the Lone Star State. As you may recall, the decision to land here two years raised quite a few eyebrows among my Left Coast nearest and dearest.

"Texas," they said. "Texas..." 

And in that emphasis-not-mine was captured George W, the deep-red politics embodied by wacky presidential hopeful and current governor Rick Perry, big hair and an obsession with competitive sports.  Even in the liberal heart of Austin, there was suspicion that the capital city would merely be Texas Lite, blue-state around the gills, but still decidedly ten-gallon and big-belt-buckled.

I'm pleased to report that Texas and Austin have exceeded my expectations on every occasion.  Although, it's true I have not found a permanent home here, I have found much to love.  Texas deserves much of its reputation. (No one here has forgotten the Alamo!) And, as always, there is more to any place than its list of stereotypes and cliches.

 

What I love about Texas and Austin

People who are honest-to-goodness, unabashedly friendly.  And chatty.

I will miss the socializing that a trip to supermarket in Austin always entailed.  I'd be inspecting a label or waiting at the check-out and inevitably a perfect stranger would strike up a conversation. We'd discuss any number of topics: the items in our carts, the weather, upcoming events or the celebrity scandals in the magazines, just to name a few greatest hits.  Conversations happened other places too. Invariably whenever I'd wear my Northwestern t-shirt between September and December someone would ask me how the football team was doing--and never seemed to care I didn't know.  When a friend from New York came to visit, I warned her about this phenomenon, but she didn't believe me--until we were standing in line at Whole Foods.  "This is unbelievable," she said, tapping her foot Manhattan-style as the man in front of us chatted away with the checker.  "There are people waiting in line."  (i.e.: us)  While I was less of a New York toe-tapper, it also took me awhile to adjust.  I was accustom to my urban bubble-of-personal-space being respected.  When the first Texan burst it my second evening in Austin, I hardly knew what to do.  But now I'll miss it.  There's something to be said about breaching that urban bubble and leaving the store with a smile, more often than not.  I haven't turned into an extrovert in this most extroverted of places, but I've come to appreciate that unapologetic friendliness.

West Texas around Big Bend

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.  Tabled buttes, painted-desert rocks, jagged peaks, big sky...this area of Texas is stunning, nary a tumbleweed in sight.  It is also home to the McDonald Observatory, which transmits Star Date on your local public radio station; the artist haven of Marfa and Guadalupe Peak, the tallest mountain in the state. 

Amazing Bikram yoga studios

If you ever find yourself in Austin and have a chance to take a class at any of Pure Bikram Yoga's four studios, don't hesitate for a minute!  This is the cream-of-the-crop as far as Bikram studios go and nowhere I've practiced anywhere in the world comes close. What makes an amazing Bikram studio?  Excellent teachers, high-ceiled rooms, super-grip carpet and a less-than-pervasive sweaty smell.  (It's Bikram, so you can't eliminate it completely, but Pure Bikram does a good job...)  It's been my home-away-from-home here in Austin.  I'm sad to be leaving right when almost every teacher knows my name.   

Whole Foods flagship store

From the beginning my second home-away-from-home has been the vast Whole Foods flagship on North Lamar.  While the super-pricey supermarket has gone corporate since its humble start in 1980, the flagship store drew me in with its free wi-fi, plentiful cafe-style seating, unbeatable people watching and endless selection of food to eat while working.  Which I did almost every Sunday morning (and some Saturdays) for two years.  I only recently started doing occasional grocery shopping there, preferring instead to treat it as a dining-out location.  The price tag for breakfast or dinner certainly matched any restaurant around. 


The cost of living

First of all, Texas has no state income tax.  'Nuf said.  Second of all, it's possible to get out of a fairly nice restaurant with alcohol and dessert for less than $60.  Not kidding.  Third of all, I paid $735/month during my first year for a two-bedroom apartment.  Seriously.  Fourth of all, gas is currently $3.38/gallon.  Yup.  Lastly, my car insurance is under $1,000/year.  Sigh.  I love that California is my home, and I truly cannot wait to move back.  I still wish it were a little more affordable.

The weather

I've been cleaning out my closets after two years in Austin (and two years before that in Abu Dhabi) and I don't think I've quite come to terms with how inadequately I'm wardrobed for a return to the Bay Area.  Fortunately, this year I've been given or have acquired enough wool/outerwear to keep me going until I can re-acclimate (plus, the gorgeous, unseasonably warm winter/spring has me hopeful). I am relieved to be living in the East Bay, where the sun shines warmer and with more frequency.  But as I listen to the Austin weather report every morning on my way to work, it has slowly dawned on me that Austin's low this time of year (@ 75 F) would be a heatwave where I'm heading.

Buddha's Brew cranberry kombucha, Texas barbecue and breakfast tacos

The cuisine of Texas is as distinct as the state itself.  While I've enjoyed my share of Tex-Mex, I've actually spent more time longing for a real California burrito (virtually non-existent here) than digging into enchiladas, tamales or bowl of queso (which means cheese in Spanish, but melted cheese product here).  The Austin foods I will miss most are not replicable anywhere else in the world.  I haven't even left yet, but the cravings have already begun.

Buddha's Brew is a local brand and their cranberry flavor will forever be synonymous with kombucha.  (For those of you who don't know, kombucha is wonderful slightly fermented, though non-alcoholic, yeast-based pro-biotic drink that, I promise, is a lot more appetizing than it sounds.)  Cranberry is the best flavor by far, and I would import it to the Bay Area if I could.  Instead, I'll make it my mission to find a California equivalent.

I'm not the first, nor will I be the last to extol the virtues of smokey, saucy Texas barbecue, so different than its cousins farther and deeper South.  From brisket to ribs to the accompanying stacks of squishy white bread and pickles, Texas barbecue is hard to describe but impossible to forget.  Shout out to both Franklin's and The Salt Lick.  If you are ever in Austin, don't miss either spot.

Before I moved to Austin, a friend sent me a New York Times article about the breakfast taco phenomenon.  Allow me to say, this town has lived up to the hype, so much so that I can hardly conceive of a breakfast now that does not involve a tortilla.  Breakfast tacos are available everywhere here, from the whole-wheat-and-avocado veggie variety to the mound of potatoes, bacon and eggs as big as your head at local restaurant favorite Juan in a Million.  Add a little salsa, and you're set for the day.

As excited I am to be heading home, I will never regret the two years I spent in Texas, and I don't plan to make a secret of the fact to anyone in the Golden State who'd like to throw down with me about it.  Apparently, it's taken living in one of the most conservative states in the union to make me more open-minded--just another example of the paradox Texas offers, whether it means to or not.  I'm definitely looking forward to returning for a visit.  After all, I never did see it...