Boeing 747 retirement: what will happen to all of the travelers and "putnici"

Boeing 747 retirement: what will happen to all of the travelers and "putnici"

Katherine Sredl, 1 Feb 2023

Every time I step onto a 747 or another long-haul aircraft - and that's at least a few times a year - I am 4 years old again, traveling with my Dad from Kentucky to Buenos Aires to visit my Baka Katica, my namesake, my Dad's Mom.

My first memory is that flight, having my Dad all to myself - Mom, my older sister and brother would leave for Buenos Aires after school let out. Dad offered me his Juicy Fruit gum in the yellow package. Was the gum to help me with the change in air pressure during takeoff? Or because my Dad smoked a pipe and that was his substitute on the flight? I think I had on my favorite mustard yellow sweater, a hand-me-down from my sister or her best friend. I remember the stewardess in the blue dress - I guess we were flying Pan Am - coming to our seats to invite us on  a tour of the plane, taking us up the spiral stairs to the bar, moving us to what I now recognize as first class. I think the plane was mostly empty, because in my memories, there are no other people. Now that I am telling my memory as a story, I realize I don't remember what Dad wore. Which is too bad because I would like to describe that to you, so you can know that my Dad was quietly charming and well-dressed.  I wonder if that played a role in creating my first memory?

It has now been 12 years since my Dad died, in 2010. Grief hit me in the form of tears when I heard on my streaming news app that Boeing rolled its last 747 off the assembly line yesterday, the end of a 50 year run. The 747 is a symbol of living with the dislocations caused by World War Two - like the ones that took my Mom from Istanbul and my Dad from Zagreb to Buenos Aires, where they met. Dad told me about the King Neptune ceremony when he crossed the euqator aboard ship on that long trip. That's the only story he shared from the trip and that's all I remember about the story: he was 14, he liked it, and he remembered it at age 79. 

They call it the plane that shrunk the world. The 747 engineers gave travelers an easy long-haul travel experience for the first time; it was design thinking and user experience thinking before those terms became trendy. The ease of travel allowed my Dad to travel with his (lo key favorite) daughter to visit his mother and siblings. The 747 sewed together many post World War II dislocations - and in doing so allowed those dislocations to continue. It allowed us and many other members of many other diasporas to live very far away from family, to pursue work very far away, so that our visits "home" would only be periodic. 

The 747 is a symbol of the post World War Two technological and economic boom as technologies transferred from war to industry. It is a symbol of the US commitment to win the Cold War technological race in industry and economy that brought my Dad and Mom to the US from Buenos Aires. My Dad was an engineer - mechanical and electrical - a technical, transportable profession that brought him to Kentucky to work for a textile manufacturer, designing and selling machines globally. He and my Mom had an easy path to Visas and citizenship, facilitated by engineering degrees, acts of congress to bring in engineers, and an employer eager to compete globally. They arrived in the US on a jet in the 1960s.

My cousin Vlado grew up in Buenos Aires; we share our memories of that trip to remind ourselves of the miracle that we have known each other for a long time, across long distances. Last summer in Zagreb, where he lives now, Vlado told me that when he and his Dad came to Ezeiza (the airport) to pick us up in Buenos Aires, I was waiting on the curb with the luggage, alone. Dad had told me to stay with the luggage, and don't let anyone take it or take me. As a father of three, Vlado now thinks it incredible that a four-year-old child would be told that and assume, "If my Dad thinks I can do that, I can do that and I will do that." How did fifty years of the 747 go by so fast?

As the last 747 rolls off the assembly line, I wonder if my memories of my Dad will fade. I miss him even as I write this, and the longing physically hurts. Will there be fewer triggers of memory as the technology and the material culture of the US change? Will I forget him? Am I alone in this memory? Can anyone help me? 

I think now of the poem "Putnik" (Traveler) by the Croatian nineteenth century romantic poet Petar Preradovic. The theme of the poem is people (men) leaving home, their Mothers, and the emotions of the traveler and those left behind, especially longing. Reader, the traveler is not going on a gap year but is forced to leave his rural home in a small imperial colony as it offers no future that fits the political and economic circumstances of a rapidly changing world. Some say the poem defines us Croats.  

When my Dad was dying in 2010 of pancreatic cancer, and he was in bed on morphine, I read "Putnik" out loud to him to comfort him. A memory from his childhood in Slavonia (a region of Croatia that looks like, well, Western Kentucky); he would have had to have memorized it in elementary school. His parents were teachers, and if my Dad's parenting was modeled after theirs, then he had to memorize it perfectly. The lines of the poem rhyme and I said one word wrong. He sat up in bed and corrected me in his morphine induced end of life palliative care haze. He really got on my nerves until the end. 

My Dad was an engineer; he was curious about how machines work. In my imagination, my Dad's experience of that flight brought him close to heaven. I wonder now also about the stress he must have been under: I bet five plane tickets were expensive? Why were we flying at that time: I think my Baka Katica had been sick? What was it like for him to leave his business in Paducah for that period of time, and be so far away? What was it like to go to Buenos Aires, knowing he would leave again? What was it like for him to be alone with his daughter for the trip? Does he miss me?

#747 #Boeing #globalization #diaspora #grief #putnici #traveler #Kentucky #Paducah #Western Kentucky #Croatia #BuenosAires #Zagreb

This post is about gender and shoes.

"You don't seem yourself today" Bas si ne valja. But it's raining so everyone is a little off. Whatever it is, you have your health, and that's the most important thing. I lost a friend the other day. She was 48 years old." This is what my postolar told me when I went to pick up my shoes yesterday morning. He was right, I wasn't right yesterday. He is right, I was sad. It's a sadness about relationships and who knows if it will ever end but the point is that he could see into my soul and somehow that made me feel less alone on an island of female singledom.

Which isn't actually alone on an island, there are many women on that island with me. So much gender discrimination at work has left us jaded. The basic entitlement of men has left them stupid, selfish, and barely functioning socially. And in our interactions with them, we can be blind to the behaviors that are the outcome of that entitlement, and we can call them out. Either way, we have to deal with those behaviors, and ask for some accountability. That's emotional work, and it's exhausting.

It is so much easier to run from all of that and I want to. Then what? We carry around a shell that protects us. It is full of cynicism, history, and fear. We step out of it when some one coaches us out of it. The parts that happen after getting out of the shell are usually a disaster, because we are so raw and there is so much fear that comes with it. Is there any coach who can help us stay out of the shell? What kind of fears is that coach carrying with him?

A related problem is that the relationship is off the island of female singledom, it's outside the squad, the team. So you (ok, I) am on foreign turf. Not playing on my home court, where I have all the advantages. That's stressful. What am I supposed to do here? What are the rules? Wait, are there any? Why aren't you behaving like my girlfriends do?
What was the accident that brought us together and fragmented my shell for a moment? Can I please put that all back together again? I now feel like I've gone two steps backwards when I thought trying meant that I was moving one step forward. I really don't want to talk to you about this.

New Sins, Old Sins

The Vatican has announced a list of new sins:
New Mortal Sins:
Polluting, genetic engineering, obscene wealth, drug dealing, abortion, pedophilia and causing social injustice.
Old Mortal Sins: lust, gluttony, avarice, sloth, anger, envy and pride.

I know what your old sins are. Your old sins are: being cruel to me, rejecting me, playing me like you want me around then rejecting me. My old sins are: giving you a chance because that's what we are supposed to do with family, having hope. Wanting to get along so I sacrifice myself. We both need some new sins.

The Dear Casper letter: a mindful reply to ghosting

My friend and I invented a new way to deal with being ghosted. It's called the Dear Casper letter: a mindful reply to ghosting

In this genre, the abandoned partner (usually a woman) is given the opportunity to write, and therefore purge, her feelings toward the now invisible partner. She expects to feel some peace and control, to cure her frustration and hurt, to redirect a situation that feels out of her control. Like writing a letter to someone and never mailing it, in this case, the writer posts it. That simple click allows the abandoned partner to reclaim, acknowledge, respect, and tend to the once growing feelings that were abandoned, now replaced by seemingly endless questions and rejection and a lack of faith in good manners. These are all feelings that are real and not irrelevant because they grew over text.

Characteristics of this genre include: tones that are generous but strong, loving and protective at the same time, great last words, and an implicit belief that letting go is better than losing control. One can see the vulnerability, the influence of Brené Brown in this genre. The vulnerability also makes it difficult to send. And a reply is neither anticipated nor the point of a Dear Casper letter.

Like ghosting and the technology that allows it, this post is representative of its socio-historical time and its views on subjectivity, the self, and gender norms. Online means that he can swipe on and move on and I can blame technology for my disappointment, for letting my guard down, for being human. The Dear Casper letter reverses all of that and holds someone accountable for rudeness. Maybe Casper doesn't reply, but for the minutes he read it, he was torched or touched. Just because technology, 4g, and processors can process our desires faster than instantly, does not mean that we can. The Dear Casper letter is also a covert expression of contempt, a means of holding Casper accountable for a callous escape, born and bread on a smartphone.

This post is only a little bit about revenge, since the Casper remains anonymous. It is a lot about my friend and our process of getting to the point that we developed and used this genre, this methodology of dealing with our feelings. It is a lot about female adult friendship. It is about the ethernet of emotional band-aids. This is about getting rid of the residue of dating in this age of the text. Like a yellow card in soccer, a Dear Casper letter will hold a player accountable for a foul. Let's use Dear Casper letters, share them, and possibly even make Caspers known on a Dear Casper filter on dating apps so as to penalize bad behavior and get our faith back. Also, posting your Dear Casper letter, naming the Casper or not, allows you to not let ghosting haunt future entanglements.

Here is an example of a Dear Casper letter, in the form of an email in that genre... It was written by moi... Come sit next to me and read it.

Dear Casper,

It seems our connection has run its course; maybe I need someone who will plan visits; maybe you need someone who doesn't care about that. The point is that, sure, the connection ended, that's certainly sad, but that sad feeling is kind of good since it's a sign that I cared about someone and that experience is a great one to have. So, I can deal with that and those feelings. And it's not my first rodeo so I get it.

The ghosting feels more complicated. That's why I am writing you. I have no context from your side. It seems to be a thing that is part of this texting era, and part of having a relationship that goes on a lot via text. As it's newish, it's new to me, so it hasn't happened to me before. I think that what happens on text is real, I think that what we had was real. That was lucky. Ghosting is a foreign behavior to me. It is a contrast to what felt real and lucky. I don't like ghosting. It feels hurtful and cheap. And it is cowardly.

I'm hurt. I want to give you the finger - in Croatian, to tell you to go back to your mother's cunt. Sorry for that outburst. Yet what I really want is to ask for some context from you, please. If you feel like an apology is an appropriate reply, then please know it is welcome. And in case you read this and don't reply, please know that while I am sure my quirks and shortcomings may have gotten on your nerves sometimes, I hope I never made you sad.

Katherine© (aka Lady Casper)
™All rights reserved.
April 29 2017, a month after being ghosted

Sprint 1985

Slavonci

I went to Borovo to research on Wed/Trs. My contact there, CB (Contact at Borovo) led me around and I'm going to write you less about Borovo and more about my experiences in Vukovar / Borovo with CB than about my research ideas. Idemo dalje...

CB and I spoke a few times on the phone before I arrived. His boss is BB (big boss at Borovo). CB is my liaison to BB; I also spoke to BB on the phone a few times and that was cool. BB told me, when we met, that he wants CB to succeed and, to allow that to happen, he steps out of the way to assign to CB professional experiences that may expand his horizons. BB is a good person.

CB and I met at the main hotel in Vukovar for lunch at 5pm the day I arrived. We did no step right into talk about Borovo/research, but talked about shared experiences. CB has lived all over Croatia and the US, and that people in Slavonia are the nicest, most open, and most mellow. His mom is from Hercegovina and his father is from Sinj, and CB was born in Vukovar. The family left when CB was age 7, the state housing them first in Zagreb and then settling them in Porec, in Istria. CB is a skilled basketball player, playing in the youth professional league in Croatia, and then accepting a scholarship to play college NCAA ball in the US.

What I want to say is this: that CB is right, people in Slavonia are really nice, and they are really uncomplicated and down to earth. I like how they ride their bikes everywhere.

Zarucni Slavonci...after we encountered these friends of my host, they had just become engaged, which I suspected before they said so because her mascara was imperfect and she had lots of emotion on her face and I noticed the ring. Darko said to me, you know, he, my friend, is really lucky, I've lived all over Croatia, and in four states in the US, dated girls of all nationalities. Girls from Slavonia are the best in Croatia, probably in the world, because they are pretty and smart, and they know how to cook, and you can trust them :) My Dad is from Slavonia, does that make me a Slavonka? Hope so :)

"Consumption and Class During and After State Socialism," Sredl, Katherine (2007)

Here is a link to download my 2007 book chapter "Consumption and Class During and After State Socialism" Sredl, Katherine, in Consumer Culture Theory (2007), ed Russell W. Belk and John F. Sherry, Jr. Research in Consumer Behavior, 11, 187-205, Oxford: Elsevier.

I have received a few emails from colleagues who are interested in this chapter, but their libraries do not have the book. I hope that this post helps promote open access to this chapter.

keywords: consumption, consumer culture, Yugoslavia, Croatia, class, state socialism, Balkans, central and Eastern Europe, consumer behavior, advertising.

Mork Calling Orson: Breakups

I played tennis last night with a new person to play tennis with. I don't have an abbreviation for her yet. This person is a very good player! Also, we moved here from the same town, at about the same time. We share the same frustration with the local tennis establishment. The similarities are striking. OGF (office girlfriend) introduced us, but she didn't tell me about the back story.

I've been writing quite well - with upcoming deadlines. Feels good to be productive. I've been going into the office, which is nice for a while. The MBA course planning is coming along nicely. All things on the house front are fine, although it will have to take a break until after deadlines.

Relationships: can't live with, can't live without. I experienced a break-up recently. A risky experience here in this town. The risk is that I won't have companionship. Then I met ntg (new tennis girlfriend) - ah, there it is, the abbreviation, the acronym - and while that is not the same companionship as ex-boyfriend, relationships are starting.

Breakups. What can you do? There can be feelings of sadness, disappointment, and regret. Then there can be analysis: what went wrong? who's fault? was this inevitable? why were we together in the first place? is this the same as the last break-up? Why did the process of the break-up have to happen so fast? I don't understand the notion of not talking in relationships, especially on the part of men. A little expression of conflict does some good. It does me some good, at least.

We ran into each other at a concert Saturday night, walking to the theater. His friend was polite, I was polite to the friend; the ex sent me daggers in his gestures, and it hurt. How did things go so fast to this state? It isn't the worst break-up I've had, but yikes, I don't like the daggers.

I don't think tennis friendships will end up in daggers.

Bliss

Happiness is writing at home in my sweatpants. Housekeeper A (HA) is preparing my dinner and I am plugged into my mp3 player.

The semester's teaching is over. I am waiting for the TA to complete grading. I am looking at a manuscript for revision with co-authors. Time for writing until March 21.

My Dad died in October, and although I really don't want to write about it, I can't start writing about anything else until I address that. I wondered what it will be like emotionally to have 3 months off teaching for manuscript writing. I guess I know now: just every morning, time writing about Dad and then the rest of the day for work, etc.

I like to listen to radio stations from allover...

Here is a link to blog that reviews the top college radio stations in the US (2010). I've got a squeezebox and enjoy listening to the stations...

http://spinningindie.blogspot.com/2009/07/princeton-reviews-best-college-radio.html

Chicago

I had seen an excellent concert (Bill Callahan) at The Hideout last time I was in Chicago. I also stayed at Marina Towers, as in the Wilco album cover. There are lots of hipsters at The Hideout, which seems to be the new generation and style, and lots of people our age. You don't know if the people who are our age are living at home with Mommy or are prominent brain surgeons at Northwestern Hospital. It's a laid-back place. There was a waitress who could have performed on the stage of Lincoln Center: the tray of beer glasses she carried defied gravity. It is also off the beaten path. I like it. I had been to Bin Wine Cafe in March, a restaurant that I now realize is down the street from where a nice sandwich shop called Birchwood Kitchen is. I went with some girlfriends of mine who are marketing professors in Chicago. They are married, but the husbands were not with us. Over dinner, we talked about a research project on GenX and gender. We went out later to a bar (Salud) and casually talked to some young men. They asked us what we did, we told them, and we told them about our research project. They acted knowing, as if they had heard this "business school professor" story all the time, the way a group of women will sometimes compose a fake identity to make going out even more of a group event and a game: “tonight, let’s pretend we are all marketing professors in business schools.” And we are really, I don’t know, friends from high school, and we work in PR, as a yoga instructor, and a lawyer, and we couldn’t get people to believe our professor story, not even by talking about our research.

After 9 months in SB (or, gay men)

David Sedaris last night at the Morris Center with OGF (office girlfriend) and TGF (tennis girlfriend). David Sedaris performed quite well, he was ebullient. The crowd: admiring.

OGF mentioned that the quote of the night was "If God didn't like gay people, then he wouldn't have made them so cute." There were lots of laughs, and a la Sedaris, emotions, and many times one can see one's life in his larger-than-life stories. One story of family argued that we can't know who we are or measure success or understand ourselves without family. We can, it is just really, really hard.

Back to cute gay people and my life...that is, my new life here in SB...Recently, a woman I know from work, whom the readers of this blog don't know. We talked about life in SB, and she, after coming here for the PhD ten years back, marrying someone who is now a prof here, and committing to stay here, had the observation that it can seem like a place with people who are not from many walks of life, mostly married people with large families. She mentioned to me all of the activities in SB this spring/summer, framing them as good opportunities to meet a boyfriend. I said, well, those sound like nice activities, and I would probably enjoy going to them if I had a friend to go to them with. She replied that, oh, when she gets home from work, that's it, she doesn't really like to go out. I said, well, um, and I can't relax at home because I'm single? I can't do what I like because I am single and should devote my time and energy to changing this? I like men, I'm saying that relationships with men aren't something you get because you participate in "Bike the Bend" or other such activities.

On the way back to work, in the car, she told me a story about a single woman who came to SB for work, and how it didn't work out. The story is outlandish, perhaps an urban myth, the woman is a professor, wants a child, isn't married, doesn't see any men on the horizon, is artificially inseminated, etc, finds another job, with tenure, at a less prestigious University. I think I was supposed to reply that, indeed, this place is stacked against me, this career, or this place is just for married men with wives dedicated to supporting them and their work. Instead, I replied that the woman is brilliant, playing the academic system for tenure, and still getting a child she wanted.

I realized that I need to find other company, company that is open-minded, not negative, capable of carving out their own path. That night, I took myself to a Chinese restaurant nearby for some take-away. I liked the atmosphere, especially the table of three handsome men slightly older than I, just by the cashier where I ordered my take-away. They set the relaxed, conversational atmosphere of the place. I took a table nearby them so that I could ease drop, and I changed my order to dine-in.

As I ate, I debated how to approach them. I wanted to do it at the meal, I wanted to eat with them. I discretely observed them. I tended to my pretend other friends, to whom I sent and received pretend text messages about our pretend plans for later on. Their table is clear except for drinks, cell phones, and keys. I watched them linger and talk.

I watched them at the cashier, paying. I realized this is a good time to approach them as they still feel like a group of gay men at dinner, but they are coming back to individual status, so I can approach them one-on-one. I identified the Alpha in the group. He's in the middle, he's moderating their group action, there is a group conversation about his clothes.

I approach Alpha Gay (who is now Alpha Gay Friend, AGF), and I say, "I'm new in town, and when I see your group at dinner, I know that I live in a civilized place." He replies, thank you, I'm AGF, and these are my friends, RGF and GDF. Where are you from? We talk and then I am very happy when I return to my table and they walk out.

I wait about 10 minutes to walk out. I need to give them time to exit. In the parking lot, AGF and RGF are there, talking at AGF's car, a black Beatle. They approach me and mention that their group dines together every Thursday at 7pm, and would I like to join them. We agree to meet the next week and exchange numbers. A nice get-to-know you evening. I don't mention any of the drama about the lunch.

AGF is receiving his certification in American Sign Language and hopes to become a court interpreter. He grew up in two cultures as his parents are deaf and he and his sister are hearing. I grew up in two cultures, I am bi-lingual. NGF has been sober for 15 years, is now very established in commercial real estate in SB. He lives three blocks north of my house (Northneighbor Gay Friend). We talk about decorating, relationships, etc. AGF has ten sets of plates, including a set of Christmas Eve dinner. That's right, AFG has a Christmas set and a Christmas Eve set.

The next week, we eat at a restaurant on the river. It reminds me of The Star in P-town. Here they ask me, what motivated you to approach us that night at the Chinese restaurant? After hearing the story of my strategy of approaching them out of the blue, RGF sums it up: one thing you have in common with us is balls.

He also said, asking you about your single status is like asking married people, well, you've had your kids, now when are you getting the divorce? Ooh, that is true, isn't it. I came home and changed my fb status from nothing to single. I'm single, that is a state, it isn't something in-between, it is its own state. It isn't a task to fix it.

I really tried in the typical ways to build a life here, joining the racket club, for example, or making nice with colleagues. The racket club worked in that I met TGF. I've also learned that I can't tolerate anything I don't enjoy, that feels like a waste of time, even if it feels like I should be doing it. I quit playing there, it isn't athletic enough for me. I joined another group, very competitive and relaxing, and I'll tell you about that group later. Making nice with colleagues worked in that I met OGF and others, and I learned the difference between me and other women in my situation, and how I like to keep on my side of that difference.

I like sitting by the river with a group of gay men, laughing. I like competitive tennis and I like going to see David Sedaris with F (friends).

Spring...

New tennis group. The name of the coach in this group is R. The group competes against other groups. The group is level 3.5-4. I and another woman, C., practice with the men, Sunday and Tuesday. Last night, at the start of practice, R. says:

"Bring it in at the net" (translate=we meet at the net and I instruct you)

"The men in this group try to hit kill shots. This isn't smart because the shots often go out. Also, in doubles, the opponent's net person will take that power and kill you back with it, or the baseliner will hit a lob...

The women in this group are much smarter. They do not hit the kill shots. They place shots, and they use their opponent's vulnerabilities against them"

Me, to myself, oh, I like this.

R. "Today, we will play men against women and you will see what I mean"

Later in practice, we play a set, with mixed men and women.

R. "We will use this strategy, S (male) you stay at the net, and use your backspin, and poach. K., you use your brains, you are the brains on the court, you place the ball, and you set up S. at the net."

Me, to myself, great.

And we played great tennis, and after, I played some games with C., and that was fun.

Other: I don't like the local farmer's market. It's kitsch. And there is a good vegetable stand, but otherwise, kitsch. And the restaurant there isn't that good. I liked the one in Urbana better, and of course, dolac.

The weather is great and my garden in blooming. I'm having the garden beds tended to this week and some lilies planted.

Borovo Nova Borosana

Borovo Nova Borosana

TF = tennis friend

to the small joys in life: this morning, I played tennis with my new tennis partner and we are a very good match. her name is TF, tennis friend. she invited me to an art exhibit and we are going thursday.
after tennis, I went to Matrin's deli. Martin's is a supermarket near my house and campus. They have a deli. They also write their name in the same font a dentist or Count Chocula would use. My friend Jamie made that observation.

There was a 15 minute wait for my lunch (I ordered some chicken to go; the chicken had some time left in the oven.) I ordered a coffee and sat in the cafe. I pulled from my purse an academic article I needed to read by noon anyway. Lady Professors are always needing to read articles and they always carry them in their purses. I sat down and drank my coffee and read and eavesdropped. I enjoy eavesdropping. I overheard a table of really old men talking about Saturday's football game. The loss against Navy. I observed the group when I had entered the deli part of the grocery store. I had also observed a man sitting at the table beside the old men. He looked young and tall and strong and dressed in Notre Dame hat and sweats. I wondered if he were a bodyguard/driver for one of the old men and if Fr. Hessberg was in the group. He left, but I'm not sure if he left with one of the old men.

I finished my reading, my coffee, and purchased my chicken lunch and left.

Farmer's Markets and Local Food

People around me talk a lot about the local farmer's market and supporting it.

I like local food because I like the taste of good food and it tastes better than the alternatives. I don't like to be told that I'm supporting "local farmers." Why? Because I pay them money for what they sell me. I'm supposed to care about local business. It is the nice lefty thing to do. Honestly, I'm not a nice lefty. I just like to eat well. I hate the political analysis of so much of life: what you are doing is either Marxist or not, either appropriate or not... What if I just like to eat well, and would like to not have to make it political? Please, let me enjoy this without any interpretation...

Now, you might say that I should care about them, because without them, my taste buds are sad. I need them. They need me, too, because they need sales.

The asymmetry is that local business / farmers don't seem to care about my career. They never ask, how is that journal article coming along? If I care about their business, it is a one-way street. I would like to ask the people who think it is all about supporting local farmers and Marxist farming politics this: why should they care about my career, as they have a business to run and are occupied with that.

Home sick

These are things I would like to do today while I am home sick today and probably tomorrow, too

1. Write a letter to Aleksandar Hemon.

I have been planning this letter for some time. In this letter, I will tell him that I know exactly what he is talking about when he writes about how his mother curled his hair behind his ear when he was little. I knew the phenomenon bit not the words for it. I also didn't know if other people's mothers did that, too. I also didn't know if that was just a thing that Croatian mothers do. I usually would say to the person I wanted to do that to me (a boyfriend), please do like this, and show him how to curl my hair behind my ear. Now, I can say, "please curl my hair behind my ear."

(I wonder if I say "please curl my hair behind my ear" to an American boyfriend, if he will know what I'm talking about, without a demonstration?)

Also, in this letter, I will tell him that when I read his short stories, I have to cover the last sentences with my hand so that I can enjoy the process of reading it more. There is the excitement as I move towards the end of the chapter, and exhaustion after the last sentence. Yes, this does remind me of some relationships.

I will write that I read passages out loud to the students in my International Marketing class, and that they were transfixed to learn his views of the US (from The Lazarus Project, writing about his wife at baseball games) and his memories of Sarajevo society.

2. Rest and relax. Wear my sweatpants and sweatshirt. Dream of the perfect paint color for my bedroom walls. I've probably got this cold from working too much and from insomnia.

3. Look at my art books. Sit outside if I can. Watch tv, but not a mind-numbing about.

4. There are other things I could do and would like to do while home sick. I can't think of them right now. I wish Hemon would email me a book right now.

pencilnpaper: Sta ima?

pencilnpaper: Sta ima?

Sta ima?

I've been busy. Moving, and starting the new job, vacation, teaching started two weeks ago. I thought about you the whole time. All the things I wanted to tell you. Things happened, and my reaction made me think of you. I like how things seem important when I feel like telling you about them. How would I tell you the story? How would I frame the narrative? You are a good blog.

About those first days living in South Bend, when I would ride my bike around town, from about 8-10pm. The days were so long because I live in the eastern time zone. And a river, water, finally, thankfully, again, water. To live with some sort of barrier there. And it is a barrier that takes us away to more unknowns and brings the same to us. You can sit there on its banks and it could just show up, like the part of the sitcom that will finally get good.

And those were really sweet moments. How I would wear my turtle bag strapped across my chest, and put my garage door opener in it, because that is the easiest way to get on my bike and go, through my attached garage. The South Bend map I bought the month prior, in May, when Mom and I arrived to look for a house. And how meticulous I would be in my thoughts about safety - some identification, garage door opener, cell phone. Just in case. Just in case.

It isn't that hard to get around now. I didn't take the map on the bike ride Monday. I didn't think about carrying identification. I used to do that in Zagreb, carry identification. In case something happened, if they find me, they would know whose I am. I am kind to strangers and I plan ahead.

It was the mover, Tom, who told me about the bike trail on the St. Joe river. "You just go all the way to Eddy, take a left to Jefferson, and then go right, and it's right there." He saw my bike and told me about it. Tom who packed my house and I think about him every time I empty a box. I can still tell the difference between the rooms and boxes Tom packed and Tommy packed. Tommy is Tom's son.

I know those are their names because that's how they introduced themselves to me.

And when they came to unload the truck in the new house, Tom complimented my on the house. He told me how to take care of the floors, how to unpack the boxes that contained mirrors. He told me which hardware store to visit, and what to buy (something to keep the door from hitting the wall when I open the door). Go to ACE hardware by John Adams high school. That's where I went to high school. Don't go to Lowe's. He talked to me about swimming, because he saw my trophy and the article from the newspaper about the time Mom and I swam the Ohio together. He told me that he grew up swimming in the St. Joe River, and that people think it is really dirty, but he doesn't.

I signed the papers after the move-in. I sat at my desk, and we overlooked the back yard. He asked me if I would get a yard. The space of the lawn and the fence makes you want to. I talked about my dream of a boxer just like the one I used to have, when I was little. But that I'll need to wait on that. He said he can't get another dog. He had his Mom's after she died. He can't have another one again. He had to put that dog down after several years, and he can't go through that again.

Tommy wasn't there for the move-in. That's how I know that they were telling me the truth that they are father-son. Not that Tommy is as brilliant a mover as his father. He has years of experience to gain first. The one who worked with Tom for the move-in didn't have the same respect for Tom as Tommy did. He didn't listen to him or wait for him, the way Tommy did.

Those were nice evenings, biking. And letting the prior months of dissertation writing and all the dramas run their course. I didn't write you then because I wanted my quiet, I wanted my peace, I wanted my thoughts for myself. I wanted every feeling, emotion, experience, sensation, for me.

Then the trip to Croatia: Zagreb and Hvar. You saw the photos on facebook. It felt that a door to the PhD research phase, that status, was over. I could feel myself walking and the new doors opening, in Zagreb. I gave a lecture Monday about space and time as factors in cultural dynamics. Inner and outward territorial cultures. Cultures that easily let others in, with few criteria, those that have insurmountable criteria. I think I'm no longer in the insurmountable criteria category. I got there when I got there. I can open the border. New spaces in old relationships.

Teaching. Today, I can celebrate two weeks of teaching. I thought that the hard work was over after the dissertation. No, I didn't think that. I'm surprised about the pace. Even faster than graduate school. Even more. And I wanted something to be easier. Maybe it is the relationships, with my ways of teaching, with the students. Exhausting. I thought the pace of dissertation writing was grueling. Sometimes people are addicted to their ambitions and success.

Your whole life changes when you move from graduate school job market - assistant professor job - dissertation finished - job started. The habits, the work habits, go with you. That part changes less.

I'm reading Aleksandar Hemon (The Lazarus Project) now. I am falling in love. And when it happens through reading, that's a great seduction.

I'll fall asleep soon...more later