the properties of magnifying glasses and the science of sociology

My most pressing concern today is the presentation I must give in Philosophy class. I have to talk about Emile Durkheim, who I’ve read is a famous sociologist of the nineteenth century. (I hadn’t heard of him until last week, which is a sign that perhaps he is not so famous and not so relevant. I, however, know little about sociology, so I can’t comment on Durkheim’s relevance.)

It appears, however, that Durkheim is much more germane – at least to the field of sociology – than I realize. He was the first professor of sociology in France, and was primarily responsible for the creation of sociology as a social science. He was born in 1858, which was a good year because the pencil with an attached eraser was patented that year, and a not so good year because the Cape lion became extinct that year.  

Durkheim was less concerned with the Cape lion than I. His primary concern was the function of societies. He wrote about religion and morality and the division of labor. He was a big believer in the scientific method, which makes me much more sympathetic to his scant concern about the Cape lion. Science, in my opinion, is attractive in anyone, even long-dead sociologists who appear to have little effect on my everyday life.

The more I found out about his methodological, empiricist ways, the more pleased I was. I didn’t realize when I decided to do a presentation about Durkheim that his methods would mesh so pleasantly with my academic aesthetic. This meeting of the minds, as it were, is actually beginning to make me a little uncomfortable. Isn’t the point of these presentations to learn something different and unusual and uncomfortable? Isn’t that the point of an Intro to Philosophy class? But here I am, my faith in my usual ways of thinking – which were shaped early by Scientific American and Discover and a wonder at learning that I could fry ants with a magnifying glass – unshaken. Perhaps my research has not been in-depth enough, or my thinking has not been deep enough. These things are entirely possible, given the historical evidence  – my performance in Philosophy class is only intermittently good – and hearing a presentation on Theodor Adorno’s aesthetic theory has just strengthened my feelings of inadequacy (darn you, Katherine!).

This is the point, I know, when my mother would be telling me, “you never wanted to be a philosopher anyway, sweetie, so why does it matter?” Why does it matter? That’s a philosophical question for sure, and ending with it makes me feel a little more secure, like I’ve made some fascinating insight. (Even though I haven’t. Fascinating insights are not my strong point, hence the title of my blog.)

So I’ll leave you with this philosophical quandary: Do social realities exist independently of our perception of them? Perhaps you'll be too busy pondering it to ponder this this blog entry.

leaving and leaving behind

Rrrring! Goes the bell at school. Sixth hour is over, and I hurry out of Calc 2/3. I have seventh and eighth periods free, which makes me feel gloriously lazy and entitled. I use this extra time for riding my horse, of course. I stroll to my car and drive to the barn, blasting The Killers. "It's like a cigarette in the mouth / or a handshake in the doorway / I look at you and smile because I'm fine." I'm better than fine, actually. It's only Tuesday, but I'm feeling glorious – and entitled – which makes every Tuesday a good one.

Isaiah, my darling Equus ferus caballus, seems to have decided that today he would rather be eating than working. He does everything I ask of him, but with an air of thinly stretched patience. Occasionally, he swishes his tail or tilts his head to the side, just to remind me that he’s not pleased with the proceedings. This is much improved over his behavior five years ago, when my parents purchased him for me. It took him roughly forty-one seconds to figure out that he could do whatever he wanted to the timid twelve-year-old on his back. Thus commenced three years of Isaiah gleefully charging around the arena and me flapping the reins ineffectually. He still makes a minor rebellion, once every couple of months, but it only takes me a few minutes to remind him that I am the alpha of our little herd. I’m told I will never completely cure him of his occasional revolts; they are too ingrained and he’s too clever and opportunistic to become a mindless robot. I wouldn’t want him to be one, though. That would be terribly boring.

Progress is slow, but by the end of our ride, he is relaxed and – dare I say it? – almost happy. Content, certainly. I get off, and he leans into me as I rub his face.  

It occurs to me then that in five months I will be in college, in Massachusetts or New Jersey or Pennsylvania, and Isaiah will remain in Illinois.

I’ve known this was coming for a long time, of course. I will go to college, and Isaiah will stay in Illinois. My trainer will ride him and use him as a lesson horse, and if I’m lucky, my parents won’t sell him. But five months is so soon, and even though I’ve been ready for college for at least a year, I’m not sure I’m ready for the going to college part. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave my blue cave of a bedroom, and my long bike rides, and my horse. Mostly my horse. Because even though our time together has not been marked with many trophies or ribbons or grand accomplishments – we did win two champagne flutes once, and a baseball cap – it has been comforting. Isaiah has been constant in my life, through my transition into high school, and through high school, when I learned just how naïve I really was, and that the only person I can rely on is myself.  

But I’m afraid of being in a new place, of being unmoored, of being forced to be self-reliant. I’m afraid of a lot of things – I worry almost constantly. For instance, my most pressing fear right now it that my grades will drop second semester and my offers of admission to colleges will be revoked. I’m afraid of the fact that I have no idea what I want to study, what career path I want to take. So I want to have someone with me, a personal support system. But Isaiah can’t come to college. His application would be horrendous, and I’m sure there are rules against letting livestock in the dorms. (Truly, he could stay at a barn nearby, but it will be cheaper for him to stay in Illinois. And given how much my parents are about to spend on my college education, saving money has become supremely important.)

I lead Isaiah back to his stall. “What do you think?” I ask him. I inquire after his opinion often, though he never responds – I think he likes to maintain an air of mystery. But today, he raises his head and rests his muzzle in the crook of my neck. He does this every once in a while. I don’t know why, but I enjoy it. We stand quietly for a few minutes. His breath tickles my neck as I scratch his forehead. And I stop worrying.

the difference between dogs and hounds

“You have to try it, Lilli,” Kim said. “It’s so much fun!”

Famous last words, I thought. Kim, Tamara, and I were at a horse show in southern Illinois, and some people we met at the show invited us to go fox hunting with them the next day. Kim and Tamara were all for it. I was less sure. I was tired, ready to go home, and afraid that my horse would trip on a log and break his leg. But, weak-willed as I am, I caved, and on Sunday morning we headed over to the property of the foxhunters.

There we met several other riders and six pair of dogs, and I was instructed in the ways of fox hunting. First, I learned that the dogs were not dogs. They were “hounds,” and calling them “dogs” was an insult to their houndliness. Second, I learned that the dogs – excuse me, hounds – always had the right of way. Third, I was told, always stay behind the master of fox hounds.

Finally we headed out. The property we rode on was a mix of forest and cornfields. The dead stalks from last season were still sticking out of the ground, and they crackled as the horses stepped over them. We went slowly at first, as we waited for the hounds to pick up a trail. On the way, I learned a little more about hunting from Tom, the master of fox hounds. Apparently, there were few foxes in southern Illinois, so the hounds usually caught the scent of a coyote. The foxes and coyotes were very quick, and this pack of hounds had never caught one, but Tom didn’t seem to find that particularly disappointing. “It’s just for fun,” he said. “If we killed the coyotes, we would have nothing left to chase.”

Then the hounds started baying, and we took off, trotting and galloping madly through trees, streams, and corn. I didn’t know how long we had been charging through the woods – five minutes? ten? – but I didn’t particularly care because it was fun. I wondered how I had managed to live for seventeen years without experiencing this wild hunt.

Then we cantered into a field, and I saw it – a coyote nimbly loping through the corn stalks. Tom told us to stop, and we waited for the hounds to catch up as we watched the coyote. It disappeared into a valley in the land, reappeared, and then vanished over the crest of the next hill. The hounds were about thirty seconds behind.

I remembered what Tom had said earlier – the foxes and coyotes are too clever; the hounds never catch them. It was clear to me in this instance that the hounds would never get this particular coyote. But if they did? Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but someday? How would I feel about that? I tried to picture the hounds chasing Sheba, my big brindled rescue dog of indeterminate breeding, and I couldn’t find a way to make that image fit. Yes, the hounds were chasing a coyote, not a family pet, and yes, coyotes and foxes were historically pests, which is why foxhunting became a sport, but they were all just dogs, basically. And it just felt so wrong for dogs to be hunting other dogs.

The hunt ended, finally, and the coyotes and foxes were no longer threatened by six pair of hounds and nine people on horses. We meandered back to the barn, Isaiah sweaty and breathing hard, me still exhilarated by our wild gallops. I knew then that I would go fox hunting again, because a horseperson, especially one stuck in limbo in her senior year, trying to move forward while the establishment says not yet, first you need to graduate, first you need to get good grades and follow all the rules, will take whatever excuse she can get to dash madly through cornfields and trees and brush. But I also knew that I wouldn’t forget the picture I’d conjured up of a pack of hounds chasing my terrified Sheba through the brush. And I knew that fox hunting would never again be as thrilling as it was that first time.

Saturday Night Live

5:30. Mom and Dad are going out to dinner with Conrad’s mom. Find out that we have very little food in the house and that my parents are giving me ten bucks to buy dinner. Realize that my parents are well acquainted with Conrad’s mom but that I never speak to Conrad. Wonder if that’s weird. Decide it doesn’t matter.

Experience hunger. Go to Subway to buy a sandwich. Experience an extreme craving for ice cream. Contemplate that getting ice cream is the antipathy of getting Subway. Think about how delicious ice cream is. Cave; go to Schnucks and buy a chocolate bar. Go home.

Turn on 105.5, “the station that has the competition running scared,” while eating Subway. Listen to Jamie Foxx and Drake, and then Drake. Contemplate whether Drake is deserving of two songs in a row. Contemplate that I don’t “know way too many people here right now that I didn’t know last year,” and that I don’t really give a shit. Decide I wouldn’t make a very good rapper. My socioeconomic background would get in the way of my rap ambitions, if I had any, at least. My complete lack of cool would also get in the way.

Try to decide whether “this life is like the sweetest thing I’ve ever known,” and decide I’m a little young to be answering questions of that depth and significance. Decide I’ll give it another shot when I’m twenty-three and on the radio. Listen to Guy-Who’s-Not-My-Boy-SuavA-or-Steve-Harvey spout some drivel about Usher. Listen to Jay Sean and Lil’ Wayne. Decide that Lil’ Wayne is overrated. Decide that Jay Sean is overrated, but at least he can sing. And “Hit The Lights”, apparently, although I wouldn’t really know anything about that. I’ve never hit a light in my life. Listen to an ad for Proactiv. Listen to ads for things besides Proactiv. Listen to some music I don’t like. Find out that Guy-Who’s-Not-My-Boy-SuavA-or-Steve-Harvey is DJ Mondo. Finish my Subway. Gleefully eat my chocolate.

Realize that it’s now 6:30 and I have no plans for the rest of the evening. Try to decide whether that’s pathetic. Try to decide how pathetic it is. Console myself by reminding myself I have plans tomorrow and on Monday. Listen to “hot 105.5” shamelessly self-promote. Listen to Keri Hilson sing about her “derriere”. Contemplate poking eardrums out with a toothpick. Decide that’s a bad idea. Escape Keri and her “Pretty Girl Rock” by turning the radio off.

Now it’s 6:35; still no plans for the evening. Contemplate the social norms which compel me to feel inadequate because it’s Saturday night and I’m sitting in my kitchen, writing my blog. Decide I need to shower and to eat less chocolate. Imagine that my parents are having more fun than I am right now, and feel more inadequate. Decide to watch The Office.



In case you were wondering:
Fall For Your Type -- Jamie Foxx feat. Drake
Over -- Drake
Hit The Lights -- Jay Sean feat. Lil Wayne
Pretty Girl Rock -- Keri Hilson
I wouldn't recommend any of them, to be honest, but to each her own. "Fall For Your Type" is all right, I guess.

wysdom for the wyse

It was a few weeks ago when Ray, our infamous physics teacher, sent out an email asking the seniors to sign up for the Worldwide Youth in Science and Engineering (WYSE) team competition. At the time of the email, I thought the competition, which pits representatives from area schools against each other through standardized tests in areas such as math, biology, and physics, sounded fun. It is a privilege afforded to seniors only, a chance to get out of a few days of class, and a chance to eat free pizza.

It has dawned on me now, though, that the false sense of exclusivity and accomplishment that a competition affords are just guises for the boredom that I will doubtless endure during that long day, since I only have to take two forty-minute tests. I’ll have to make up the classwork I miss, I’ll need to study for the chemistry exam I’m scheduled to take if I want to perform decently, and pizza isn’t that good anyway. Essentially, taking the WYSE exams confers no benefit whatsoever.

But I am anyway, and I can’t really tell you why. If I do well, I suppose I’ll feel good about it for two and a quarter minutes, until it dawns on me that my scores on the tests have no material effect on my life whatsoever. I suppose I just want to do something different, for the sake of difference, which in this situation, is completely ridiculous. Think about it this way: I want to spice up the monotony of my typical high school day by taking tests in return for meaningless awards and poor-quality lunch fare.

Oh, situational irony. How I adore thee.

Furthermore, I’ve always been conflicted about doing things simply for the sake of doing them. On the one hand, purposeless things are most people’s primary source of entertainment – which, perhaps, is their purpose – but on the other hand, they just seem so trivial. And I’m not trivial; I’m practical and sensible and boring. So boring. I live by boredom; I find it immensely comforting. As types of purposeless entertainment go, though, the WYSE competition will probably be a fairly boring one, so at least I won't be violating my central tenet.

My Blue Cave

Three years ago, I updated my bedroom. I painted the walls, the ceiling, and the bookshelves. My mom and I replaced all the vital organs of bedroom furniture; I got a new bed, a lounge chair, a new desk and chair set, and even new blinds. An electrician installed a more attractive light fixture. Only the ratty blue carpet stayed the same.

Our house is approaching thirty years old and the blue carpet in the upstairs bedrooms has lasted all of those years. I don’t know why anyone would install a blue carpet, especially this shade of blue; thirty years ago, it probably looked like a blue sky with the faintest haze of gray cloud, but now it’s much more cloud gray than sky blue. The heavy traffic areas are brownish. And it has stains. The walls used to be stark white, so the blue carpet gave the room some much needed color, but I intended to make my walls colorful, so I had to pick a paint that coordinated with the stained brownish grayish blue carpet. Eventually I picked “Polar Sky,” a color that harkens back to the color of the carpet in its heyday. It’s a light blue, with hardly any gray at all. It’s all awfully blue, but I like that. I live in a blue cave of the color of the sky.

The room perfectly reflects the conflict between my inner perfectionist and the carefree, careless gremlin that fights for control. The paint job on the walls is great, but since I didn’t tape the line between the blue walls and the white ceiling, there’s some blue paint on the ceiling and some white paint on the walls. The furniture all matches, in color and in style – it even matches the color of the trim – but I’ve covered every available surface with books, clothes, scraps of paper, empty bottles of lotion, old birthday cards, and other teenage paraphernalia. The desk is symmetrically framed by two stately standing lamps, but leaning against the wall, next to a pile of clean clothes I never put in the closet, is a full length mirror. I’ll hang it properly someday, probably before I go to college. Until then, I’ve draped a T-shirt over the top of it so it won’t scrape the paint.

I didn’t like my room very much before I remodeled it. It was a good place to hide all my crap so my mother wouldn’t throw it away, but everything about the room was old and ugly and boring. I originally wanted to remodel it because I thought having an organized and harmonious room would inspire me to organize and harmonize my cluttered life. Unfortunately, my life is still as cluttered and cacophonous as ever, but I love my room now. It’s a constant reminder of the first time I did something for myself, without teachers and textbooks and rubrics guiding my every move. Sure, my mom paid for everything, and she made sure that I knew how to sand and paint and use a screwdriver, and I still haven’t hung that darn mirror, but I other than that, it was all me. I’m ridiculously proud of that.

I’d be even prouder if I could manage to just keep it clean…

The Friendly Neighborhood Walmart

I loved fried chicken when I was in grade school. My desire for this greasy treat has faded with age, but last weekend I suddenly had a hankering for some. Perhaps my craving was prompted by the fact I had an interview with Big Name University that same afternoon. I don’t know, and I’d rather not dwell on the possible relationships between Big Name Universities, my preadolescent grade eating habits, and emotional regression. It seems like a way to get caught up in sticky questions that I’d rather avoid.

In any case, it was about noon, and my mother was going to Walmart to purchase the things one purchases at Walmart if one is a member of my family – things like Honey Bunches of Oats, and store-brand raisins, and toilet paper, and anticavity fluoride rinse. I don’t know where my non-relations go to deal with these things. Maybe Walmart, or maybe the more hipster types go to Strawberry Fields (can you get toilet paper at Strawberry Fields?) or the Farmer’s Market (do the marketing farmers sell dental hygiene products?). I wouldn’t know, because my mother is allergic to inconveniences, and morally opposed to hipsters. But since getting fried chicken at Walmart is both possible and utterly convenient, my mother agreed to buy me some.

The fried chicken wasn’t that good. Maybe fried chicken isn’t actually as good as I remember it being, or maybe fried chicken from the Walmart deli is subpar. The chicken's association with Walmart also troubled me, though, far more than I expected it would, and that may have been the reason I couldn't enjoy it.

Lots of people, it seems, particularly hipsters, my piano teacher, and the sort of youthful ideologues one is guaranteed to encounter at a school like Uni, object to Walmart on moral grounds. Usually I ignore these people, because they categorically state Walmart is bad but have no evidence that Walmart is an ethically problematic place to purchase Honey Bunches of Oats. In the instances that they have fact to back up their beliefs, I… well, I ignore them then too.

Well, I don’t ignore them so much as I exercise the skill I honed in school of promptly forgetting the things I am told. The fact is, I don’t want to think about why my family’s close personal relationship with Walmart may not be quite as humanitarian as it is convenient. Walmart is so close to my house, and the greeters are so nice, and everyone in the Walmart commercials is so happy…. and Walmart is just so American, and what could possibly be wrong with being American?

Ok, so maybe there are a couple of things not quite so great about being American. But let us not dwell on these dangerous thoughts.

Whether it’s true or not that Walmart Stores, Inc. violates labor laws, contributes to urban blight and doesn’t pay enough taxes, to me these accusations just don’t feel true. And feeling true is more important than being true, I think, though it shouldn’t be. (Now I feel like I’m channeling Stephen Colbert.) At least I’m aware of my denial – or maybe that’s worse. Maybe it’s worse that I know I’m deluding myself and I don’t care.