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2008 Harvard University Commencement, June 5, 2008. Copyright of J.K. Rowling, June 2008
NPR.org, June 5, 2008 · President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates,
The first thing I would like to say is 'thank you.' Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honor, but the weeks of fear and nausea I've experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world's best-educated Harry Potter convention.
Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can't remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.
You see? If all you remember in years to come is the 'gay wizard' joke, I've still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.
Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.
I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called 'real life', I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.
These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.
Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.
I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.
They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents' car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.
I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.
I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticize my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticized only by fools.
What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.
At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.
I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.
However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person's idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.
Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.
Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.
So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.
You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.
Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.
The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.
Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone's total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.
You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared.
One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International's headquarters in London.
There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.
Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.
I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.
And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country's regime, his mother had been seized and executed.
Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.
Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.
And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.
Amnesty mobilizes thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.
Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people's minds, imagine themselves into other people's places.
Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathize.
And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.
I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the willfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.
What is more, those who choose not to empathize may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.
One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.
That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people's lives simply by existing.
But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people's lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world's only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.
If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.
I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children's godparents, the people to whom I've been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I've used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.
So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.
I wish you all very good lives.
Thank you very much.
Copyright of J.K. Rowling, June 2008
About 8 months ago, a friend of mine was dismissed from medical school. He had failed over 2 classes and was not given another chance to repeat the semester. Now, he only informed a select few, and I was not one of them. I found out about it from one of his close friends, but I kept it to myself, and did not let him know that I knew, up until the last day. That night, it just so happened, that I was getting dinner from Stahbox, where he and some of our mutual friends were eating their Last Supper together on the island. It turns out, it wasn't his last supper here, but still, it was still memorable.
Anyway, we all joined them, and sat on the couches eating pizza while reading a book that was on the bookshelf in the corner. The book was special. It was a kind of.. ice breaker type book. One where you ask each other questions to find out their inner truths, or the extent of their imagination.
One such question posed was, "If a word could describe you, what word would you be found under if looked up in the dictionary?"
Of course, every spurted out responses for everyone else, "wacky, goofy, calm, juvenile, docile" and many more. When it came to the word I'd be found under, this friend of mine, mentioned "There."
Lulua is "there" when you need her, she'll be there when you're unstable, or can't handle something, but the minute you've gained control, she's gone. She could be physically there, standing right there with you and your group, but mentally, she's out somewhere else. When you don't need her, she switches off.
I thought about this. Is this really true? Am I really only present in mind, when I perceive someone in need of some assistance?
Lately, I've succumbed to accusations of lack of consideration and obliviousness. On the one had, I usually think I'm very observant and in tune with people's inner thoughts. But if I think about it, I usually only pay attention to those who are "different." Those who are quiet in a loud, obnoxious crowd. Those who are funny with wit rather than crude humor. Those who look differently, dress differently, behave differently, respond differently, think differently.
But those who are normal, or who seem to blend in with the crowd, I have absolutely NO idea how to read them. They're the ones who are experts at social situations and know how to respond in socially appropriate manners. I usually take no heed to them. For some reason, I don't even care at times, seemingly. I've never been aware of this. But, now, as I recall the times I've been "intrigued" by someone, attracted towards someone, it's usually because that person is "different." More intelligent, is off-beat, unusual, awkward, diligent, shy, bold, or even one who has a way with words, art, food, or mannerisms.
Maybe this all has to with habituation. Something that we all are victims of . You press on your hand with a constant force for a long enough period of time, your hand will not feel the pressure after a while.
You stare out at one item without moving your eyes, it disappears. (actually that's really impossible to do b/c your eye muscles are constantly twitching and moving your eye ) .
Is this the law of diminishing returns, quite possibly. You taste pizza for the first time, and are dazzled by the flavors. After your fourteenth slice (ever) it's never as good as it was before.
You drive through a neighborhood and see the cookie cutter houses, all lined up in a row all the same, until you stop for a second when you see the house in the middle painted a color that is completely out of the intensity range of the others, it's bolder, the edges of the house are sharper, the material is different, the windows are placed in different places, with a different shape. Your eye, your interest, your level of intrigue just spiked a few notches. Something different from the norm.
So, because I take interest in things that are different, am I really "there" ? Or do I consider those in need, helpless the "different " that captures my attention, interest, and my presence of being?
Interestingly enough, this friend of mine who was dismissed from my school, was consequently admitted into another, better school and will soon be a fabulous physician. All the best SC.
Just a little update on what's going on with me. I've been back for just over 1 week, now; and, I'll have you know that I have not used Wikipedia ONCE. I've made my new semester's resolution: I'm on the non-wikipedia diet.
I know I should technically have weaned myself off it, as there are generally strong withdrawal effects. There is a 10% chance of going into wikipedrawal shock in which the receptors are upregulated because of non-stimulation of the high number of wikiceptors. The student generally presents with malaise, tiredness, memory loss, confabulations, confusion, stupor and on rare occasions may experience paroxysmal nocturnal wikyspnea, in which the student wakes up in the middle of the night with shortness of breath and is unable to return to sleep unless having visited the wikipedia site. This illness is fairly easy to remedy . The use of a pharmacodynamic website (i.e. wikipedia analog) mimics the website's functions, and acts on the wiki-ceptors of the limbic system thereby relieving the withdrawal effects.
Do you seem to be the type of person who notices the inconveniences of things/situations, and usually come up with a solution for the situation?
Well, Idea Providence is for you.
This guy has tons of creative ideas for the one who walks around wondering why the bathroom stall walls/door are so high that you have to essentially keep your pants on to sit in peace.
Anyway, there are some cool ideas here at the site. Give it a look-see when you're bored.
After reading my previous post on the experience of seeing/reading/spelling the word WHEN, I realized the feeling I had was not Deja Vu-ish, it was something else, which has actually been recorded and given a particular name, similar to Deja Vu.
The phrase for a sudden onset feeling of (not familiarity this time) but strangeness. It's called :
jamais vu
It's relays a sense of seeing something for the first time. I think that's what I meant. Didn't know that this phenomenon had been analyzed already. But this world is full of black and white, so why not have the opposing experience of "deja vu" that being, "jamais vu" exist?
bHave you ever looked at a word too much, and then for a second have this deja vu-like but not reminding you of anything previously occured, except there's this slight transitional moment where you're looking at something as if you're seeing it for the first time, and you notice that a common 4-5 letter word that in a way doesn't follow conventional English spelling rules (whatever THAT may be) that you've taken for granted how to spell, looks for some really odd reason awkward. And in fact, you almost think it's spelled wrong.
All the times in my life that this has actually occurred to me, and believe me it's happened at least once a year, maybe multiple times, it always occurs with words that are part of the "who, what, where, when, why, how" category. The Current Events words, as I like to call them. In 5th,6th Grade when we had to read a newspaper article for Social Studies/Current Events, and then write out the answers to the questions listed above, the 5W's (and the H).
Anyway, it happened again when Hasnain and I began talking about the spelling of the word "course." I won't bore you all with the details of that conversation (not because I'm nice, I probably would have gotten into it, but I'm actually supposed to be studying for an Exam (Mini) that's in about 1 day and 6 hrs away, and so, I'm essentially cutting the story short, and you guys are all missing out on that lovely little tid bit.
And about 3 minutes into the conversation (on IM, mind you) the word begins to get hazy, the letters turn italic almost in my perception, and the letters look weird. They begin to look not like letters but more like squiggly lines. And then I begin to focus back, I can see them as letters, and recognize them as letters, but the organized way they're lined up, just doesn't read like what the word "Course" sounds like. Just now, I almost wrote the word, like "wourd". That's how it sounds it should be spelled. But anyway, I wonder if there's a study out there that's researched this phenomenon, and what the reasoning may be.
hmm.
So, next time you see a word that looks a little awkward, look away, think of something else, and then come back & see if you can spell it without looking. and see what you come up. Then report back to me, and let me know what your experience was like, and what the precipitating factors may have been, and how you were able to phase back into normality.
For months now, I had been dreading performing a particular act, and act of kindness, sincerity, and for a loved one, an act that should have been performed without question.
A few months ago a very dear great aunt passed away from breast cancer. My mother's masi, my maternal grandmother's sister, had cancer for over 5 years. In 2002, when she had just had her mastectomy, and was running through her first set of chemotherapy sessions, she needed someone by her side. Her husband, God bless his heart, weakened at the sight of her weakness. She was the strength for both of them. Her one child, a daughter, lived over a day's train ride away, and had a family with young children to look after. After a summer, filled with trips to the oncology department, her children's school was opening, and she had to get back.
Family from Pakistan were unable to acquire visas to traverse the then restricted border, and there was an uncertainty in scheduled flight departures. UK relatives wished to go, but couldn't afford to miss any more work than had already been scheduled. Family in N. America, busy as usual, and those who wished to go, had obligations or restrictions holding them back (too young of children to leave behind, or the infamous visa issues.)
I was only 18 at the time, and before everyone realized no one was able to go, I told my mom, hesitantly, as if it was a stupid idea, but at least to get it out, just in case, that maybe I could go. My mom shrugged the idea off, suggesting I was too young, and that my great aunt would probably want/need someone a little older, mature; someone she could go to for moral support. To cook, clean, and just take care of the household, while she recooperated. At the time, I could barely cook karhai chicken, even with Shan masala. I believed her. My mom thanked me for the offer, and then continued to think of a solution, hoping one of her cousins from Pakistan would be able to overcome the visa block.
A few weeks later, I find out that no one can go, and my mom mentions in passing to her cousin, that she could send me. I had no visa problems, and I had no obligations to tend to. Perfect.
I flew to India via UK, and stopped over for some delicious chicken and roti at my khala's place and during the transit, and I told them of my confidence issues about my role when I reached India. What could I possibly do to help out a 60 + year old person, whom I love, yes, but barely know too. How can I possibly provide any emotional consolation to someone who probably thinks of me as a kid, who knows nothing of the world--which I admit, I was and probably did.
Anyway, I reached India, and it was none other than life altering. Really. I will never forget that 1 month I spent with them. The conversations, the lunches, dinners, the mangos (non-stop and from all over eastern asia), the daily naps from 4-6pm, the Z-TV shows from 6-11pm, the so silent old indian movies from 12-3am (while they slept), the multan mithi face masks, the coaxing and bickering with the housekeepers, and morning fresh roti & paratha wali, the wheat grass handkerchief filtering every 7am, the forced down boiled eggs, the craze for protein in a world filled with vegetarians, the train rides, the incomprehensible English, my broken hindi, the computer guy with a broken keyboard down the flat, across the street, and near the STD, phone place, the 1/2 hour vuzu trips, the weekly ziarats, the Bandra movie theater with Anil Kapoor look-a-like with tickets for 50 rupees, the hospital with white walls, white floors, and white coats, with black heels, and dangling earings, the one green plant in the corner, and the super helpful, sweet, adoring guju volunteers who made her feel oh so comfortable, and at ease, but most of all, the stories of her childhood, adolescence, and married life, from past to present. The one thing I will not forget is that she said she wanted to stay well, so her husband would also. If she went down, his would inevitably follow.
Well, she died a few months ago. And, I had never called her husband or her daughter to give my condolences. I thought about it many times.
I was in the Caribbean when I got the call from my mom, I fell silent. I couldn't believe it. I had no idea the disease had progressed that far. I should have been ready for it. I wasn't. I should have immediately called. I should have. But, every time I got to the computer to call I couldn't make out what to say, how to say it. I felt that he would already be so devastated, wouldn't my calling just make it worse? I was so wrong. It was cowardice. I guess I was scared to be there for someone else, when in fact, I needed someone to console me.
This morning, I got a phone call from her daughter from India. I didn't recognize her immediately, there are other cousins with the same name whom I hadn't spoken to in a very long time, and I had just been awakened from my not so fulfilled sleep. But when it did become clear who she was, the tears poured out. I was what my husband likes to call, a water fountain. I kept telling her to forgive me for not calling. How I wish I had. She said her father had been thinking of me, and kept saying, "Lulua hasn't called, why hasn't Lulua called?" It's been about four months since she passed away, and now his health is worsening. I spoke to him finally, and I couldn't help but start up all over again. "Please forgive me, (sniff, sniff)." They understood, but I would have thought the worst of me, had I been in his place. How could someone you expect so much from, disappoint you so. How could I? We spoke, and then he pauses, and says in a confiding tone, "I miss her so much, Lulua" A man, in his seventies, probably eighties, is telling me, one who was inconsiderate enough not to call him when his wife passed away, that he misses her. I can't help but want to buy a ticket right now to see him, especially, God forbid, anything were to happen to him.
Lesson:
Even if you don't know what to say, call.
Say you're sorry to hear of the news, and inquire after the loved ones nearby.
So, the results are out. I've won. But so did the other candidate. We both won. There was a re-election because of some candidates had some unfair publicity, and the third candidate did not accept the nomination to run for the position for which I ran. So there were two of us, for two seats available for that position. So, by default, we both won. Yay.
I'm not really all that disappointed. In fact, it was the opposite, I didn't have to pull friends to my side or anything, just took it easy instead. It was an easy win, AND now, I get to be a part of the student government for my 2nd semester. How exciting.
Yay. Thanks for supporting me peeps.
Okay, so I decided to run for Honor Council Representative for next semester beginning in Sept. The day of the elections, while I'm telling all my friends to vote for me, having not yet voted myself, I find out the people who typed up the ballot with the candidates names, misspelled my name. My closest friends didn't recognize: Lucua Mandviwala. I mean come on! Luckily, there was a glitch with the voting system, so they're redoing the entire election. I've re-nominated myself (I know), and this time I'm spelling my name out to everyone just in case they have a problem recognizing my first and last name. Hopefully the ballot people won't mess up my name again. But you never know. Now all my friends refer to me as Lucua, so I'm afraid some people I just met might really think my name is Lucua. haha. Oh well. Some of my friends said they voted for me just because they thought the name sounded exotic. Win-win situation, I guess.
We'll see how the election goes down this Friday.
Okay, it has been WAY too long since I've blogged. I don't even know where to begin. So, in lieu of having not written anything since I've come (when in fact I should have kept all of you up to date all this time on my new experiences) I'm going to start from now, and fill in the blanks if something spectacular comes to mind.
So, what am I up to right now? What are the things going through my head, at this very moment. Well, that I should be packing up my stuff from the library to head home in about 5 minutes. But besides the immediate stuff, I'm almost done with this semester. I can't believe it. I landed on April 23r, and now, it's already July 19th! Crazy. Less than one more month of school to go and then I'm home free. Almost. I like an idiot booked my ticket one week AFTER we get out thinking I might be able to handle all the logistics of finding a new apt, moving, etc (having never really to deal with that from semester/year to semester/year before)
I went from Bako home to apt in Atl, to getting married in same apt (more stuff now), to different apt mid semester with husband. So, I had never really had to deal with all that. Now I do, and I've realized that everyone takes care of that business mid semester, and leaves almost the same day as the final exam, if weather, space and Dominicans permit.
Anyway, I'm thinking, I hope I pass. I'm thinking, my friends are decent. The place ain't that bad. And I need to focus, and really kill these exams. I'm thinking, I need to learn this as if I'm going to be using it tomorrow. Because to a certain extent, (however much is actually applicable) I will be, in just one year, when Rotations/clerkships roll around. Most Carib schools are arounds about 2 years in the doing book work. Here at Ross, it's 1 1/2 yrs--16 months as most people like to think about it.
I do have to say, I was shocked by the number of brown people here. I mean, I see more light skinned folk in Pakistan. That's how many brown people are here. Yeah. But we're all the same. Born/raised in the US, and all shocked at how many of us "brownies" there are. There are a few that aren't born & raised, but they're sweet nonetheless. Just like in Ali G in da house, there are those that are "gangsta" desi, punjabi desi (doing bangra on their hike to and from the library), "oh my god , I broke a nail" desi, and nerdy fob desi. But the overwhelming majority are chill relaxed, unphased desis that really don't mind being desi, they don't SUPER embrace it, but they don't hate it either. If you ask them to listen to some old Juhi Chawla songs, they'll smile and say, "I remember the days when..." and tell some story that all of us relate to, saturday morning breakfasts in the US households, thursday morning in the Bahrain households, Friday morning in the Arabian households, they're mom and dad put on old songs and we'd all wake up to the music playing while mom made breakfast and dad read the newspaper. Same ol' story. And all of us say in unison "yeah, I remember that! The good ol' days."
Anyway, then we break our huddle, ending our break blocking the isles of the cubicles in the "icebox"--room in the libarary so cold everyone brings sweatshirts and fleece blankets to aid in their studying .
Okay, I have to head home, and do my little traditional routine of flipping through Netters index cards to review my anatomy that I've already forgotten on the hand muscles, thigh, leg, arm, and forearm, and back.
Anatomy, reminds me of a quote an Anatomy tutor spoke while holding a Scalpel and showing us some goodies. She said, "I was so scared, I almost dropped a scapula on my foot." Yeah. I switched my TA from then on.
Peace out folks.
I arrived at the San Juan Airport, got off the plane and walked guess what, it smelled like Pakistan. So much for a US territory. People here remind me of Miami, everyone is bilingual, and the older folks have an accent. The youngers seem chicano-ish...
But, yes, it smells just like Karachi. haha. 70 degrees. Humid. Raining. Sticky. and full of brown people. hahah. The only difference is that there are tons of white people roaming around in skirts and wrap arounds with elated smiles on their faces excited about their week long trip that's about to transpire.
I found the hotel where some people I met on Valuemd.org reserved a room. We're crashing in san Juan for one night and taking the 2 hr flight to Dominica together tomorrow afternoon. Fun. They're pretty chill. Not psychos--at least it seems. haha. Just kidding!
Anyway, we started discussing luggage and baggage requirements, and they apparently shipped 2-3 cartons to themselves from the states. Me? hahahah. Right. I'm waiting for the shipment from Raj Cha Cha of channa and assorted desi food sealed in aluminum packages. Right. Ma, the paratha and kababs, can be shipped as early as you like!
Anyway, I'll be living in a single bedroom dorm room at RUH (Ross University Housing) for the first semester. I'll add pictures later.
OOoooh. I forgot to take a picture, but I saw a PACMAN arcade game at the airport. How cool. Other than that, nothing new, all is well. And someone remind me to pick up a San Juan Bell before heading back for the states around August. Oh, wait, nevermind, Adnan already got me one. I'll just add this year and change it from 2002.
I haven't been Fooled by anyone on April Fools day in a long long time. I think the last time I remember any deviant behavior on April Fools was at BHS when we played a trick on our favorite Calculus Teacher, Mrs. Hall. I don't even remember what the trick was, but I just remember the image of Mrs. Hall holding her face with her chalky hands and smudging chalk that was already all over her clothes, onto her face & hair.
Anyway, today, on April 1st, my brother gives me a call and tells me that he received a phone call from a representative of the Medical School I will soon be attending. I acted pretty calm, because I did put down my brother as a reference. So, it wouldn't be too unexpected if he received a phone call or contact from Ross U. Then, my big brother tells me this crazy story that since he attended St. George's University (Ross University's rival--if you didn't know, they're the top two schools in the Caribbean), my file would have to be re-evaluated, and my acceptance may possibly be revoked. I would have to re-apply for the next term.
What? Unbelievable. Come on, Pshhhh.
Then I ask him, did they call over the weekend? He says, no, on Friday. I should have realized it then. If he really did receive a call like that, he wouldn' t have waited the whole weekend. He would have called me up immediately after hanging up. Shoot, I would have wanted him to put that Rep on hold, and 3-way'ed that crazy conversation.
Anyway, he suggests I contact my advisor and inquire after the matter.
All the while, inside I begin to sweat, even though I'm trying to play it cool on the phone (not) Oh, it must be a prank call, Adnan. I'll call my advisor tomorrow, and look into it. Shit, I just got through telling everyone here in ATL that I'll be leaving for school, and for them to feel the mehsoos of my absence. haha. We even already attended a "good-bye" dinner at a friend's place. Now what? Even if I wasn't going to school, now I'd have to go away for awhile, just to keep the momentum going. I was beginning to hear the best things about me! Talk about Narcissistic behavior. Leaving a place "for good" is a real confidence & self-esteem booster. Who would have thought? Plus, I love hearing good things about me, and my loved ones. I just glow-t. haha. Yes, that was a pun-ny attempt.
Anyway, within a minute and a half, I hear giggles from Bhabi (through the speaker phone..or other headset) an a big, "April Fool's!"
Golly jee. They got me good.
What?! Unbelievable! Come on, Pssshhhh.
What?! Unbelievable! Come on, pssshhh.
What?! Unbelievable! Come on, Pssshhhh.
What?! Unbelievable! Come on, Pssshhhh.
What?! Unbelievable! Come on, Pssshhhh.
What?! Unbelievable! Come on, Pssshhhh.
Did I tell you that Hasnain & I finally made a decision, I'll be heading out to the Caribbean for a year and a half for Medical School. Yup, I'm going. I'm heading out end of April, and am as excited a bunny. Those little furry suckers have a lot of energy under their fur.
Since I'll be gone for about a year and a half, and since Hasnain probably won't be in Atlanta for very much longer, this means I have to say my good-byes to EVERYONE here. SO, we decided to do all the things we said we'd do, but haven't done yet, now. We have four weekends, and everyone one of them is going to be packed with adventure. Okay, maybe not adventure, but loads of people.
So, we decided to invite some people over for dinner yesterday.
1-One couple is our very next door neighbor, who are Bangladeshi, whom we've barely spoken to except if we both happen to be entering/exiting our vehicles at the exact same time, nice, fun people. The husband is a CS PhD student at Tech, just like Hasnain, but for a different Prof.
2-Our other neighbor who lives one floor above and two doors to the left of us, is a lebanise physician doing his residency in ATL, cool guy. He handed us front row basketball tickets once for a game that had started 5 minutes ago, and we took it. The game was lame, unfortunately the Hawks suck, but it was a cool experience sitting behind the sports casters, and the coach and teammates. Having their sweat splash on you.
3- A Pakistani friend and his mom, since we'd never invited her, we thought what the hell, why not. This did add some pressure, she is an Aunty afterall, but she's was cool.
4-Hasnain's labmate, her husband and 2.5 year old child, Anova, too Cute! They're bangladeshi as well, and happen to be friends of our next door bangladeshi neighbors.
The night before I did nothing except lounge around, pick up the chicken breast, and confirm what it was I was going to be cooking, so that meant indulging in Rachel Ray's cook book!..Foodnetwork.
I had actually written this a long long time ago (2 weeks ago) and I already forgot what the point of it was, but it was a fun night, where we got to meet some really down to earth, funny bangladeshis..
Oh and, you pronounce the language as Bangali, like bun-gaal-i, not ben-gaal-i.
English mein kehthe hain ke I love you,
Gujrati mein kehte hain, mein tamne prem karu choon,
Bangali mein kehte hain, ami tamalo bhalo bashi,
aur punjabi mein kehte hain, teri to, mein tere marjavan, something someting something .. teri.
Yes, and we did some singing of course. Food was good. Company was great. And overall the night was a success.
Thanks nazrul maqam, you is the best.
Support me in the Walk for Autism.
I recently accepted the challenge of walking in the Walk for Autism fund-raising event. The Walk will benefit individuals affected by autism through funding programs and services of the Marcus Institute and Autism Speaks.
I am asking you to help by supporting my fund raising efforts with a donation. Your tax-deductible gift will make a difference. Together we can make a difference in the lives of individuals and their families affected by autism. It is faster and easier than ever to support this great cause - you can make your donation online by simply clicking on the link at the bottom of this message. If you would prefer, you can also send your tax-deductible contribution to the address listed below. More information on Autism Speaks, its programs and autism in general can be found at their website: www.autismspeaks.org. To learn more about how the Marcus Institute aids individuals and families with disabilities, visit www.marcus.org.
Any amount, great or small, helps. I greatly appreciate your support and will keep you posted on my progress.
Thanks!
Lulua
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For a person who was able to make it to mostly everyone's special occasions, ironically, I'm now going to not be able to make it to some of the more important and closest of family events:
In chronological order:
My in-laws visit to Amreeca.
My brother's daughter's 1st B-day party.
My husband's brother's son's graduation party.
My husband's graduation (IA).
AND
Our move to where-ever my husband gets a job.
These are events regarding people who are all with less than 0ne degree of separation from me and/or Hasnain. Literally. Hasnain's mom & dad. My brother. Hasnain's brother. Hasnain!!
On a positive note, at least I'm not missing out on any weddings.
2.5 years ago, we received a wall clock as a wedding present. This wall clock, isn't just any old wall clock, it's an ATOMIC clock; that is, the clock hanging above our TV receives a signal from the National Atomic Clock in Fort Collins, Colorado. Now, the beautiful aspect of this clock is that on days when there is a time change due to day light savings time, the clock changes time on it's own. That's right, when we wake up and check our side table time, it's one hour behind the "atomic clock" time. So, we know, something special happened today.
The weird thing is throughout the day, the clock resets to the previous (now incorrect time) throwing you completely off! And it does it all on it's own. This is an analog clock, so the hands literally start spinning clockwise (on it's own.) When the apartment is quiet, and you all of a sudden hear a vibrating noise, you follow the sound with your ear, and see that the clock is ALIVE!
Anyway, it'll happen one more time tonight, while it resets to the proper as based on the signal received from Colorado.
The first time we had friends over, we had to take the batteries out and have it reset in front of them for them to believe that the clock hands start rotating on their own. That was a funny scene. We should have video taped it. We're crazy-weird like that.
I cannot think of a time, where I had to make a decision on my own. I mean, I think I've always just followed everyone's advice, and just gone with the flow. I've never really had to go against the grain.
I know a few people who have, and I have MAD respect for them. It's hard. Just thinking about it gives me a headache. I quince at the thought of ever having to do it. But sometimes, it's necessary, as I've seen in some close ones. And not only do I have them on a pedestal, they're standing on it, with head high facing their loved ones as if they've conquered the world!
I kind of believe that. Once you've conquered the domains of yourself, what else is left to fear? Like Delphi said, "Know thyself."
Time closes in.
School rolls in.
A fog of anxiety casts a shadow.
I'm traveling to an exotic country, beginning an arduous adventure, my belly is fluttering with butterflies, and I can't calm my nerves. Right now, I'm positioned on the couch watching my breathing in a serene condition and yet, inside, processes are churning through tumultuous pathways. I'm excited. Scared. Hopeful. In Wonderment. What will our lives lead to next? Can I be successful at this? Will I be successful?
Sit down. Buckle up. And put your hands in the air and scream. Wide-eyed, jaw-dropping enthusiasm! Here we go. We're going to be in for a ride.
It's a good feeling to have someone be there with you throughout all this, that is, if I go.
So there is a slight possibility that I might be going back to school. It's been a "lifelong dream" that keeps evolving then returning to it's natural state every now and again, that is, to become a doctor.
It's funny, when I was single, I told my mom that she didn't have to worry about having to find me a guy, that's I would find him on my own, and basically indicated that it'd be a "love" marriage (in the colloquial manner we use it.) But, right after that conversation, as my cousin and I stayed up all night discussing our roles in life after we each had found our mystery men: younger bhabis, older bhabis, only bahus of the household, living with/without our parents, location, status, occupation, I ended up telling K. nonchalantly, that although I'm saying I'm going to find him on my own, I'd probably end up following the "match-made" path, through a type of arrange marriage. And guess what ended up happening? just that, an arrange marriage.
The same applies to my career aspirations. All my life, from before I can even remember, I've wanted to become a doctor, and as I've grown, and as I've molded into different roles in life, my aspirations have change. I no longer aspire to become a doctor, even though I may be leaving to attend Med school.
Instead, some of the things I wish for everyday is being a good wife, a good mother, and raising a good, healthy, and decent family.
I once had a deep conversation with E. about fears. My immediate response was that I feared raising children. No, I'm not pregnant; no, we're not planning in the super near future; but, at some point in time, when we do begin raising our children, I hope we do it right. I hope in the end, we make right decisions, that lead to helping our kids rather than hurting them in their future. By helping, I don't mean spoiling, in contrast, I mean teaching them to make roti, rather than buying the Malaysia Paratha packets for them (variation of the feed for a day/ feed for a life--rather than catch fish for them, teach how to fish.)
So, sometimes this dream of treating a portion of the pediatric population gets wiped off the slate and substituted by raising a portion of the pediatric population. I know the two are not mutually exclusive. Both are possible. My siblings and I are living proof. Even in dire conditions, with one guardian, it's possible. How can it not, with such a considerate and honorable partner like mine? Sometimes my thinking of him encourages me to try for the latter dream than the former. But, he makes me feel like it is possible to have an all-encompassing career and be a good parent and partner.
partners r parents. That's interesting.
So, I recently drove to work without actually consciously driving to work. I mean, I got in the car, and I really don't know what I was thinking about, and I don't remember making conscious decisions to turn here or there or to take this exit or that. I was on auto pilot. Is that possible? How can I not be wary of neighboring drivers? It was raining today, how could I not have noticed the rain, and have a heightened sense of awareness? I somehow knew it was raining. I had a waterproof jacket on and an umbrella in my hand. But how is it that 25 minutes could have passed completely undetected by my conscience radar?
I wonder if some people go through their lives on auto pilot? Like Adam Sandler's character did in Click? Do you think our mental state could be that disconnected from our physical presence? I guess that may be the point of 'daydreaming'. But the most known cases of daydreaming occur when the body is in an almost immobile state (e.g. sitting in class staring at the white board, lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, etc.) but not when you're actually performing multiple behaviors.
Maybe it is possible. Some can listen to music and study at the same time. Some can drive and talk on the phone (maybe not safely, but still without accident), and some can drive home and end up in a Walmart parking lot unphased, undisturbed, and completely at a loss as to what they came there for. I do know some people who have difficulty drinking a soda and walking, so maybe it's not the end of the world.
But, it's like putting the cereal box in the fridge and the milk gallon in the pantry, or throwing away the candy and putting the wrapper in your mouth. We perform these set of behaviors until they become automatic, and then we need someone to just put a quarter in us, and our contraption gets that jolt, and follows through until completion, unless prematurely interrupted. No I'm not referring to intercourse here, people! I'm referring to the ability for us to LEARN. Our neurons become stronger and stronger the more automatic sets of connections (or behaviors, or sequences) become. In essence, we're driven to become automatic.
Imagine if we had to re-learn the alphabet every time we wanted to write something. That would be nearly impossible. We had to automatize the alphabet, ingrain them in ourselves so that we may improve ourselves further. Is that how we reach enlightenment then? By automatizing our material world to a point where we are completely unphased by any occurrence, and only are aware of novel experiences in the spiritual or enlightened realm?
Does any of this make sense, or is it all humbug?
At work, I'm a Behavior Data Specialist. So, as a result of being at the bottom of the heirarchy, we are also given little chores to complete on the unit every week. Mine for the past two months was "shredding paper." Great. So, anyway, one of my co-workers filled me in on a little secret about these secret locked boxes, that are picked up once every month by a "shredding company." Yay. So, I reduced all my work to just picking up paper and dumping it somewhere else. Classic. Well, there are three floors to this building, and each floor has a little box. Now, I can't overload one box, the closest one to my office out of sheer laziness. I have to at least be considerate of the people who actually Need that box (plus, Beth told me to not fill up the box with the papers that I should be shredding myself, damn!) So, I slide a few through the cracks here and there and some upstairs in the Medical Records room too!
This entry mainly deals with the Med Recs Room's employee. I forgot her name. I'll call her Bob for now. So, Ms. Bob happened to be having a conversation with some other lady, Bill, about her favorite movies. And guess what, they all happened to be MY favorite movies too! hahaha. I started cracking up because I had no idea that anyone loved chick flicks the way I did. Woah. So we ended up having about an half hour conversation about chick flick movies and I told her about French Kiss, and While you were Sleeping, and First Knight, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, and all the rest. Man, she was on her way to Chick Flick Heaven when I started to describe them to her. Anyway, she trusted my judgement so much that she said she was going to go straight to the store to purchase the movies. And two weeks later, when I went in for my weekly (getting rid of the paper I'm supposed to shred myself ) duties, and Ms. Bob said she couldn't get enough of them. Vondervul.
I think we might start up a Chick Flick Club. Who wants in? I call President.
I haven't blogged in quite a while, and honestly, I just didn't have much to say. Or maybe I did, but just didn't want to put in the effort. Anyway, I'm beginning to feel like my old self again, and I thought, I'd start off this wonderful blogging experience again with a little account about our recent outing.
Oh, yes, before I begin, I realized when I was down and out of the blogging scene that I hadn't been blogging about personal stuff. I was always humorous and specific about things in my life that I really didn't mind people knowing about me. But I guess, I am much more conscious than I thought (that means it's a ridiculous quantity of self-consciousness floating in the air...) and I think it's about time, I spread it out and let you all see a piece of me that you may not be aware of.
I am generally not a very confrontational person (reminds me of the dinosaur in Toy Story!), so I'm mostly always in the middle on issues, especially because I usually don't have all the information about issues to be able to debate. I should have taken Debate class in HS. I suggest all students to major in English (or at least minor in it) and definitely take Debate in HS. It'll do you wonders no matter what field you go into. Being able to persuade people and defend your arguments in any environment where you have to deal with people is always a good thing!
Anyway, yes, finally
--Yard Sale--
I was sick again, this past weekend. I started feeling fatigued Friday afternoon after lunch, and realized exclaiming, "Oh, Erik you're so smart; Good job, Erik; Excellent workin'; Wonderful, Erik" was getting really tiring working with kids who were learning to respond appropriately to touching their cheeks, nose, the glue on the table, their own picture on the wall; autistic kids with language and learning disabilities. So, I took it easy, and gave him a lot more Spongebob than necessary. Good thing, Erik is a restless kid; it made for a good pretense to take him for a wagon ride every 5 minutes around the Marcus Institute unit.
Anyway, went home, called out sick on my evening meeting with our jamaat visitor from FL who had come especially to train the madrasah teachers on providing a positive and reinforcing environment for the children, and jumped into bed by 6pm, and was out until 8.30 am. Wow, crossed over into the next day. Had to call out the next day as well. But as I inhaled a few Ibuprofens (thank you CVS), I was feeling a little better, but still a little light headed and drinking tons of watered down OJ (home made flavored water--plus we were running out of OJ--making it easy for my hujband); I was evidently cleansing out my system.
By 12.30pm, I checked out Craiglist for fun, and found out that there were some Yard Sales going on. Yay. It had been ages since I had last yard saled. Or better yet, ever yard saled. The last time I went, I was about 18 years old and went with my mom's ex-co-office inhabitant's secretary, Laurie. She was so fun, cute, and peppy. Tons of fun. So, she's the one who taught me to yard sale.
Yard sailing (?) is an elaborate scheme. There's tons of planning that is involved. First, you have to figure out where the yard sales are occurring and when. Then you have to create a map, with a beginning and end, linking all the locations together.
Anyway, thanks to google maps, that was a breeze. They have this really cool feature that allows you to not only add on destinations, but to move them around in different orders, too. It's crazy cool.
So, I found a few within proximity, okay, not really, but hey with a driver, it ain't so bad.
This yard Saling trip was actually really cool for Hasnain too! The coolest thing by far, I think we both experienced was getting to go through all the cool neighborhoods and backstreets (+ without getting lost!) All these years (me = 3, Hasnain = 8), we had primarily stuck to the interstate. Going the back route is such a new thing for us, it's so much fun just taking the normal routes. We love checking out old neighborhoods, and just cruising pass houses that look either like mansions or like trailers IN THE SAME NEIGHBORHOOD. It's astonishing.
Anyway, We had tons of fun, and got some cool gadgets, and useful stuff. Hasnain picked up some ancient Lego set, and I picked up the game Pente that they played in "A Beautiful Mind" I always thought it was like Othello, but I guess a little different. It's addicting. Besides 1000 piece Puzzles and books, yard saling is mighty fun.
Anyway, this entry didn't turn out how I wanted it to, b/c I ended up finishing this on a different day than I started it, so there was a bit of a different flavor running through me. But, I'll come back.
oooh, that reminds me, if you were an ice cream flavor, what flavor would you be?
I think I'd be ..... hmm. I think I'd be Chocolate Chip. Generally just a plain vanilla, but every once in a while, I have a few surprises, that always stick out.
Be creative, you make one up, too!
