Book that changed your life: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis. My folks read to me constantly when I was little, and I read a decent amount on my own. But, when I grew out of Dr. Seuss, I began to falter in my reading habits. Sure, I’d read - but, I was no longer passionate and enthusiastic about what I read, and found myself sitting in front of the television more and more instead. My folks, I’d like to think, noticed this void… this absence of enjoyment and intellectual curiosity… I’d like to think they noticed this because, one Christmas, they bought me the set of The Chronicles of Narnia out-of-the-blue. I’d never heard of those books, and it took some coaxing from my mother to get me to pick up the first of those seven books. But, once I did, I never put them down. I once again discovered the joy - and pure necessity - of reading… a vital sensation I cherish to this day.
One book you have read more than once: The God of Small Things, by Arundhati Roy. Sleep-deprived, I’d once found myself shifting, zombie-like, through a bookstore when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pretty cover. "Never judge a book by its cover." But, alas - for that brief moment - I did. The cover design had caught my attention, and I suddenly found myself in line waiting to buy it, drinking in the first rich pages of thick imagery. It remains, to this day, my favorite novel.
One book on a desert island: A large, accurate, colorful atlas: the ultimate picturebook, and guide to the imagination. Plus, if large enough, it doubles as a source of shade.
One book that made you laugh: Holidays on Ice, by David Sedaris. I only started reading his works two years ago (the bandwagon had passed me by seven or eight times over). But, when I finally settled down one evening and read the SantaLand Diaries, I’m pretty sure I fractured a few ribs. Who knew laughing could be so hazardous?
One book that made you cry: It takes a lot to make me cry, and a book has yet to turn on the tear factory. But, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles came close. It’s just so damn sad!
One book you wish you had written: Waiting for the Barbarians, by J.M. Coetzee. Magical and reachable, in an almost unsettling way - particularly in our current times of… tension.
One book you wish had never been written: Big Chief Elizabeth, by Giles Milton. A severe excess of unnecessary hyperbolic drama made this seem less like a non-fiction account of the first English attempts to colonize the New World and more like "The Three Stooges" on meth.
One book you are currently reading: Catherine of Aragon, by Garrett Mattingly. Confession time: Tudor history is a hobby of mine, and makes up the bulk of my most recent non-fiction pursuits.
One book you have been meaning to read: The Koran. (Hey, why not?)
Zach: "Do you know what I love about our relationship?"
James: "What? The fact that we overcome obstacles together - including the barriers of our own faults - to attempt great things?"
Zach: "No. The fact that the vacuum cleaner has been sitting in the middle of the unvacuumed hallway for the past month and we both just keep stepping over it."
James: "Oh."
*pause*
James: "Well, at least we do it together."
Zach: "Uh-huh."
James: "Want some dessert?"
Zach: "Yeah!"
I can recall a fascinating series of lectures in college where we - the students - were challenged to come up with a definition of "life." At first, we balked. Life? Surely, I (and I hope others) thought, something like "life" had already been defined with enough certainty... right? I mean, what could we - some kids at a small midwestern college - contribute.
As a class, we scrounged up some criteria for life:
1. innate metabolic processes
2. cellular organization
3. growth and adaptation
4. reproductive capabilities
5. response to stimuli
Our professor contributed some additional items and, as each item was listed, also floored me by stating well-reasoned objections to nearly every item characteristic of "life." (Item 2 above, for example, disqualifies viruses as living organisms.) I wasn't floored by the disqualification of viruses as living beings (something I, at the time, supported); I was more moved by the absence of concrete criteria. It seemed that any number of characteristics of "life" that we - in that lecture hall - could come up with could also be struck down when trying to create a viable, all-encompassing definition. In essence, biologists the world over had failed to agree on a sound, universal definition for what they study - life.
The obvious vacuum astounded me. We had sound definitions for other fundamentals - elements are defined by the number of protons, for example. Why was "life" so undefinable to the satisfaction of the world's biologists? I struggled internally with this dilemma for some time... debating the merits of each point, of all sides... and bemoaning the study of life, in general. Isn't it a bit ridiculous, after all, to invest time and resources in the study of "life" without a central definition of "life"?
I once thought so. But, one day, I snapped. I can't recall the precise moment in which my twisted mind twisted one turn too many, but I recall the catalyst: I heard two biologists (husband and wife, actually) merrily debate whether viruses can be considered living creatures. The wife (like me, at the time) claimed they are not "alive" technically, since they are acellular intracellular parasistes. The husband, an ecologist and evolutionary biologist, disagreed, since viruses time and again demonstrate the same traits of adaptability and heritability necessary for evolutionary processes. I witnessed their debate for a few key moments, though I found myself focusing not on their sound arguments (both defended their positions with accuracy and zeal), but on the mood of the debate. Their cheeky exchange dripped with sincere jollity - not the grave atmosphere I would have found more appropriate for such a debate of such fundamental importance to science. It was as if both husband and wife found the exchange important (the lack of consensus concerning "life," after all, is at least an inconvenience), but also almost trivial - friendly bickering over "mere trifles." Something that - once defined - they felt would make little difference.
A virus, after all, living or dead, will continue to do what it does. Isn't our desire to define and classify it ("Living or not living?") a mere product of our innate desire to make sense of our surroundings? We, after all, like to classify.
--This is living, but that is not living.
--This is a tree over here, but that is not a tree over there.
--This is an American Idol winner. These are American Idol losers.
--I grew up in Illinois, but Zach grew up in Iowa.
--My cat has black stripes, but the neighbor's cat does not have black stripes.
--President Bush: "Wow. Brazil is big!" Belize, in comparison, is small.
This is this, and that is that. I am alive, but viruses are not. Or are they?
Or, does it matter either way?
After all, funding for HIV research will not dry up overnight should we, with concrete certainty as a scientific community, decide that viruses are not alive. Whether or not they are, they still do the things they do, and act the way they act.
So, I suddenly found myself concluding, do we really need an all-encompassing universal definition of life? Such an assertion, for me at least, was astounding. Here I was, a scientist (or, at least, a scientist-in-training) deciding that a fundamental definition of life, at least in our current understanding of existence, was unnecessary. A frivolous luxury that research scientists, strapped for cash and stressed to publish or perish, need not concern themselves with. We have, after all, so much we already know, and so much to learn, that we should probably just focus our efforts on other, more interesting points. At the end of the day, we won't be crippled with a vague, debatable definition of life, and won't be empowered with a concrete, universal definition of life. We'll still have the structure of DNA, Darwin's finches, dog breeds, foamyviruses, Yersinia pestis, and Homo sapiens at the end of the day - as we curl up in our beds dreaming scientific dreams.
I must again emphasize the inherent contradiction I'm proposing - a (hack) scientist unconcerned with a fundamental definition in science. If science is the unbiased, raw pursuit of truth, why shouldn't I advocate devoting every ounce of strenth and every possible resource in pursuit of a definition of life? Well, at the end of the day, living or not, I'll look upon HIV the same - as something we need to beat. A foamyvirus will still be a foamyvirus - a bacterium will still be a bacterium - and James will still be James. And for those who think we need literal definitions of life in order to understand encounters with possible forms of extraterrestrial life which could differ markedly from our own water-and-carbon based design of life, let me assert this simple and rather unscientific theory: I'm pretty sure we'll know an alien when we see one.
We need not restrict or constrict at this point - no need to draw boundaries where none are requested or required.
Hence my bemusement at the current, controversial decision to, once and for all, define a "planet." I've heard astronomers the world over stress that this debate has long distracted the scientific community, and must be resolved. I've heard political pundits the world over also follow up these astronomers with droll, sarcastic assertions: "Your tax dollars at work - they just got rid of a planet."
Pluto is no longer a planet. We're now a solar system of eight. Headlines bemoaned the demotion, citizens around the world shrugged their shoulders, and my co-workers tried to come up with new (and suggestive) mnemonic devices to remember the now-eight planets of the solar system. And I was left wondering: am I the only person in this solar system who couldn't care either way?
The debate in no way lessened Pluto (or Pluto-Charon, to be technical) in my eyes. The double planet (or, to be technical, double "dwarf planet") was discovered less than a century ago. We've only been a nine-planet solar system since 1930, and I find myself doubting the most vocal critics who claim Tombaugh, its discoverer, is rolling over in his grave at the reclassification of Pluto/Pluto-Charon as a "dwarf planet." They initially thought, after all, that Pluto was more massive than Earth.
Is such a demotion or reclassification of celestial objects really necessary? I would obviously argue "no", though I'm apparently in the minority, as the International Astronomical Union found the issue of enough importance to push for the formal definition of "planet." Pluto is still Pluto, and I'm willing to bet Pluto doesn't give two flips whether or not we call it a planet. Pluto still has all the fundamental characteristics of Pluto, and is no way diminished in its innate "Plutoness." The asteroid (now "dwarf planet") Ceres was once considered a planet, when it was found orbiting between Mars and Jupiter in the 1800s, but was quickly demoted once it was found to be one of many (albeit the most massive) asteroids in the asteroid belt. But, Ceres, planet or not, is still Ceres. It is no less or no more interesting to study as a celestial body. So, I ask, why bicker over titles?
If such a definition like "planet" is of such importance, then why has no one brought up the instructions we've sent out to alien cultures, telling them where to find us? The Pioneer spacecraft, after all, carry plaques with a diagram of the (nine planet) solar system, showing that the crafts originated from the third planet. Aren't we now concerned that aliens will pass by our system, saying, "Well, though the third planet looks promising, this is a system of 8, and we're looking for a system of 9... Moving on..."
If such astronomical definitions are of such paramount importance, shouldn't we consider further demotions and reclassifications? Jupiter, after all, has characteristics of a star that, for one reason or another, never came to be. Perhaps we should consider elevation of Jupiter's meager planetary status to something more worthy to our own star - "failed star," for example. In addition, we, at least in English, refer to our planet's natural satellite as "the Moon," though we know of over 200 moons in our solar system alone. If our "the Moon" has long been known to be one of among many, shouldn't we rename it, perhaps "Luna" or "Selene"? While we're at it, "the solar system" is now known to be one of many similar scenarios (planets and dwarf planets, all with moons, orbiting stars). Just as "the Moon" isn't the sole moon, "the solar system" isn't the sole solar system. I've heard suggestions of "Sol System" and "Terran System" from Star Trek, but I'd like to think we can come up with other suggestions to ponder for final choices.
Perhaps (but, just perhaps) I exaggerate to drive home my point. Pluto's demotion doesn't alter our desire or our need to explore it. We won't recall the New Horizons spacecraft, and I at least won't pay less attention to its findings. And since the new Plutoless definition of "planet" in no way changes how I see Pluto, I have to ask: was this whole circus necessary? Jupiter is Jupiter, Mars is Mars, and whether the Sol System has 8, 9, or 40 planets is only an issue if we choose to make it an issue. I choose not to.
I am reminded of an exchange on the playground as a child. Two particularly nerdy peers (yes, moreso even than me) got into a near-savage brawl over whether the tomato was a fruit or a vegetable. Botanically, it is a fruit, though historically (and culinarily) it has been seen as a vegetable. With continuously-modified food pyramids telling us to eat "such-and-such servings of fruits, and such-and-such servings of vegetables" daily, my peers argued, of course such an issue is of paramount importance to necessitate such a ridiculous struggle behind the baseball mound. But, I was left thinking, why count servings to begin with? Why not simply eat "lots" of both fruits and vegetables - moreso than the minimum suggested daily amounts - and simply devote valuable brain matter to more important and pressing concerns (the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, global warming, and HIV - whether living or not)? For the record, my peers disagreed with my assertions, and went on arguing during recess.
I left the playground, confident I'd never again encounter such passions devoted to such unnecessary debates. But, apparently, the playground followed me all the way to Pluto.
I've been dissatisfied with the sheer volume of "clutter" I've accumulated in my nearly 26 years on this planet, and it's lately left a sour mark on my soul. At home, I'd spend vast blocks of time staring blankly at piles of disorganized records, papers, and old financial statements that:
1. I won't throw away or recycle intact since there are a few arenas of privacy I still fiercely defend in my so-called life.
2. I won't sit there and rip up so I can throw away or recycle them.
So, Zach (ever the catalyst) bought me a paper shredder earler today.
And now, six hours later, since my pile of things-to-shred has now been shredded and lies bagged in the recycling bins, I've been slowly making my way through the apartment looking for more things to shred.
Zach caught on quickly. He already said that I cannot shred his law school diploma, money, the cat, or any food.
He's such a killjoy.
Zach and James make up after an argument:
Me: "I'm sorry I'm such a handful."
Zach: "Oh, don't be sorry, Jim. You shouldn't apologize for that."
Me: "Why?"
Zach: "Because it's something you can't control. You are who you are."
Me: "Well, thanks. I appreciate hearing that."
Zach: "Besides, you're not a handful."
Me: "I'm not?"
Zach: "No. Of course you're not."
Me, blushing: "Well, thanks."
Zach: "You're just crazy."
Sometimes, I hear folks spouting, in an almost Biblical tone, "This is a democracy. The people rule." While that latter statement may indeed be the motto of my birth state, I persistently, in such occasions, must resist the urge to retort, "Actually, we live in a republic. We don't make the decisions. We choose others to decide for us." It's a subtle difference, granted; but, it's what separates us from the Swiss. And, if you constantly want your hands on the switch, I'd start scouting for flats in Bern. But, for us, despite my state's love for citizen initiatives, it's still largely a republic - a small group speaking for the people. Occasionally, you run into one of the chosen decision-makers. Zach often can barely resist the urge to tease me after meeting an elected representative. I'm my most awkward when trying to be respectful to them; an act worthy of a razzie, as he reminds me later. But, as I remind him, though we've lived in a world sprouting Nixons alongside Washingtons, I can't help but respect them all as a group, the failures alongside the successes. Corrupt or no, they wield a powerful sword... dangerous and dobule-edged... For, it can strike not only us, but the wielder as well.
That is, of course, assuming that we, upon handing the sword over, ensure that both sides of the sword are adequately sharp and deadly.
Perhaps I've been instilled with enough low-level guilt, or raw humility, to think myself unworthy of the Ozone Layer. If so, then it should come as no surprise that I also consider myself unworthy - yet a grateful recipient - of democratically-guaranteed freedoms and responsibilities. Much like the Ozone Layer, it's something quite easy to take for granted... particularly since I've known a republic style of government my whole life. I know not how an existence without elections, education, and public debate would unfold, just as how I find a world without the Ozone Layer unfathomable.
But, I'm at least aware, as we all are, that both could disappear in an instant without constant vigilance.
At least, I thought (perhaps naïvely) that we are all aware. But then, I browse the news casually, and stories like these catch my tearful eyes. Stories like these that show most Americans - most Americans who are able (and should) vote and help sharpen both blades - can name more of the Seven Dawrfs than the nine justices of the Supreme Court of the United States.
Note that they weren't even asked to name the (presumed) political ideologies of the nine justices... just their names. Perhaps I'm reading too much into these findings. Perhaps I should just reassure myself, as the Psalms do, that "Joy cometh in the morning." But, at this point, I usually stop myself, and remind myself of this central fact: I know the justices, their names, and their political standings. And, I know that I'm no more intelligent than the average soul; so, if I can do it, and if I can be instilled with a drive - a vital push - to want to know such things, then you can (and should) as well.
Blades dull with repeated use. The sword is no longer sharp when we send the message that pop culture - the new social currency - absorbes our existence more than the decisions made on our behalf. Strict memorization of American Idol champions might get you the respect of local pub patrons for one night; but, in the long run, will it get you pensions, freedom of speech, and a right to privacy? Have we really, as a whole, turned over our blades permanently, so we can curl up for another installment of Survivor, when it's so painfully obvious that, in our own island, we're the ones being kicked off?
Survival alone is insufficient; we must make ourselves worthy of survival. I wonder whether we're throwing in the towel (or turning over "the sword thing") as a people, a culture, a society. No adult must show base competency in government, politics, or even basic knowledge of the three branches of the federal government in order to cast a vote; and I'm not saying we need to start implementing such requirements. But, I find it hard to believe I'm only one of a handful of folks who feel I should make myself worthy of that vote.
I must pause for a moment and clear the air on one important point. I am not against anyone who can name all the Seven Dwarfs. I, after all, can as well. But, stop and ask yourselves: will knowing Dopey from Happy help sharpen the sword? Will it instill fear in the decision-makers (you know, the guys we hand the sword over to) by telling them we know Doc and Dopey, or that they know my feelings on the poisonous effects of gerrymandering?
I can't sharpen a sword with puff and fluff knowledge - whether it be criticisms of Gerard Schwarz's tenure as conductor of the Seattle Symphony or commentary on the most recent season finale of Battlestar Galactica. I can't sustain a healthy republic on a daily diet of McNuggets, leaving the whole chicken to be pecked by vultures. I can't, for myself or for you, turn over the sword without knowing that the blade is sharp enough to strike both myself and the executioner.
But why, apparently, can you?
Friend: "Did you ever finish that Ursula K. LeGuin novel you were reading a few weeks ago?"
Me: "What? You mean The Dispossessed?"
Friend: "Yeah."
Me: "Oh, yeah. I thought it was awesome!"
Friend: "Cool! I was hoping you'd like it. What are you reading now?"
Me: "Oh, something just as awesome. A biography of Catherine of Aragon!"
pause
Friend: "Freak."
Sunday, I woke up at 5:50AM to meet some friends at Green Lake. We were watching another friend row to victory in a crew competition. It was an occasion for celebration - a victory more pure than that won at Hastings or Agincourt.
Afterwards, I ate breakfast with a few of my fellow spectators. Our friend's crew team victory had made us a bit envious - we all, in our own way, had started examining our lives for the potential victory within. While a few of them were probably contemplating races-to-be-run or great-projects-to-undertake, I suddenly dawned upon what I thought would be a victory worthy of Agincourt and, that afternoon, recruited Zach as my partner-in-crime to reach this lofty goal...
Our will was strong... and our efforts noble...
But, between the two of us, we could only name 83 of the 100 members of the Senate. The Northlake Ivar's had never seen such a crushing, humble defeat as we, heads hanging low on our shoulders, trudged home.
I later modified our efforts in the fashion of public school gym teachers - "A for effort!" Ice cream was certainly in order as we reassured ourselves that, in a time when over half of the Americans believe that Saddam Hussein harbored weapons of mass destruction, we might've done better than most.
Then again, isn't it sad that, over fifteen or twenty minutes of dairy-induced bliss, we found such a statistic reassuring?
The other day, I passed one of my classmates in the hallway. I was obviously on my way to a seminar (obvious at least to anyone like him, who saw me for the past year towing my dark brown coffee mug - filled with a Toddy americano - and gently whipping my left thigh with my patented "seminar notebook" which, in theory, is for note-taking, but is hardly ever opened). Since I was obviously on my way to a seminar, however, we began an awkward exchange. We'd already seen one another, so we could ignore one another... nor could we stop for a heart-to-heart (or as close as we've ever come to one), since I was carrying my dark brown coffee mug and my patented "seminar notebook." The primeval primate desire for controlled social interaction conflicted with the cultural rules previously erected by that primeval primate desire for controlled social interaction: James must not be late for seminar.
The resulting exchange was dripping with haste:
Classmate: "Hey James."
Me: "Uh, hey."
Classmate: "Uh, how's it going?"
pause
Me: "Er... kinda okay."
pause
Classmate: "Oh... er... see ya later."
I spent the first ten minutes of seminar pretending to take notes in my "seminar notebook." But, I was really comparing what-I-said to what-I-was-expected to say. "Er... kinda okay" should've been "Just fine. And you?" Then, he should've answered "Just fine." Then, I would've gone to seminar with my Toddy americano, and he would've not gone to seminar.
I deviated from the script, and it obviously threw off my classmate's lines. A friend of mine overheard the exchange and chastized me.
Me: "Hey! I was just being truthful!"
Friend: "Truthful?"
Me: "Yeah... I mean, I'm only 'kinda okay', after all."
Friend: "Well, did he know that?"
Me: "He does now. Though I didn't have time to explain why."
Friend: "Are there multiple reasons?"
Me: "Yeah. And I didn't have time to narrow down a few juicy ones to tell him."
In the first ten minutes of seminar, I thought of all the things I could've said to expand upon "kinda okay":
1. The frustrating and painfully dramatized non-fiction account of the lost colony of Roanoke I started weeks ago, expecting a great read, and quickly reclassified under the heading "Just get it over and done with."
2. My second-ever grant application, which is due Tuesday. The first was summarily rejected with little fanfare last Spring. "Welcome to the club," my labmates reassuringly said. The quest for funding begins, but never ends. (Or, to quote the Eagles, "You can checkout any time you'd like, but you can never leave.")
3. The cat has found a variety of interesting methods to wake us each morning between 3:30 and 4:30, begging to be let out.
4. I've gained weight.
5. I came upon a chilling realization last week: Seattlites, in general, think that one cannot be "both pro-Israel and pro-Palestine," despite yours truly being a physical manifestation of the idea.
6. I've had some hearing problems lately, to the extent that a visit with my (gorgeous) physician was in order.
7. Zach, having the same physician, was jealous of #6 - and let me know it.
It was a spur-of-the-moment idea: why not, rather than engaging in the traditional small-talk, I tell him what's really going on. Not a half-hour long song-and-dance... just a quick little snapshot of my life, and what's on my mind. Apparently, though, my classmate and I are equally poor at improvisation. I, at best, assembled a "kinda okay," while he regrouped just in time to wish me well, and most likely permit sufficient introspection to vow never to speak with me again.
But still, there's an experiment here that is worth repeating. Failure once does not cement defeat - the experimental design merely requires minor modifications, and further iterations! So, if I answer your future inquiry ("How are you?") with something other than the standard fare ("Zach loathess our neighbor's dog" replaces "Just fine," for example), please, take it all in stride.
Or, if you can't, then just pretend you cannot see me.
A number of you have offered kind words, prayers, and encouragement to us since the events of last Friday. Both Zach and I thank you for your support.
But, I intend this brief communique to be the last instance in which I devote time and space on this website to pour out my feelings regarding the shooting, Zach's presence, our response, or how the whole event has radically altered our lives. I cannot permit this experiment I began years prior to evolve irrevocably into a forum for me to pour out heart, soul, anguish, fears, and recovery regarding the massacre and its aftermath. It's something I can, of course, discuss with folks individually, particularly with those intimately connected with my life. But, here and now, I must invoke a right to privacy: this is no longer a subject I can share, nor is it a subject appropriate to share.
For what it's worth, though, know that Zach and I, and the community as a whole, have much healing to do. But, I intend for us to tackle this as we always do, hand-in-hand.
So, in a few days, or once a sufficient amount of time has passed, I'll attempt an awkward transition - back to the "normal" (but really, what is normal?) events that have shaped my life to date. Yes, I've found plenty of reasons to laugh and joke since Friday, as I always do... and, if you'll take your hand in mine, I'll tell you about it...
...a bit later.
