The Examined Life

The millions of sperm that were racing toward the egg as the frantic game of chance that would eventually be called "Jane" was happening. It was scary how close some sperm (an entirely different set of possibilities for future Jane) got, but failed, leaving one lucky little fragment of chromosome to fertilize the egg. Jane was conceived.

Her mother, Dora, was a healthy black woman. She had won the genetic gene pool lottery with her own set of incredible fortunes. Dora was smart, pretty, tall, slim, she had straight white teeth and a strong immune system. Her husband, Rodger, was an affable white male (also a winner of the gene pool) with a full head of hair, a deep voice, and broad shoulders. Both parents were wealthy and both lived in a first world country. Jane was not even born yet and through the unbelievably small routes of the endless possibilities, she beat out the other possible "Janes" or, even, "Joes" that could have been born to Dora and Rodger and quickly, and with healthy progress, grew in the womb.

Dora gave birth with little complications as she was in a hospital with well trained nurses and attentive doctors. Given all the possibilities of birth defects, the 1 out of every 100,000 births that could be disaster for some reason or another, the slip of a shaking hand to cause brain damage, the danger of an umbilical cord; Jane was born beautiful, a healthy weight of 7 pounds 6 ounces.

Jane grew up in a healthy family environment. Dora was attentive, Rodger was supportive and thoughtful. The schools in their first world were good and cheap and Jane was sent to learn without the fear of war or starvation. As Jane learned about her world she took for granted the amazing luck that dictated her a member of the elite 20% of humans on the planet who live above the poverty line, and in the top 15% of humans who live in a first world country. She read about the people in poor countries who starved, died of malnutrition, died in conflict, died due to curable diseases, and suffered daily due to a lack of clean water. Jane had no concept of what that felt like. She never knew what it meant to be really hungry or really scared; she had hot food every day, and clean sheets to sleep in.

As Jane grew into an attractive, healthy, smart, young woman she began, with impunity, to learn all the subjects she wanted to learn about. She studied philosophy, art, music, and writing. Because of the time in history she was born in she was not ridiculed or scorned for being half white or being a woman. Jane's good grades and supportive parents got her into a university that was well respected.

Indeed, as Jane got older, her possibilities seemed only to expand. She was good at everything she put her mind to. Jane's skills were strong and she graduated with top marks, landing her a job with a well respected company.

Every day, as she commuted via a well groomed public transportation system, Jane unconsciously avoided the endless deaths that could have killed her at any minute. The small miracle of crossing the street to her job, the police who stalked the streets for mad gunmen, the planes that didn't crash on to her, even the meteor that missed earth by hundreds of thousands of miles, all gave Jane another day to live as a well fed, educated, employed, single woman.

Jane had many interests. She loved going to concerts and watching her favorite band play. She enjoyed art openings, and loved museums. In her free time, Jane would volunteer for a weekend or two, to watch the children of poor families as they parents went to trade school. As time went on, incalculable possibilities added up as well. The odds that Jane would run into Tom while walking the child she was watching across the street were staggering. Tom didn't mean to be on that street, he was lost, and when he ran into Jane he was embarrassed and in a momentary lack of ego, asked directions to the building he needed that was no where near where he needed to be.

Tom was his own set of miracles. Born in a third world country in Africa, Tom's parents had struggled their whole lives to bring Tom into a place of health and security. Tom was born small, a tiny baby of 5 pounds 7 ounces due to his mother's lack of nutrition and food. The country Tom's family lived in was being torn apart by civil war and every day from day one was a struggle for him and his family. The odds of his mother being raped her high, his father being killed were higher, and Tom and his four sisters worked hard to make life bearable. Because Tom had the luck of being born male, he was able to apply for a visa to the first world that he now found himself in. Tom used every resource to get himself away from the embittered battle that his country was floundering in and get himself to the nirvana that was where he was so he could raise enough money to bring the rest of his family over.

Tom wasn't hit by a bus on his way over to that street he was lost on, Tom wasn't struck dead by a brain aneurism, Tom knew english due to an incredible amount of luck when he first got to the new country and met a volunteer teacher who agreed to help him learn. Tom had even taken a shower that morning (which he didn't normally do) and smelled great because he had a job interview to go to.

When Jane bumped into Tom she was startled by him. Jane was 26, and had dated many men. She spent long periods of time talking about men, she wrote journals about the man she wanted to end up with. And when her bag fell on the floor as she knocked into Tom while, in a strange set of circumstantial possibilities they were both looking in the opposite direction as they collided, she realized she had met someone special.

Across the city, this kind of circumstantial meeting was happening at different times and for different people. In a library, a mile away, strangers Kim and Joey met and began a life long relationship. Stacy and Lilly met in a line for a coffee and wound up becoming best friends. Bill and Kip met while sitting on the public transportation and were lovers that night. All these meetings, culminating in a relationship with a stranger, were the result of so many chances, so many infinite possibilities that could have failed, but didn't.

Jane, 15 years later, reflected on how amazingly lucky she felt to have had the fortune of all of life's chances in her favor. The odds of meeting Tom, her husband, to have lived as long as she had, to have the job she worked hard in, and the opportunities that felt like luck. It all seemed so magical that even in the momentary lapses of her life where she wondered what her purpose was and how she could really make herself and others happy, she remembered just how slim the odds were that she even existed, when decades prior, her entire existence was left to the race of a sperm fertilizing an egg. Life was incredible, and just as delicate. Perhaps the only reason it exists at all is due to unbelievable odds. Jane examined her sleeping son, Dan, and smiled at the thought that her life seemed so blessed.

American-Hyphenated

"So, you're saying that if we, hypothetically, decided to move to New Zealand and I became a citizen there, I'd still have to pay taxes to the US on what I earned in another country?" I asked in total shock.

Jackson scrutinized his phone and re-read the BBC article again. "Yeah, I think that's what they're saying." He answered, looking up at me. "And if I get my citizenship here, I'll have to as well."

I fumed as I leaned back into the couch. Do other countries do that? Or just Amurricah?

Jackson glanced at his phone again before musing: "How many Americans have passports? According to the article over 1,100 people gave up their citizenship due to the new tax laws."

Huh? How can you be born here in the U.S., live somewhere else, then decide that legally you don't want to be a citizen anymore? My mind blew apart with the idea. "Give up your citizenship? Just like that!?" I cried. "I was born and raised here in New York. I am American to the marrow of my bones, and in this day and age, I can move to another country and renounce my citizenship!? What the very fuck!?" Crazy!

Jackson looked at me with amusement, then said "Guess how many U.S. citizens have a passport? 115 million!" I chewed over the idea. Only a third of Americans have their passport...

"How many New Zealanders have theirs?" I asked.

"75%." Jackson responded. "Oh! And there are more Americans living abroad than there are New Zealanders in the whole world." Jackson laughed. "6 million Americans are living abroad and 4.5 million New Zealanders exist."

My mind was still reeling. "I could give up American citizenship if I am a citizen of New Zealand. I could say: 'I am no longer an American.' Even though: I am no matter what. How? How does that work? That's like saying I am no longer a white woman. I am. I will always be, even if I lived in another country for 30 years, I'd still be an American!" Jackson nodded. You'll always be a New Zealander no matter what. I thought, looking at my boyfriend and then thinking back to the conversation I had the night before with a buddy of mine. We were walking and talking about accents.

"My girlfriend's sister has lived in London for years and has a bastardized American-British accent and as much as she denies she's taken on the local accent, she kinda' has. But, she'll never be a fully accented local, she'll always have her American-isms. Also like British-Mike. He's been here for years, but still talks with an English lilt." My friend said. "No matter what, you'll never be full-on local. You'd be American-hyphenated."

I'd be American-hyphenated no matter what I did with my passport. "More things to think about if we decided to move." I told Jackson. He nodded.

"It's amazing to me that we're still defining ourselves by country." He responded. "People move around so much and will continue to do so. The concept will start to make less and less sense. "

Yeah... what about all the dual citizen babies out there? All the kids that will be born in the next ten years. How many of them will be dual or tri-citizens? How do you define where they are from!? That's an interesting idea. Maybe the concept of country vs. country will start to dissolve in the next few generations. I mean, Europe is already doing it. There are certain rules that the EU as a whole must abide by and there are still separate countries with separate rules, but the EU passport gets you mobility anywhere there. Why shouldn't the international community eventually adopt that idea? In which case, I guess the idea of taxes might be more universal? Or maybe more of a fair ideal? Who knows.

"Right you are." I said with as much of a New Zealand inflection as I could.

Help Desk

Hi. Can I help you?

Yeah. I'm looking for a clue.

Ok, we have a variety of those. Is there a genre you're interested in?

Um. I was leaning toward Grad School?

Ah! School Advice. That's a popular one. We have:
"Should I Go to School? Vol. 1-15"
"Liberal Arts Grad School and You: Advice on How to Get Poor Quick"
"Delaying Real Life For a Degree."
"My Parents Hate That I'm an Actor"
and "I Don't Know What Else To Do So I'm Gonna Go To School... Again." Do any of these titles work for you?

Yes. Actually. The "I Don't Know What Else To Do So I'm Gonna Go To School... Again." sounds like my cup of tea.

Ok. Just be forewarned: it's a how-to guide, not a "10 Commandments" kind of book.

Yeah, I just need a guide? I'm looking for a clue, not an answer.

Ok, great. Then I think this book will work for you. May I ask, what Graduate school program were you thinking?

An MFA in Creative Non-Fiction.

Oh, interesting! I think you'd do well with that.

You do? What gives you that impression?

You look like you have a lot on your mind. You look smart. Your family values education, and your boyfriend already has a second degree, no?

How do you know?

You also write a lot, a blog, and you read a lot, and I'll bet you constantly say to yourself: "I could have written that better."

...Yes. I do.

Don't get me wrong, but I think this is a bit of a no-brainer.

Like, you're saying I should go to grad school and get an MFA in writing? And spend 2 more years in New York City and take on debt for a seemingly innocuous degree?

You used the word "Innocuous" in that last sentence: I think that says it all. You've got talent that your mother says you've possessed since you first learned to put pencil to paper. You'll thrive with the training.

But, this book? This'll help me get a clue, right?

I don't think you need a clue, Natalie.

Who are you?! How do you know this about me?

I'm just the lady behind the Help Desk counter of your sub-conscious, Natalie. I've always been here, and always will. You can take the book if you want, but I don't think there's anything in there you don't already know.

Wow. Thanks. I'll... Give this some real thought.

Okay! Come back if you need more advice or more clues!

Well, actually? Since I'm here... I was looking for a clue about long-term international relationships with members of the opposite sex.

Great! I have a bunch of those... looks like you could use a few.

How to Move in

The 10 step guide: How to Move in to Your New Place.

Step 1:

FREAK OUT!

Step 2:

Calm yourself. Take some deep breaths. Call your mother.

Step 3:

Have Mom and some friends over and watch, in a slight stupor, as they pick up your life and move it somewhere else.

Step 4:

Go on vacation with a friend for a week and a half. Forget about how upside down everything is for a while.

Step 5:

Go back to your new address from your break and FREAK OUT.

Step 6:

Do some thumb sucking, slink around pulling on your baby blanket, and then start throwing stuff out.

Step 7:

Begin unpacking. Wipe down furniture. Move couches around. Drill holes to hang pictures.

Step 8:

Tell yourself: "This is my new home." And repeat.

Step 9:

Spread the word! The new place is wonderful and you all should come see it! (When it's finished...)

Step 10:

Come back after a long shift at work, trip on your own pair of shoes that you left by the door, then sigh with relief when you lie down in what now feels like your own bed.

This is what home feels like.

Seattle

We stood on the pier and watched how the clouds hugged the mountains in the distance. The grey sky hung low, giving the impression that the sun had disappeared and gone somewhere far away to shine on smiling faces. I felt gloomy. The grey bay looked cold, the seagulls looked tired, the dark green of the firs stood in silent witness, and I wanted to leave. I leaned over the side of the damp stone wall and stared at the horizon knowing somewhere the sunset must be having a brilliant show that I couldn't see. I looked over at my friend, Jen, who also looked somewhat forlorn. Day 7 of our West Coast trip had landed us on the edge of Seattle with nothing but clouds to greet us. I shivered, feeling autumn prematurely and thinking of how warm a sun ripened apple, fresh off a tree, would feel compared to this.

There were a flock of birds twisting around the sky above our heads, their choreography simple and beautiful as they swooped in and out of formation. I watched them for a while, letting my mind wander.  I thought of how this trip may be the last one I take as a single unit, thinking to the plans I have in the future with my boyfriend. I thought of the friends I have back home I haven't seen in a while and wondered how they were. I thought of my family and how I was here without them. To my left a ferris wheel circled, its slow and steady movement a metaphor for a clock that reminded me of how much older I felt despite only turning 26 a few days ago.

Then, as if Jesus Christ stood up suddenly from the earth, the clouds ripped open over the ridge of the mountain peaks and a crack of the brightest orange-pink I had ever seen shot toward me. The entire horizon erupted into a golden pink, the like I had never seen before. The grays and blues of the bay were transformed and I was standing at what looked like the entrance to Candy Land. There were big blobs of whipped cream clouds, frothy dollops of ice cream covered with strawberry glaze, mounds of chocolate, sticks of peppermint, and a healthy dose of melted caramel. I jumped up and down and pointed. "Look! Look at the sun!" Excitedly, I raised my phone up to my eyes to capture the wonder (because who would believe I found the entrance to Candy Land?) and my phone squinted its eyes and said it couldn't take a photo.

I looked over at Jen who was having the same argument with her camera. She looked at me and sighed.  "There's no way we can capture that on these." She said. I nodded. I smiled, the sun changing the face of the entire world. We both looked out again at the blazing spectacle and stood there until the pinks began to turn purple. I looked up at the birds again, still busily swooping around. The air felt wet and chilly again. I hugged my arms for warmth.

"Lets go back to the Hotel." I suggested, looking back at Jen. She nodded and we turned to leave the waterfront. I wish I knew a better way to capture Seattle, I thought as we climbed up a flight of steps to street level. On the way back to hotel, I looked at the people on the street and then realized they all must have had a small glimpse of the beauty we saw to use as succor when the nights are cold, damp and gray. Huh, cool. I thought. But, I can't wait to get back to a place that has more sun than that.

The Blast-Off to Mugu Beach

People are walking fast, then slow, then there are tourists who don’t seem to be walking at all. The buildings that surround the street like a canyon are all flashing bright signs that move and wiggle causing even the most dedicated foot watcher to look up every so often in the anticipation of some pepsi can falling on their head. Looking down 7th avenue, the giant buildings crowd themselves to the sides of the street for what looks like miles, giving the impression that my tiny body is as significant and fragile as an ant; passing along like the other ants in a desperate rush for food, water, and a place to shit. 

There are moments, however, that I look up at the sky instead of the din of mid-town and see the sunset. The bright gold of the sun splashing across the windows and glinting its way down to street level. The light is so bright, that even the neon billboards are paled in comparison: muted in a reverence to the holy light of nature. The sky becomes purple, pink, crimson, and orange; and the dark spires of the tall sky-scrapers are lit up by the spectacle, looking more like a work of art by contrast than the scary spikes of a pig pen. 

It is in these moments that I wish I could somehow plant jet packs to the bottom of my feet and blast off of the face of the earth and follow the sun. I imagine myself pushing a button and growing the jet packs, then looking around in distaste at all that is around me, before crouching into a jump position and, within seconds, I’m atmosphere bound. The earth would fall away from my feet like I was scrolling off a page in google earth. I’d watch as where I had once been becomes small and the sun rises from the horizon to greet me, and then I’d turn west. 

Last night I sat on Mugu beach outside Los Angeles and congratulated myself on a job well done. The earth had fallen away that day and I had left New York in perfect timing to see the sun rise over Manhattan, then set over the endless Pacific. Sitting still to the sound of the rocks being raked against the sand, the wet air from the ocean spray had made me chilly, so I was wrapped in a towel snacking on raw carrots and sugar snap peas and wondering how I got so lucky. 

Miley Cyrus

My jaw dropped. Out came Miley, slinking her way down a giant teddy bear, wearing a one piece teddy-tard (instead of leotard) with a bear's face that looked like he'd just swallowed acid and was tripping balls. Miley didn't look too far behind, wagging tongue and rolling her eyes as she bounced around on stage at the MTV Video Music Awads (VMA's) screaming: "Let me hear you make some noise!" I wanted to make noise, but couldn't find words to express the sickening feeling in my gut.

What must have been millions of dollars, months of work, hundreds of people coordinating, and years of talent and experience (I'm talking the back-up dancers and stage managers who managed to pull this off) seemed to fizzle into the obnoxious gyrating of a buttless, entitled, 20 year old. I felt totally sorry for the people who were paid vast sums of money (yet not nearly as much as Miley must have gotten) who were there to witness the tacky and tasteless spectacle of a song-we've-already-heard-a-million-times get played yet again by a now even more naked Miley who ripped off the weird teddy-tard and opted for a tight, gold, spandex, bathing suit.

Then: as if the performance couldn't get more ridiculously stupid, another artist came on in a 70's style black and white suit, singing out of key, only to have the now nearly naked Cyrus bend over and rub her tiny butt on his balls. Oh yeah: fluffy, forgettable, entertainment at its styrofoam peak.

I stared at the screen long after the clip was done, wondering what I should think about all of what I just saw. My feminist side was screaming: "That just set us back by 20 years!"

My intellectual side screamed: "That whole thing said nothing but a 'big booty-big booty' song and a back-with-buns white chick just humped a man twice her age; where's the originality!?"

My young, 20-something side said: "Can't wait to see how Buzz-Feed will rip her a new asshole for that piece of hot, steamy trash"

More than anything, though, I felt deeply confused. Every year we've got songs, movies, ads and messages passed around about how to promote education, equality, respect for other humans, etc. Then, as if hurling a massive hot turd in the face of all of that, a Disney created princess (Miley Cyrus was originally a teeny-bopper 'you-go-girl!' chick back in the early 2000's) turns into a bleached, garlic-knot-haired, sex fiend whose sole purpose is to suck on the balls of trashy pop and give clearly misguided advice to young women about how to dance with the guy singing badly behind you while performing at a concert.

Did she win, however? She got me riled enough to write a post about her crotch-grabbingly bad performance. Isn't that the point, after all? Bad press is still good press, when you need views and can get people watching. And talent doesn't have to be present in the performer: all the hundreds of people it took to make Miley the lead are the real winners, having created a show so bad it'll be talked about for weeks; maybe even making its debut in a SNL sketch.

I just hope, sincerely, that my generation can watch something that atrocious and think: "Hilarious! Stupid! Can't wait to make fun of that hot bag of garbage!"

Instead of: "Where can I get a gold bikini like that? And that guy need to get his tiny penis right in between my sweet buns."

Gross.