A rasin in the sun

My Grandfather died yesterday. He was 95 years old.

We've known this was coming for a while. He's been in and out of hospitals and rehabilitation centers since March. March. March was a turning point, when it was discovered that he had colon cancer. The cancer was removed, and he was sent on his merry way, sent home, but this time with a home nurse to check on him and a nice young woman who came and cooked meals for him on the weekends. Things we'd been asking him to do for years, things he didn't want to do. Too expensive, too many people. Too much to handle.

And he was fine, for a while. He'd lost a lot of weight, in the hospital, but considering his previous resemblance to Humpty Dumpty, this was not necessarily bad. He had an occupational therapist who came to do strength exercises with him, things we'd been telling him to do since he stopped going to cardiac rehab. Too expensive, too far away. Too much to handle.

He kept losing weight, kept being tired. But he was 95, and his body had been stressed by the cancer and surgury. This was normal, right?

The cancer came back. Had it ever gone? Spreading. It had spread to other parts of his body. Couldn't be removed. Too much to handle. He had 6 months.

His 95th birthday party was in June. When I saw him, in the hallway of his condo building on June 11, he had indeed lost a lot of weight. He was leaning on a walker, but I could tell he hated it. Too much like being helpless, something he had never wanted. He told us his OT had said he could have a cane now, so we went to the drugstore and got him one. Had he lied? It didn't matter. He didn't want a walker at his party. He was 95. We did what he wanted.

The party was at the same place as his 90th had been, Allgauer's on the Riverfront, in the Northbrook Hilton. Everyone was there. His friends from his building. The boisterous little old ladies he played poker with, who told me he owed them 67 cents. His friends from the library where he had volunteered for many years. Family. So much family. My cousins, their children, their parents. I think we all knew.

Poppy with the great-grand kids at his 95th birthday party, June 12, 2011

This wasn't just a birthday party. Sure, it was that, celebrating the fact that this funny old man, grandfather of three, great-grandfather of five, poker player, armor restorer, jeweler, traveler, was now 95. But it was more than that. As my father reminded me a few days later, this was his wake. He wanted to be there, with everyone, for the last time. We all knew.

My father is, was, is his only surviving child. He also had a daughter, my father's older sister, the mother of my cousins, Ailene. I never met her, she died before I was born. I was named for her, though. A for Ailene, A for Andrea. My mother was lobbying for Olivia, but Andrea, A for Ailene, won. As my grandfather's only surviving child, my father visited him roughly every other month, monthly towards the end. We aren't big on emotions in my family. This was probably hard on him to do, to visit so often and watch his father fall apart, but it was never discussed. Like so many things. If you don't say it, it does not exist. Never, never discuss.

The question, no longer being when, was how. When we knew: soon. How was the mystery. Would it be the cancer, or his heart, his heart that had been failing for years. We always thought it would be his heart, but now there was the cancer. No one knew. We could never know. Will never know? It doesn't matter, knowing. It changes nothing, in the end. It matters not how you go, you're just gone. Gone. Gone forever, never to be discussed. We never discuss. Like my grandmother. Never, never discuss.

And so he was in the rehab center again. The nurse was concerned, and called my father. He got a one way ticket to fly out. Several days later, after my mother bugged him about it, he called me. Soon he said. It could be tomorrow, or it could be two weeks from now. Soon. Did I have any questions? No. What was there to ask? We never discuss, there was nothing to be discussed. Nothing to say. The next time he called, he said, would be because Poppy was gone, gone forever. Gone.

He called the next morning. I knew. Saw the name on the screen of my phone, and knew. Gone. Just gone. I picked up the phone, and that's what he said. Gone. Did I have any questions? No, no questions. What was there to ask? Gone forever, never discussed. Did I want anything? I mentioned that I had always like the silverware, it was special, for special occasions. It felt wrong to say. My father scoffed. Why did I want that? It was just plate, not the real thing. The wrong thing to say. It was special, it had memories, that was all the value I needed. And yet it felt wrong, wrong to ask, wrong to say.

And now he's gone. I have photographs, and memories, but those will all fade. I don't remember much of my grandmother, and eventually I won't remember much of him, either. Gone, just gone.

Yesterday, all day, over and over, in my head, was A Raisin in the Sun. We read it in sophomore English in high school. I don't know why I remember it, but I do. Over and over, in my head.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun?
Does it fester like a sore, and run?
Does it stink, like rotten meat,
Or crust and sugar over, like a syrupy sweet?
Does it sag, like a heavy load,
Or does it explode?

Bang. Gone.

This didn't sink in for a while. Gone. What is gone? This man I saw once or twice a year, gone. Did this change things? It must. Gone. Gone how? Just gone. What changed? One less airplane flight. No more afternoon puzzles on hot, thunder-stormy days. No more five o'clock cocktail.

No more letters.

That was it. No more letters. I wrote him every Friday, and got a response back sometime during the week. No more letters. I mailed one on Friday, as usual. Saturday, he was gone. Will never get that letter. No more letters, not ever. No more discussions. Don't discuss, never discuss.

I miss you Poppy.

Lots of Love,
Andrea

Elmer Hulman, May 8 1916 - September 24 2011

Little Girl in a Big (Boys') Lab

Ok, so stop me if you've heard this one before. So, scientists are mostly guys, right? And the particularity mathy ones (Physics, Programming, Engineering, etc) even more so, right? So, they're, you know, all kinda awkward around girls and stuff, right? Oh, stereotypes, you're so funny and so often wrong.

In my scientific career, I have found the ideas both of "scientists are men" and "male scientists are awkward with girls" to be flat out wrong. Sure, most scientists, at least in the aforementioned mathy sciences, are male. But "most" only requires a simple majority. Were there more boys that girls in my AP physics class? Absolutely. But you know what? The girls got the highest grades. Not only that, but no-one cared. I was never treated differently then any of the other students in that class. And neither was Aimie or Rianne. If anything, the three of us picked on Justin, the only boy "brave" enough to sit with the three of us.

In college, the same has been true. There are both men and women in my classes, and no-one really cares. Interestingly, of the four physics majors in my year, three are female. And yes, we feel slightly patronized sometimes, but when the entire department is either male or temporary/pregnant that's a bit inevitable. I am of the opinion that my advisor is slightly patronizing of everyone, regardless of gender, and have observed this to be true. I don't feel particularly put upon by being a woman. If anything, the administration of my college seems to discriminate against me for being a scientist, the @*&^O$*s (oh, I'm sorry. That was completely uncalled for, especially as I am a polite young lady that certainly doesn't know what that word could possibly mean. I also major in something vaguely useless, like studio art or English, and will likely marry a rich husband and donate lots of money to the college). Anyway, the point is that I have never encountered any sort of difficulty in the scientific community based on having two X chromosomes.

The awkwardness thing is a bit overblown as well. Are scientist awkward? Sometimes. I myself am certainly not the most socially graceful in the world.  But there is a difference between the gawky, uncomfortable people you see on television and the ones you meet in real life. Are Mudders awkward? Certainly. But speaking as someone whose rooommate slept with an entire dorm's worth, they clearly aren't that bad. Several I know think that I'm strange. And I'm not the one at an engineering college. So the whole awkward, nerdy scientist thing? Highly exaggerated.

Stereotypes people. They're often wrong, and embarrassingly so. They might be based on some long ago truth, but aren't necessarily true now. For the one's I've mentioned, there doesn't seem to be much basis.

That was then, this is OH MY GOD A GIRL JUST WALKED INTO THE COMPUTATIONAL PHYSICS LAB!!!

Imagine my joy at this reception.

Oh, it was silent, of course. But that's part of how I knew it was happening. By the time the door had swung shut behind me, the sounds of frantically typing fingers and whispering groups had completely ceased. If the Higgs Boson had suddenly walked into the room and introduced itself to everyone, it would not have had a more shocked reception. I could almost hear the code compiling.

And so, with several dozen pairs of eyes on me, I walked across the room to a computer, sat down, and logged in. Opening up my files, I ran over them once before attempting to compile and tackling a small mountain of errors. Around me, life started to return to something approaching normal. The hostility, on the other hand, remained very apparent. There was probably more whispering and less typing, but I didn't care. I had a null pointer exception to track down.

What makes this so fascinating is the fact that I have been going to this lab at least once every week for the past nine weeks. Admittedly, this was during my class's specific scheduled lab session. There are two other girls in my class, and things had never been awkward like this. The difference: I was here two hours early, trying to get some work done beforehand. As time went on, several of these highly uncomfortable gentlemen looked at their watches, got up, and left. By the time it was two o'clock, there were three other people in the lab. At this point, people for my lab session started coming in, and life returned to normal.

For the first time in my life, I've been treated as some sort of horrible unwanted intrusion. It wasn't nice. Is it enough to deter me? Not in the slightest. In fact, the horribly sadistic part of me has smelled fear, and their fear is, in a way, my power. You don't think I belong in your lab? Oh, I'm so sorry, I may just have to spend ALL DAY* there then. Muahaha!

I am a female scientist. Who knows C, Java, and Python. I'm not allowed into your toy box? Well, I might just have to break it then.

*I would never actually do this. The lab is in the basement, and has only one teeny tiny window. I will, of course, come up with some other sort of plan.

Why All Scientist Should Go to Europe

Or: How to Cook in a European Kitchen

This week, I decided it would be nice to have chicken for dinner.  While my realization of “soup is really easy to make” had given me many quick nutritious meals, they had unfortunately taken most of the protein out of my diet. Sure, I had peanut butter and yogurt, but I still felt like I wasn’t getting enough. Additionally, chicken is really easy to make.

So, I went to the grocery store and bought a chicken. I also had green beans and rice ready at hand, so I could make a proper meal out of it. Some lemon juice and olive oil on the chicken would give it good flavor and a nice crisp skin. I was ready to cook.

Now, before I keep going, I’m going to outline how I cook a chicken. Essentially, you roast it in a 350 degree oven for 30 minutes per pound, and then add another half hour. Then you let it rest in the pan for ten to fifteen minutes before cutting it up and eating it. Very straight forward, right?

So imagine my shock when I realized there is no way I could possibly cook my chicken. There were two, very specific, reasons for this. One: the weight (mass) of the chicken was in kilograms. Two: my oven was in Celsius. The metric system was rearing its ugly head.

It is now that I must make a very embarrassing confession. I, like most American scientists, don’t actually “get” the metric system. Oh sure, I can do calculations in it up and down and all around all day, but do I really understand it? No. I can’t estimate distances in meters, I have no idea how heavy it is to carry a kilogram and heck if I know what the temperature in Celsius feels like. I’ve grown up with the English (or Empirical, if you like) system all my life, and that’s how I think.

In this specific situation, the chicken itself saved me. On the back of the packaging was a neat little tag that said to cook it at 190 C for 45 minutes per kilogram, plus another twenty. But it made me think: by being immersed in the metric system, will I understand it better? It’s a bit like being immersed in a language, so shouldn’t I gain the same sort of fluency, just in a system of measurement rather than a language?

The answer, I think, is yes. I still “translate” in my head when confronted with, for example, a temperature in Celsius, but I’m a lot faster at it then I was a few weeks ago. When I look up the weather in the morning and see that it’s 5 C outside, I no longer have to look up the conversion, I just remember that that’s around 40, so I’ll need my fleece jacket and a sweater. Actually, this morning I went straight from “4 C” to “jacket and sweater with a hat,” so I’ve really improved. Unfortunately for me, the British only mostly use the metric system (long distances are in miles, for example) so I will only mostly get used to it.

Nevertheless, I have gained something from my study abroad experience that I hadn’t expected. While it’s not the sort of cultural perspective I had been told I would gain, it is unbelievably useful. All scientists should go to Europe, at least once. It’s so much easier to work when you understand your tools, and that way you’ll be even better at using them. Oh, and in case you’re interested, a small chicken is about 1.5 kg. And with lemon and olive oil, a small chicken is delicious.

Originally written for the Scripps College Off-Campus Study Blog

Lovely weather we're having for this time of year

The weather today could be easily described in two words : winter squall. In fact, that could explain the weather for the last several days. Let me describe it for you:

• Wednesday: mostly sunny, but with a cloudburst as I came back from the grocery store, followed by more sun. 
• Wednesday night: thunder and lightning (yes really). 
• Thursday morning: Snowing when I get up. Snaining by the time I finish breakfast. Raining on the way to class. Sun by the time I get out an hour later. 
• Thursday afternoon: Raining lightly (misting, really) when I go to lab. Pouring rain with constant wind and sudden gusts three hours later.
• Thursday evening: Continuation of the same wind conditions, but now with hail.
• Friday: Rain and wind. All day. With ferocious gusts out of nowhere.

Exhibit A

 Of course, none of this phases the brave Scots, who simply layer on more wool, and, if it gets really awful, might possibly put on a mackintosh (rain coat). I, on the other hand, huddle inside, drinking copious amounts of tea and praying the windows don't break (yes, it's that windy).  Thank heaven for the fact that almost all the powerlines where I am are buried, or I'd worry about losing power.

In other news, I've decided that tomorrow is probably a bad day to go to the castle...

Anatomy of a Haggis

January 25 was Burns Night here in Scotland. Burns Night is a holiday which celebrates the birthday of Scotland’s favorite poet, Robert Burns. Burns is celebrated for his use of the traditional Scots language in his writing. Prior to his works, the language had largely been abandoned by the “educated” classes, who wished to be seen as more sophisticated (i.e. English) then the “backwards” residents of the highlands and the islands. Burns’ writing brought the language back into respectability, although English is still more widely spoken (And yes, Scots is in fact a unique language. The Scottish Parliament says so).

Anyway, back to the holiday. The traditional way to celebrate Burns Night is with a traditional Scottish feast. What, you ask, is a traditional Scottish feast? Well, I’m glad you asked. A traditional Scottish feast includes: cock a leekie soup; haggis, neeps and tatties; a dram of whisky and cranachan for dessert. Which probably means absolutely nothing to you at all. So, let’s begin at the beginning. Cock a leekie soup is a basic chicken soup with leeks in it. Haggis I will explain in a moment. Neeps and Tatties are turnips and potatoes, which are traditionally served mashed (separately). The whisky requires no explanation. Cranachan is a combination of whipped cream, oatmeal, fresh berries and whisky, served a bit like a parfait.

The center of the feast is, of course, the haggis. Haggis is a quintessentially Scottish food, and, to be honest, I don’t think many other people would eat it. If you’re squeamish, you might want to skip this next bit, because I’m about to explain what, exactly, a haggis is. Haggis, when prepared traditionally, is sheep offal (specifically heart, lungs, and liver), suet (beef fat), oatmeal, nuts or other grains, and combination of spices, all stuffed inside a sheep’s stomach and boiled for three hours. In case you were interested, it is impossible to find haggis in the United States because of two reasons: first, all imports of British meet products have been banned since the BSE outbreak in the 90s, and second, because the FDA bans the use of sheep’s lung in consumer products. It is likely, however, that only the Scottish expatriate community mourns this fact. I don’t think many Americans would willingly eat sheep offal.

Now that I’ve made a few derisive statements about haggis, I feel the need to redeem it. There is nothing wrong with haggis. In fact, I like the fact that more of the animal is used after butchering. Just because they’re the least desirable cuts of meat doesn’t make them inherently gross. Also, I can advocate for the actual edibility of haggis. It tastes just fine, the texture is much like any sausage, and except for attempting to remove the skin after cooking (which is something I always have a hard time with) fairly easy to cook (and no, I did not make my own haggis, I bought it from the butcher’s down the street). I can see how it would become a staple food, especially for poorer people who can’t buy the nicer bits of meat.

Originally written for the Scripps College Off-Campus Study blog

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o' the Puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if you wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!

- Robert Burns, Poet Laureate of Scotland

And now, the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre

And now for something completely different...

This is a lovely video by the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theater. We were shown this during program orientation, and as silly as it is, it is still informative.

thoughts on being alone.

Adventures With Toast (or: Welcome to Your New Flat)

I experience life through food. That’s just how I function. Because of this, one of the first moments that I really realized I was in a different country was when I was faced with the food selection in my local grocery store. This was on Sunday afternoon, and although I’d been in the country since Wednesday, it hadn’t really seemed real. It was the butter and cheese that had done it. There was so much available that it was sorted by what part of the country it was from. Welcome to Scotland, the land of milk and – well, milk.

Back in my flat, I transferred all of my purchases to the relevant storage location. At this point, I was faced with something else different: the kitchen. An inventory of appliances is as follows: a refrigerator, a microwave, and an electric stove/oven unit with two tiny ovens. That’s it. Oh, except for the hot water pot. Understandably then, I was faced with a bit of a dilemma when I wanted some toast with my cup of tea. There isn’t a toaster.

Fortunately, one of my flatmates was able to enlighten me on the toast making process. I of course completely ignored her directions and muddled it out on my own. Because of this, I now know both what to do and what not to do.

To make toast:

1. Turn on the top oven to gas 4. Do not, under any circumstances, turn it up to 5 or 6, even if you’re in a hurry. 
2. Place no more than two slices of bread on the toast rack. While it looks like more would fit, this is in fact not the case. 
3. Slide the toast rack into the top rack of the oven. Make sure bread is not touching the heating element. 
4. Watch toast carefully. When bread appears, well, toasty, flip to toast the other side. If you don’t watch the toast carefully, it will burn. 
5. When finished, remove the toast from the oven, turn off, and eat the toast.

Very straight forward, right? However, if you’re like me, you completely ignored the warnings in either step 1 or step 4. And because you ignored these warnings, your toast burned. So, here are some trouble shooting steps.

To salvage toast (complete these steps as quickly as humanly possible):

1. Quickly pull toast out of the oven. 
2. Open the window, because the fire alarm going off is really not optimal.
3. Turn the oven off.  
4. Place toast on plate, and cover with topping of your choice. Opaque toppings such as peanut butter or nutella are ideal, as these camouflage the burnt bits.
5. Sit at the table and act as normal as possible. That way, when your flatmates poke their heads into the kitchen asking if you burned something, you can shake your head and act mystified. “No, not that I know of. But I did make some toast.”

Commence camouflage procedure

Originally written for the Scripps College Off-Campus Study blog

Sidewalks of Buenos Aires

This may sound like a totally random, and fairly ridiculous topic, but one of the things I adore about Buenos Aires are the sidewalks. They change so much. In the US, the sidewalks are really a public space in that they are built and maintained by the city, which tends to mean a pretty uniform type of paving tile or concrete slab.

In Buenos Aires, this is not so.

As far as I can tell, the building is responsible for the sidewalk directly in front of it. This makes for patchwork sidewalks. There are poured concrete sections, pathways of small square paver stones, portions of patterns pavers, even painted tiles. It is less than predictable, and for some reason, to me, completely lovely. It is just one of the ways that Buenos Aires is different than every other city I have been in. The city has such a lovely mix of everything, not just sidewalk tiles.

I feel like I am part of the city waking up as I walk to work.

Argentina is not a country of early risers. Because of the schedule of the consular division, I work from 8 to 5, which is considered very early to start work. I am on the streets before the rush starts, and see shopowners putting up their awnings, unlocking their doors. I see how every morning the doormen of buildings and the owners of shops wash off the sidewalks in front of their buildings. I feel like an insider, like I get to see the city before it is all shiny and polished and ready for business. And feeling like an insider, well, that feels good.