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.

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

Things one learns in the post office

Fact of the day: international postage for a letter (this being an item in an envelope weighing less than one ounce) from the US to anywhere else in the world (not on the North American Continent) is 94 cents. This seems semi-relevant, since several of us will be departing to bits of the world not on the North American Continent at various points throughout the year. I think it will cost more than 94c to get there though.

The Case for Mars: The Musical

I am a nerd, and I have no problem admitting it. Specifically, I am an astrophysics/ cosmology nerd. My nerd credentials include attending nerd camp at Stanford University (Introduction to Cosmology) and doing astronomy research with a UAA professor senior year of high school. And, here's a secret, I love really nerdy sciencey cool stuff. This ranges from interplanetary trivia to goofy science videos. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where this comes in:



This video was made by a project called Symphony of Science, and there are many more like it. They take snippets of speeches and television programs by prominent astrophysicists, astronomers, physicists, cosmologists, aerospace engineers, etc. and auto-tune them into a song. The goal? "to deliver scientific knowledge and philosophy in musical form." I'd say they do a pretty good job at that. Plus, Carl Sagan is my idol.

Who says textbooks can't be mildly amusing?

The section we just read in my womens' studies book is entitled "Women, Power, and Politics." One of the issues it discussed was women involvement in the military. In a sidebar about a study done in 2000 on opinions among military men about women serving in the military, I found this tidbit:
"Although a relationship between leadership potential and upper body strength has yet to be discovered, men expressed resentment toward women who were securing leadership roles in the military withough necessarily 'proving' (i.e., women are not required to do as many push-ups as men) that they belonged there."
Interesting. Dry humor aside, this does raise an interesting question: why, exactly, do people object to women serving in the military?

In case you were wondering....

Err, what's going on with the blog? It looks... different.
Yes, well I'm fiddling with it.
Good lord! Why?
Honestly? I got bored. I'm in Arizona, and it's hot, so it's not like I can go outside or anything like that.
Yes, but... Why?
Oh, well, specifically, I thought the blog needed some sprucing up. See, the internet is an exciting place with lots of exciting things to do and see and, lets face it, our blog was a little boring to look at. So, I'm fixing it up a bit.
Who, exactly, gave you the right to do that?
Well, I suppose Sam did, seeing as she gave me admin privileges. Also... I seem to be the only one posting right now. It's very sad. Please, come back guys! I miss you! And my blog posts are kind of boring. Please come back...
Umm... Yeah, back to the blog...
Oh! Right! Sorry... Essentially, the blog needed a make over. And I have a lot of time on my hands, so I decided to do it.
Well, what exactly is happening, then?
Honestly? I'm not sure yet. I'm trying a few different things out, trying to see what I think works. There will probably be lots of changes that don't stay. There will probably be  a lot of changes that are atrocious, but will stay for a while because I have nothing better to fix it with. Menus will move, labels will change, the Universe will come together in harmony. Ok, maybe not that last one. Anyway, most changes will be temporary. Probably.
Ah. So, there's no grand plan then, is there?
Well, not really, no. The ultimate goal is just to make something that I think is both pleasing to look at and is easy to navigate. Very likely, this will involve me learning another computer language (CSS) in an attempt to get things exactly the way I want them. Edit: yes, I do in fact need to learn a little CSS to get this thing working. Bear with me people, this could result in some really strange things if I screw up. It might be a while before something sticks and I stop messing with it. See something you like? Have an idea? E-mail me and I'll see what I can do.
Any idea when you'll be done?
Haven't the foggiest. I'm sure the changes will slow down when I get home, simply because the internet speed there is a tenth of what  it is here. I miss home, but not that part. Additionally, something final will probably happen by the end of the summer, because I will have a lot more important things to do when I get back to school.
Uh-huh. Well, have fun with that.
Oh don't worry, I will.

The Varied and Exciting Adventures of Andrea and the New Shoes

Today, I did something unbelievably stupid: I wore new shoes. While this by itself isn't terribly stupid, what is stupid is wearing a new pair of shoes on a day you will be doing a lot of walking. Which for me is everyday. So, wearing new shoes was a bit of a bad move. Which resulted in an interesting day.

1. The shoes
I got a box in the mail from home yesterday. Within: a new pair of shorts (yay!) and a new pair of shoes. The shoes were somewhat unexpected; my mom bought them for me because she thought I'd like them, and I do. They are white canvas, sort of a cross between a sneaker and a ballet flat. Comfortable sneaker footbed, cute ballet flat scoop. What's not to love?

2. The walk
I walk to class everyday. It takes around 15 minutes for me to get from my dorm to class. While ASU is, to me anyway, an enormous campus, this is roughly equivalent to me walking from my Scripps dorm to my computer science class at the north end of Pomona. Except for the heat, it's rather a nice walk. After class, I walk to the student union to grab lunch. This takes about 10 minutes if I'm going slowly, which I tend to be. After lunch, I walk back to my dorm, another 10 minutes or so. Significant walking? Not really, but it's not exactly short either.

3. The problem
So, walking to class in new shoes. After about the first hundred feet or so, I noticed that the shoes were rubbing on the back of my heel. After another hundred feet, that rubbing was starting to get painful. Unfortunately, I had to keep going in order to get to class on time. When I sat down in class, I pulled my shoes off; I already had blisters the size of quarters on the back of both heels. During my break, I stuffed some toilet paper in the heel of my shoes in an attempt to cushion them. It didn't work. The toilet paper just ended up stuffed under my foot.

4. The walk again
So here I am in class with blisters, and I need to walk to lunch and then back to my room. I figured the walk to the student union wouldn't be too awful if I walked briskly, instead of strolling as I usually did. I was wrong. Sitting down to eat was fantastic, it meant I didn't have to walk. After lunch, with the prospect of another walk ahead of me, I did the logical thing: took my shoes off and started walking back barefoot. What could possibly go wrong?

5. And you thought this would be obvious.
New thing I learned today: if the air is hot, the ground is probably hot too. Being the swarthy Alaskan I am (who am I kidding?), I like walking around barefoot. In the summer, I don't put on shoes unless I have too. Like, for example, when it's 70 degrees outside and the back deck is too hot to walk on. Clearly, I should have realized that when it's 100 degrees outside, the ground would be even hotter. Nah. And so, half way down a flight of outdoor stairs, I start hopping up and down like a crazy person and rush to the modest shade provided by a trash can. The bottoms of my feet (under a healthy layer of dirt) were bright pink, bordering on red. I had just successfully burned the bottoms of my feet on pavement.

6. The walk, continued
Big 'ole blisters, check. Burned feet, check. A decent walk back to my room, check. And so, I folded down the back of my new shoes and wore them like slides, shuffling home. It hurt.

7. The conclusion
Did I do something extremely stupid today? Why yes, yes I did. Did I learn my lesson? I sure as heck hope so.

Armed with neosporin, band aids, and thick socks, I have mostly solved the problems I caused today. Do my feet still hurt? Absolutely, but it's my own fault. The exciting bit will be walking to class tomorrow. I can tell you one thing: I won't be wearing my new shoes.

collegate improvisation

Roses! yet, alas,
I have no vase for them. To
Save the day? Nalgene!

Feminism, sheminism

Feminism talks
Reveal age gaps in thoughts, ideas
Generations change?

For my womens' studies class today, we had a slightly strange assignment: ask three people what the first three words that think of when the hear the word "feminist." Just for background, this class is conducted online, so there is only asynchronous communication in a forum. I got my answers last night, and wrote up my forum post before heading off to my other class this morning. When I had a chance to look at the other posts this afternoon, I was genuinely surprised. There was a very clear distinction between positive and negative reactions amongst my classmates, but the breakdown wasn't what you would think. Instead of there being an opposition between genders, there was a very strong opposition between generations*.

Those of the older group, especially the women, had negative thoughts about feminism. One mentioned something her brother said about all feminists being lesbians and man haters, and agreed with him. Another woman mentioned that she was all for equality "but absolutely not a feminist." To me, that is exactly what a feminist is; someone who believes in equality between men and women. I was more than a little surprised by the obvious discomfort these older women had with the term "feminist."

Among the younger posters, including the men**, were much more genial opinions. One was positively shocked that his brother-in-law used the word "dyke" to describe femininists, another was horified that his younger sister (who he mentioned was in middle school) said something about angry man eaters. One of the men acknowledged that he was a feminist, and received some rather negative feedback from some of the older female posters.

This brings up several questions for me. While I don't actually know anyone's age, why is it that the seemingly older posters have a negative reaction to feminism? Why are we accepting of the negative reactions of older men, and unhappy with the positive reactions of the younger? This generation gap puzzles me. Aren't these older posters part of an enlightened and liberated generation of women?

I will be happy to say that I am a feminist. As a female scientist, I dislike the portrayals of scientists as men. How many people know that Rosaline Franklin took the first pictures of DNA and that her lab partners, Watson and Crick, stole her work? As a student at a womens' college, I find it particularly aggravating that I, as a scientist, am not taken seriously by the faculty and administrators at my own college. As a physicist, I resent the snide comments I get from the more socially acceptable female chem and bio majors.

So my big question is, what happened here?

When did we stop caring, and when did we start again?

When will no one care about gender anymore?

*This is of course, entirely based on speculation. Those who mention children or nieces or "my 80 year-old mother" I assume are of at least one generation previous to mine. The same is true of the guy who mentioned he's a resident at a hospital and the woman who used the phrase "back when I graduated."

**Again, some speculation. Some first names are obviously masculine, so I assume they're men. There's also the mysterious Terry, who I haven't decided on yet...

A tragedy of food

Tikka Masala,
Six twenty-seven, but I
Have only six dollars.

Registration sucks

"Permission denied"
Can't get into class I need
Registration fail

Warning, Danger, Alarm! (or not)

This morning, at about 11:15, I was shot by a masked man who had broken into the building on Pomona where I was working.

Well, almost.

Well, not really.

I guess I should explain.

This morning, when I got out of class, I went directly to the Computer Science lounge to work on my assignment, which is due at midnight. The CS lounge is a lovely room with large glass walls and lots of computers and white boards. There happened to be about six or seven other people with me in the lounge at the time, and suddenly, their phones all went off. Then they got up and left the room. Dominick, who's in my class, stuck his head around the door frame and asked "Are you coming?"

At this point, I was understandably a bit confused. Several phones just rang all at once, and everyone but me left. And then I was being asked to go somewhere. Where were we going, and why did we need to go there?

The answer came to me a few seconds later as the network manager for the CS department came out of his office and said to me "well, if you keep sitting there, you're going to get shot, and it won't be my problem at that point."

Apparently, Pomona was having a lock down. A lock down drill, to be exact, but they were giving citations to anyone found outside a designated safe room. As I followed a small, ragtag group of professors and students into the "safe room" in that building, I pondered how incredibly fractured the campus notification system is. If I had been alone, and this had been a real lock down, I would be dead by now.

The problem is both easy and understandable. Despite our designation as "The Claremont Colleges" run by the "Claremont University Consortium," we're still one big campus split up into five different colleges (seven, if Claremont Graduate University and Keck Graduate Institute are included). Each of the colleges runs their own affairs without much interference from any of the other colleges. The only shared resources are the library, campus safety, student health, and the office of the chaplains. Among the services not shared are the registrar's offices, the grounds departments, the catering departments, and the campus notification systems.

At last, the sticking point. There are five (or seven) colleges, each with their own notification system. Being a Scripps student, I am registered on the Scripps emergency notification system. If there is a lock down, or an earth quake drill, or any other situation, I get a text message relaying that information. This is great when I'm on campus, but it has one major flaw: there are five colleges, and I could be on any given campus at any given time.

From this, two scenarios arise. The first is pretty harmless: a Scripps only drill happens, and I'm not on Scripps. No problem, it doesn't effect me. The second scenario, though, is potentially much more dangerous: I'm not on Scripps, and something happens on the campus I'm on. The students around me will get text messages and phone calls, but, just like this morning, I'll be out of the loop. Or another scenario: something happens on Pomona's north campus, but students in the CMC dorms just across the street will have no idea that there is any danger.

There is, clearly, a simple solution for this: make one, big emergency notification list with all students from all five schools on it. Problem solved. Having a lock down drill on Pomona? Send all students the message "lock down drill, Pomona" or something of the sort. Those who are on Pomona at the time will know, those who aren't on Pomona will know, but won't care. Problem solved.

For know though, I have to settle for what I can get. So thank you, Dominick, for making sure I wasn't shot. If you're ever on Scripps, I'll return the favor.

State of Existence

It's a census year. We all know that. Everywhere, there are signs and posters telling us that the census is a "portrait of America" and that "everyone counts." It's the way that the government keeps count of how many people are in the country. And of course, the census is also how the government decides to divvy up the 435 seats in the House of Representatives. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is where I have a problem.

I am a resident of the state of Alaska. I am registered to vote in the state of Alaska. I receive my credit card bill in the state of Alaska. I receive my PFD every year because of the fact that I live in the state of Alaska. I currently attend school in the state of California. However, this school has listed my permanent address as being in the state of Alaska. So clearly, when I fill out the census, I should be counted as a resident of Alaska when it comes time to hand out those 435 seats, right?

Wrong.

As I was told (with a straight face) by the census worker I asked, the census is "a snapshot of America on April first," census day. And because of this, since I was in the state of California on April first, I am considered a resident of California and will be counted as such when it comes time to hand out seats. So too, I learned, would international students attending college in California. When I asked why, the census worker (after proudly showing off some sort of badge that meant he got to answer my questions) began to explain to me the origins of the census, and that it is administered by the federal government because states could exaggerate the number of residents they had in order to get more Representatives. Which, of course, was not the answer to the question I asked.

As a resident of the state of Alaska, I will happily stand up and be counted.

But not, as it seems, in Alaska.

Haiku for a rainy day

The rain comes down for
Several hours, non-stop
Drip drop, plip plop, splash.