Starting to Warm Up to Me

Washington, DC. It ain't so bad. Even if it did swallow up my bike. I had a great time seeing the Dirty Projectors on Wednesday. The music was just what I needed, and Angel Deradoorian is such a dreamboat. Sench says its just her new haircut that makes her lovely, but truly, she is a hipster Audrey Hepburn. I was quite charmed by the whole experience.

Currently, I am at Busboys & Poets, and was slightly taken aback by their diligent and friendly service here. They sit you down and bring you your coffee, with no requests necessary to have it in a mug. Its the cafe-dining equivalent to having the door held open for you by your date. Compare this to weekday exercises in avoiding starbucks and places like au bon pain. At this point, I just come off as neurotic, so hard it is for me to enjoy a cup of coffee without a guilt trip. That is why I carry teabags.

In other news, Fuck Yeah, people of Burma! Finally, the Burmese people and their religious leaders have had it and are taking things into their own hands. While I am hopeful of the potential the recent demonstrations, I have little faith that international institutions will be of much help beyond the symbolic, especially with China and its interests in keeping the junta in power. Its been such a long time coming for the country, and the momentum continues to build. Bush, with urging from his ever insightful wife, has gotten tough on the country, but much like many things in this administration, its been too little to late. We know from experience that economic sanctions have not worked in the country, only to provide an American scapegoat to their economic and political oppression of the Burmese. And while Bush is trying to demonstrate that the administration wants to promote democratic nations around the world, not just those that contain that Mid-East oil brand, his gestures up to this point have been near non-existent, and are now more vocal variations of the same diplomatic speak. Clearly, it is the Burmese who hold their destiny, and they are taking it and moving forward, while the world watches.

What happened?

When did postcard stamps become 39 cents? That is only two cents than sending a damn letter! I am only 21, but I can sit here in my grandpa sweater with a bitter frown and type away about how I can remember when you could get a postcard stamp for 20-some cents or less, goddamit.

Oh, its getting late. I better send a few emails and facebook messages before I hit the hay.

At some point, I will start acting like a student...

I walked down to Chinatown to pick up Shaen and to beginning a long weekend of playing hostess, wishing I had a bike to make the streets roll past me. DC's Chinatown is nothing more than an attraction, where I was surprised to find on my first week not even a market or discount clothing stores. Instead, its a block or two of Asian restaurants and liquor stores. But that is where my friend's Chinatown bus from NYC was going to drop her off, and that is where we started our weekend.
Thursday I lost my DC bike, and on Friday evening, Jawuan calls me up to tell me that my mountain bike in Ann Arbor got stolen, too! Argh! I suppose this would be the time to reflect on a life lesson centering on the motif that shit happens everywhere, not just in DC. But no, I think I am damn cursed. I refuse to think it is bad karma stemming from the adoption of Ludovic. I DID NOT STEAL HIM. It must be some other unrelated manifestation. Don't take me as religious, karma is just a term I culturally appropriated for my superstitious tendencies.
Any, things started to suck a lot less. Shaen provided us with cinematic entertainment of the highest Sapphic order, and the next day we were shameless tourists. I wore my narcissistic shirt to demonstrate this, and if I had a fanny pack, you know I would have rocked it. We visited a few of my favorite places, like the botanical and sculpture gardens. We also saw some paintings, she just loved Edward Harper and his depictions of isolation!



And, dare I say, we actually had fun at the dyke bar! But I jump ahead of myself, because there was the pinnacle of our tourist day, a trip to the zoo.

We wandered around with our friend Jane Claire for a few hours, expecting to see all the animals the zoo boasted to have. I thought early evening was the time when all the creatures came out to play, but we and the many tired parents with crabby children came only to be stood up by the monkeys, zebras, even the damn invertebrates. But we did see THE PANDAS!!! That is what the National Smithsonian Zoo is known for, hosting the first Panda birth in captivity, after all. Even if all the other animals are a no-show, or what I reckon to be non-existent, you have plenty of Panda observing. So damn cute, even when they are being unabashed exhibitionists, those bears.

The next day, after having a magical time at the dyke bar, we ventured into Georgetown. The neighborhood is a bit unreal to me, although I did stumble across the Mongolian embassy. As some of you may already now, as a child I submitted an application to have a Mongolian pen pal, because I wanted to talk to someone from a sparsely populated region, much like my own. I never got the hook-up, but I have had a sweet spot for the country ever since. Now I have a reason to go back to Georgetown. Shaen convinced my lazy self to go on a canoe ride on the Potomac, which was pretty picturesque, and we both agreed that it would have been ideal if we were actual lovers.

And now, I am back to the working week. I have accepted that I traded in insanity for monotony, but it is no use to regret. Perhaps some people would choose dealing with assholes all day versus less-than-satisfying internship chores, but after tasting both, I prefer the latter. The change in work environment has had other affects, most notably my gender expression. While working at Kucinich's office, I reveled in wearing a pencil skirt and heels, and wore a special low cut number for the day I planned to quit the internship. At the new place, I work alongside a gaggle of girls who could double as J.Crew models (another bonus of the switch, if you ask me), and who always wear the cutest feminine work clothes. I can't compete, nor do I want to, really. So instead, I embrace my inner dandy and rock vests, slacks, scarves, and suspenders. Hooray!

man, fuck this town.

I know I said I was going to forget about it, but while cruising the bike posts on craigslist, I found a $25 Free Spirit that I had to have. I fell in love with Free Spirits when I was working at boys camp a few years ago, and they had a spare one that we could ride around the campus. I have a distinct memory of rolling down the dirt road on a sunny early summer afternoon, wishing to never let the feeling past, and admiring the beauty of the bicycle. I couldn’t resist the chance to have a blue free spirit while living here. The world is so much more alive when you are on a bicycle. You could be in a total shithole of a place, having the shittiest day, but a bike ride, especially at night, will pick you up. And in a city that I have yet to warm up to, and don’t know if I will ever feel at home in, it seemed like a lovely bicycle was in order to make DC seem right.

The bike was mine as soon as I could make it out to the Virginia suburbs, some 30 miles away. My friend Liz was willing to drive me out and store the bike on her rack. The night we drove out, it was pouring rain, and we got lost in shopping-complex America an exit or two before the one we were suppose to take. We tried putting the bike on in the rain, and before we hit the highway, it fell on its side on top of the car, and we had to shove it into the trunk and got soaked in the process. We still had fun though, and even if the fall fucked up my bike, I managed to fix it. I rode my bike to my new internship, which made my already shorten commute a blink. Was I falling in love with a Free Spirit? Quite possibly.

After our first night of what was going to be an affair to remember, I looked down at my Free Spirit from the 6^th floor, and said goodnight to Rusty Blu. I woke up the next day to repeat the same gesture of admiration, and looked down to find…nothing.

Rusty Blu!

I ran outside to see that someone had taken my Free Spirit, which I locked to a parking meter. I didn’t know what else to do but call the police, but they could not do anything to bring her back to me. I walked to work late that day, and felt a pain of loss and jealously when others rode pass me with their two wheels. With my lonely, broken heart, I thought, “everyone has a baby but me.”

This city, what else will it take from me?

Yuppie peer pressure

Today was the first day of my new internship at the Center for U.S. Global Engagement. To sum it up quickly, I am so fuckin' happy to not be taking any more calls from angry liberal and conservative citizens. The heaviest burden has been lifted from my weary shoulders, and now I walk with a pep in my step while whistling a jaunty tune. You have no idea.

How odd it is, on a day like today, that I break one of my strongest habits. I purchased something at Starbucks! What happened, all those who know (and are constantly inconvenienced by) my boycott of the corporate coffee chain may ask?

The people at the office are so much more friendly and helpful than the party I parted with on Friday, one girl even invited me out to an afternoon coffee run. When she said it was going to be to Starbucks, I immediately said no, but thought that I came off as anti-social, and wanted to continue the conversation we had been having. I changed my mind and agreed to go with her, realizing that it was not the time in our relationship or proper protocol to agree to go get coffee and either explain away why one hates Starbucks while the host of the informal outing purchases a cup; or to go there and not order anything and create a similar awkward situation. So I threw more of my ideals to the wayside and drank some sweet tea from a plastic cup and straw. This may not seem like a big deal, but it is. I don't think I have ever purchased anything from Starbucks, and I may have started something I can't stop. What is next, a daily grande latte? Lusting over a SUV? Wal-mart?

Stay strong, Dana, stay strong.

"I recall the experience sweet and sad"

The Answer Coalition organized a march on Washington, starting in front of the White House to the Capital, yesterday. How could I pass up the opportunity?

It was hopeful to see the masses of people gathering to raise consciousness about ending this war, and connecting it to other struggles, from Palestine to Darfur to Katrina. I was also happy to see more than the typical segment of young liberal people, with people from all generations and backgrounds gathered around Lafayette Square, including a strong representation of veterans against the war. But there were some sights and patterns that were disturbing at the march, and played a major part in my personal reflection of the experience and my generation's role in maintaining this war.

Walking around and observing the people at the march, especially my peers, I noticed a strong tendency to appropriate the 60s as a means of fashion, identity, and direction in life and ideology. People my age painted peace signs on their cheeks and wrote Jimi Hendrix and John Lennon quotes on their flower child clothes, and started up choruses of "Give Peace a Chance." In juxtaposition, a band on stage sang original anti-war anthems for the Iraq war, but they just didn't have the same punch. There is an appeal to the 60s, whether it is the hopeful idealism, or the music, aesthetic, or drugs that draw people in initially, it still holds a strong presence in liberal/progressive/activist circles, even among people who were born decades after its heyday.

While I sympathize with those who draw on the 60s for the reasons mentioned above (goddess knows I had my own patchouli oil wearing and Dylan/Hendrix listening phase), there are potential problems with people investing too much of themselves in eras past. Yes, one can draw many similarities between the Vietnam War, an event that drove much of the character of the decade liberals love so much, and the current Iraq war. But what made our parent's generation so passionately against the war? The draft. In essence, there was not anything particularly special about that generation compared to ours, they just stepped up to the plate when people other than those who go to war now (the working-class, minorities) were forced into dying for a bogus cause. By idealizing the 60s, we fail to analyze and critique it so we can learn from its mistakes, and evolve as a culture, movement, and nation. We also sacrifice the chance to create our own original era, with our own culture, hope, and anthems. Perhaps that is a pitfall of the post-modern perspective entrenched in our jaded hearts: being original is impossible, so we must look to the past and make a patchwork quilt of ideas and images to offer to the present.

I expect more from our generation than this. Perhaps we have yet to experience the traumas that generations past felt, tragedies that will define and shape us. We had 9/11, but that was co-opted before we could make it into something more meaningful than jingoistic propaganda. Who knows what it will take for us to create our own collective consciousness and impression in history, but we aren't going to change anything if we keep rehashing the same old ideas and tactics. Looking back at the past can be an exercise, an inspiration, or a reference, but it has to be done with the intention of going forward. We can march all we want folks, but the people who call the shots have demonstrated over and over again that they are not going to stop what they are doing. We need to gather, to see that there are many of us, but also to exchange ideas of what to do next to reach our goals. That was what was seriously lacking at the march, concrete discussion, organizing. Maybe the old rules are unable to apply now, perhaps, in a time of seemingly unshakable apathy and hopelessness, is the time for the new. Vision, ideas, action. Will it be us who lead it? Who else will?

Internships: Slave Labor with Resume Building Potential!

During the same lunch date where I bit into a pepperoncini and its juice squirted across the table and could have burned an unfortunate eye of someone if they were in my line of fire, I learned the true circumstance of my intern position on the hill. Of course, I did not need someone else to tell me that my work sucked and was far from the "intensive research" opportunity that I had signed up for, but my friend Becca, who interned for a Senator when she was my age, broke it down for me.

"You are a staff assistant. You just aren't getting paid for it."

What is a staff assistant? Why, it is the person who:
-takes calls, and the verbal abuse that comes with them
-organizes mail and faxes
-gives tours of the capital, in heels
-uses the IQ system to produce constituent mail responses and helps stuff them

Thats me!


To think I could be paid for all of this! Sure, sometimes they throw me a bone, like updating a response letter or writing a congressional record (on a deceased marijuana rights activist, no less!), but it doesn't hide the fact that I am an unpaid staff assistant under the title of an intern, and I have to have a different colored ID pass because of it. And part of me did take comfort in leading a tour for two good-hearted Northeast Ohioan women through the capital, where we discussed "the Bucks" and perogies, which they called "very ethnic." Oh, Ohio, you are just the limit!

Needless to say, I am moving on to a greener lawn than this hill gig.

The tragedy of this whole affair is that I never even got to meet the Honorable Dennis Kucinich, between his trip to Syria (which created a hell for all the interns in his presidential campaign and congressional office), campaigning, and what have you, was never at the office when I was. The closest I got to having contact with Elizabeth was talking to her on the phone, where I immediately recognized her accent and had a flutter of celebrity crush, only to be instructed in her kind but crisp voice to transfer her to the press secretary. Oh, Elizabeth, you are so cruel! All I wanted was a photo-op with you and your husband...and months of opportunities to talk to you about our shared religious studies background and hair and peace and be your personal intern and...sigh. I am such a sucker!

I also wanted to snag a copy of Hustler with Kucinich's name on it, but now that I have inside connections, perhaps I can still get that souvenir, at least. But I can't help to think that even that would be a small consolation to my brief time in the office. All I have now is a complimentary letter opener and some post-it notes. So much for that endeavor, but I will still keep my eye out for a short over-the-hill man and his taller and elegant red-haired wife while I am here. I will have my camera ready.