ISleepInADrawer.com

The Long March

This morning, in the shower (where I do the bulk of any given day's thinking), I realized my general exam is three weeks from today. My chest suddenly tightened and, unexpectedly, I began to cry.

"I have no use for men who fail."
-John D. Rockefeller

There But For the Grace of God

I haven't been back to Florida since I was eight years old.

And since this is how they treat gay visitors, perhaps I should never go back.

What I find most telling, though, is the sound of silence from the Sunshine State. Precious few have said anything, while plenty of folks here in Puget Sound haven't hesitated to weigh in, even some pretty homophobic comments from The Olympian's story. I can only assume that most Floridians are fine with stories like these. It's a shame, too -- I have plenty of tourist dollars to spend.

Lamentations

Zach: "...So, apparently when he moved here, there were all these proclamations going around about how good-looking and well-dressed and nice he is, and all these women assumed he was gay. Like, 'too good to be true,' and stuff like that. So, they made a point of getting the word out that he is in fact straight and single..."
James: "Wait, how come there aren't tons of straight women lamenting the fact that I'm gay?!"
pause
Zach: "Uh... well... Sarah does, right?"
James: "Sarah's a lesbian."
Zach: "Which one? The one in Seattle or the one in New York?"
James: "They both are."
Zach: "Yes, but one still identifies as straight."
James: "You're not helping."

Innocence

"Really, I'm like the baby seal that no one really wants to club, but everyone secretly desires to."

And unfortunately, all ten people in the room agreed with me.

Thine Own Self

I attended pre-school and kindergarten at the only Montessori school that northeastern Arkansas could boast at the time. It was only for first grade (and beyond) that I was sent to public school. Since the kindergarten-to-first-grade transition for me also coincided with an Arkansas-to-Florida move, I didn't realize my pre-school-and-kindergarten experiences weren't exactly typical. I knew it was called "Montessori school," but I always assumed that was just the name of the school. Just like the elementary school I (eventually) attended in Illinois was named after the man who wrote one of my favorite childhood poems, and my junior high was named after the first American President. It took a good friend in high school to set me straight.

me: "Yeah, I loved the school I went to in Arkansas. It was called 'Montessori,' or something like that."
friend: "Really? When'd you go there?"
me: "I think I started when I was about three, for pre-school. I also did kindergarten there. We'd moved to Florida by the time I was ready for first grade."
friend: "Yeah, I went to Montessori school for kindergarten through second grade, then my parents put me in public school to save money."
me: "Huh? You went to the same school?! I never knew you lived in Arkansas, too! I thought you'd lived your whole life in Iowa."
friend: "Uh, I have lived in Iowa my whole life. I just meant I went to the Montessori school here for pre-school through second grade."
me: "Oh, so you mean there's a school up here called 'Montessori' as well?"
friend: "Uh... James, Montessori is an alternative education system, based on methods advocated by a woman of that same name."

Later on, my mother summed it up quite nicely. Granted, I think she was a bit discouraged to see that her dense son yet again failed to grasp the obvious (especially since I come from a family of dedicated teachers), but she did see this shameful faux pas as an opportunity to show me why my parents believed that it was so important to my education to give me at least a little exposure to the Montessori-style of teaching and learning:

"James, to boil it down to the basics, Montessori schools believe in two core principles: instilling in each student a lifelong love of learning, and allowing each student to proceed at his or her own pace."

Since I, her high school-aged and (sort of) Montessori-educated son, had just admitted to her that I never realized my pre-school-and-kindergarten education was an experience atypical, unique, and quite expensive, my mother likely felt the need to emphasize the latter point: that each child should be allowed to progress at his or her own pace in the American educational experience. I'm sure she reminded herself of that each night before bed -- her son wasn't dumb, just slow-paced. And Maria Montessori says there's nothing wrong with that.

Now, years later, I've gained new appreciation for Ms. Montessori's legacy. Her methods did indeed instill in me a love of learning. After all, I am a 27-year-old graduate student who fantasizes about a professional career as a perpetual student (just don't tell my boyfriend). Speaking of Zach, I once asked my boyfriend, who is one of the smartest people I've ever met, what his pre-school experience was like (at a place called the Lollipop Ranch, if memory serves). His tear ducts moistened with nostalgia: "Oh, it was such fun! We colored and had NAP TIME!" The man said it with such energy and youthful vigor that I had to resist the urge to tackle him in a warm embrace (and perhaps more) right then and there. Still, knowing my boyfriend how I know him, I quickly realized that his natural intellect and numerous talents predestined him to excel in this world. I, however, wasn't born the sharpest pencil in the box. This should be obvious to you (the reader), since it took me over a decade to realize that 'Montessori school' is a valued educational method, not just a name for an expensive school in northeastern Arkansas. I needed their abacus and harp and French lessons - not so I could be an expert in the use of an abacus, or a harpist, or fluent in French. In fact, I can't do any of those things today. But, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be a graduate student studying evolutionary genetics if I hadn't had such an enriching and encouraging educational experience early on. Sure, such an experience also made me the most annoying of teacher's pets all throughout my subsequent years in public schools, but I'd gladly endure the ridicule from my peers again - especially since I know that it's helped me (sort of) land on my feet as an adult. My boyfriend is the kind of man who was always going to succeed; I needed extra help and encouragement.

And even then, I remain not-the-sharpest-pencil-in-the-box. Thus, I shamed Ms. Montessori yet again today... this time in front of all my labmates:

me: "I can't wait until I'm done with this damn exam in March."
labmates: "Why?"
me: "Then, I'll have free time again! Like, then Zach and I can go to that one lesbian bar in Capitol Hill again for Taco Tuesdays, like we used to last year!"
general laughter
me: "Why does everyone laugh whenever I talk about going to the lesbian bar with my boyfriend for Taco Tuesdays?"
labmates: "Well, you have to admit, it's a pretty funny concept."
me: "What is? Tacos? Lesbians?"
labmates: "Oh, God. You mean you really don't get it? Why they built a whole happy hour special around the sale of cheap tacos?"
me: "What? Is there some joke behind it?"
labmates: "Just think about it... You'll get there eventually."
ten minutes later
labmates: "...and so, what time do the polls close in Wiscon-"
me: "OH MY GOD!"
labmates: "What?"
me: "You mean 'taco' refers to a part of the female genetalia? And THAT'S why it's some huge joke that this lesbian bar has 'TACO TUESDAYS'???"
pause
labmates: "You see, we knew you'd get it eventually."

Ms. Montessori, wherever you are, I have four little words for you: better late than never.

The Weekend

non-American professor: "Have a good holiday weekend, James."
me: "It's a holiday this weekend?"
non-American professor: "Yeah. It's President's Day on Monday."
me: "Oh. I guess I need to surface now and then and notice those kinds of things."
non-American professor: "Yeah. So what do Americans do for President's Day?"
me: "Well, I guess I'll be reading about gonad development."
non-American professor: "Interesting. Is that fairly typical?"
me: "Most definitely."

There and Back Again

Here we go again.

Since I subscribe whole-heartedly to freedom of the press, freedom of speech, freedom of expression, and freedom from oppression, I should readily post pictures of the Muhammad cartoons. (After all, if they offend you, then don't look at them.) But, this controversy is larger (yes, larger) than the great prophet himself, imaged or otherwise. I have to stand up, and stand against fundamentalism of all kinds. Believe what you want, but a free society cannot tolerate death threats against cartoonists, or the murder of film directors, or threats against defectors. I study the selective processes that influence the evolution of species, and I need to be able to walk down the street without thinking that an anti-evolution fundamentalist isn't going to strike me down. My boyfriend works for an organization representing the collective social interests of local Jews, and he needs to be able to go to work without fearing that someone's going to walk in and start shooting people for being Jewish or supporting Jews. In that sense, we've drawn our own Muhammad cartoons. What we do offends fundamentalists somewhere, but actions against us for these percieved offenses threaten the freedoms of everyone everywhere. For every Theo Van Gogh murdered, or Danish cartoonist threatened, we all lose - bit by bit, drip by drip.

So, come what may, here's what I have to say:

I stand with you, all the way.

Regret

co-worker: "Hey, James. What's a plate boundary?"
me: "You're talking about geology?"
co-worker: "Yeah. What's a geologic plate boundary?"
*fifteen minutes later*
me: "...and so the theory, as I understand it, really reaches way way back some 4.5 billion years to what's called the Giant Impact: the supposed collision between Earth and a roughly Mars-sized body called Theia, which was in Trojan orbit at a Lagrange point... I think. Now, Theia no longer exists. But, this collision is believed to have created the moon, and ejected out into space most of the materials that should've formed our planet's continental crust. Thus, Earth doesn't have enough continental crust to cover its surface, and so even now, we have active tectonics driven largely by magma rising and puncturing relatively thin oceanic crust..."
co-worker: "I want to die now."

Question and Answer Session

thesis advisor: "So, James. I have questions for you."
me: "You mean practice questions for my exam?"
thesis advisor: "No, about the caucuses. You and Zach caucused yesterday, didn't you?"
me: "Oh yes. I don't know how, but I suddenly became the caucus secretary. And Zach's an Obama delegate."
thesis advisor: "I went to mine... and, does it at all frighten you that all that chaos yesterday was really how democracy works?"
me: "Entirely."

I'm glad I'm not the only one wondering this.

Maneuvers

At noon today, I realized I'd nodded off in my chair, where I'd parked my butt to work on a presentation I'm giving Monday afternoon. "I'm going up the street for a latte," I slurred to my boyfriend, slipping my shoes on. He mumbled a gruff reply, as he was busy giving our wheezy cat another dose of steroids to open her constricted airways. Exiting Starbucks at 12:15 with a tall (non-fat) latte, I heard a man and a woman conversing on the sidewalk. The woman had asked, "Aren't the Democratic caucuses today?" The man confidently assured her that the caucuses began tonight at 7 o'clock. I interjected, "Actually, they begin at 1:00PM, and I believe the doors are sealed at 1:30 sharp." They glared at me with such astonishment that I looked down to make sure I had clothes on. After I verified that I wasn't naked, I looked back up at them and smiled, shrugging my shoulders and heading home. I wanted to add an additional snap: "Don't you people read the papers, or watch TV, or exist?! Because news of the rules and procedures have been out circulating for months now." I bit my tongue, since the could've beat me up and stolen my precious latte.

By the time I got home, Zach was ready to go. As soon as I got in the door, he set down our wheezing feline and said, "Good, you're here! We should get down to the caucus site!" When I protested that it was "only 12:40PM," and that we had plenty of time to walk two blocks to the elementary school, he overrode me, shoving me out the door. Since, secretly, I rather enjoy taking orders, I complied.

Once we got to the caucus site, I silently thanked him for insisting we arrive so early. At 12:45PM, a line was already forming outside the school cafeteria. I quickly realized that there were at least seven precincts caucusing in that single cafeteria. Perhaps that single room had been more than sufficient four or eight years ago, but it was not today. The initial "sign in" lines lacked proper signs for each precinct, and spilled in a pathetic, sloppy jam across the entranceway. Two caucus officials walked around and asked us useless questions: "Does everyone know their precinct?" I and a few others held up voter registration cards as an affirmative, and a few acid tongues snapped back, "Yeah, but can you tell me which line I go in for my precinct?" The two men shrugged their shoulders and moved on. I momentarily fantasized about staging a dramatic monologue about "ignorance, disorganization, and stonewalling." I abandoned this theatrical debut after I realized that I'd likely spill my latte in the process. Plus, all the "Hillary Clinton" and "Barack Obama" signs up reminded me: Zach really wanted to become a delegate to the King County Democratic Convention. If I stormed out, he'd follow me, and resent me for it for the next four years.

So, instead, we meandered through a few lines, and I'd occasionally ask him, "Growing up in Iowa, were their caucuses ever this disorganized?" He'd smile in that way-that-makes-him-look-really-cute and slowly shake his head. "Maybe they weren't prepared for such an overwhelming turnout," he'd reply. Women and men at the "sign in" tables tried to yell out the precincts they had forms for, except that none of these people could yell very well. Eventually, a caucus official walked by and (in a quiet voice) announced my precinct number, and told us that we could go over to our precinct gathering spot (a lunchroom table for kids) and sign in there.

The table was marked with a small sign, taped to the rim, that announced with four numbers our precinct: 1404. It was already full of people wearing "Obama" and "Clinton" buttons. "Hillary Clinton" signs were posted on the walls, and cheap posterboards with "Barack Obama" written on them in magic marker hung crooked and pathetic next to them. With seven precincts were gathering in such a small area, it was already getting noisy. A woman with a hearing aid and s feeble voice was talking at one end of the table, and I assumed she was in charge. She was nice, but I had to read her lips. More people gathered. My knees hurt and I wanted to sit for a minute, so Zach and I dragged a child's schooldesk over near the 1404 precinct table and sat on it. An old man joined us and started to talk to Zach. We signed in. I slipped my arm into Zach's and quietly sang ABBA's Fernando into his ear. He rolled his eyes and smiled, tolerating me. Two people from my building arrived and signed in. Dozens of others followed. Eventually, our feeble "1404" sign was obscured by 1404 voters. People from all seven precincts wandered around like lost souls, not knowing where to go to sign in. 1:00PM came and went, and the line to get in the school cafeteria stretched out into the parking lot.

Three women sat at the table reading the caucus rules to each other. The rules stretched on for ten pages. When one of them got up to find a restroom, I leaned over to the other two. "Listen, people don't know where their precinct tables are. Can you hand me the sign for our precinct?" They did, and I stood on the vacant chair, holding the sign up over my head. People laughed for a few moments. Zach and the old man clapped their hands. Since I'm afraid of heights, my palms began to sweat, and the posterboard sign began to bend where my hands touched the paper. I smiled feebly at blank stares and my ears glowed large and red like dying stars. I felt embarrassed, but useful. The old man next to Zach asked Zach if I was a "leader and trend-setter." My boyfriend was about to say "yes," but I called out "NO!" over my shoulder to cut him off. After all, I like taking orders, not giving them. The old man and Zach began to talk about the federal Defense of Marriage Act, which the old man opposed, as well as the ridiculous Don't ask, don't tell policy of gays and lesbians in the military. "How many Arabic and Urdu translaters have the armed forces kicked out for being gay???... Ridiculous..." the old man grumbled. I imagined the huge grin on my boyfriend's face - he'd found his bosom buddy.

As my arms tired, I'd switch the off, giving each one a break. The older woman with a feeble voice and hearing aids turned out to be a Clinton supporter, so I stopped asking her questions of procedure. She told me that 30 people caucused at this precinct in 2004. I told her just as many caucused at my old precinct in 2004 as well. We each thought there were at least 60 gathered around this table so far, trying to sign in. The three women at the table reading the rules were joined by a man in my building, who'd been trained on calculating delegate numbers by the local Democratic Party. I asked him, "Hey, are you gonna lead this thing for us?" He smiled and said, "I don't know. Is anyone else?" People lining up assumed that I was in charge, since I was standing on a chair and holding a sign. "No," I said, "I don't give orders that well. But, get in line here and sign in!"

Other precincts copied me. Though, instead of having average-height Welsh-American men stand on folding chairs, they handed their precinct signs to tall, blonde Aryan men with muscular torsos. I enjoyed the view. At around 1:30PM, a caucus official ran around to each table, blurting out that "Preliminary vote counting should now begin, and your elected caucus chair should direct everything from here on." The three rule-reading women and my neighbor stared at the caucus official dumbfounded. Some voices around the room muttered: "We were supposed to have elected a caucus chair already?..." From my bird's eye view, I saw that two precincts had indeed already elected chairs (who were directing the Aryan sign-holders) and were tallying up the written votes from our sign-in procedures. The other precincts, like my own, were headless. Zach and two of the rule-reading women put their names into consideration for caucus chair, but Zach withdrew his name after he realized that this technocractic position would prevent him from becoming a delegate. Plus, he hadn't read the caucus rules. By show of hands, a chair was selected. It was hard to hear, and our chair had a feeble (but kind) voice. Another woman yelled out commands, rules, and procedures on her behalf. The cafeteria doors should've been sealed to prevent latecomers, but weren't, since it was getting hot due to the crowds. Over 80 people signed in at my precinct.

The chair appointed a secretary to take notes on a form provided, and a tally clerk to count votes on the sign-in sheets. The tally clerk was my neighbor, and I stepped down from my chair to see if he needed help counting the 80+ votes. I didn't realize that this was the duty of the secretary, and that the secretary (apparently relieved that she was spared such a technocratic position) readily surrendered her duties to me while I helped my neighbors count votes. Obama supporters had a supermajority, giving them 4 of our precinct's 5 delegates. The Clinton supporters had the last remaining delegate. I wasn't suprised. I also wasn't surprised that I really enjoyed my role as secretary, since I kind of enjoy taking orders. Supporters divided into three camps: Obama, Clinton, and "uncommitted," to prepare speeches for the second round of voting. Clinton supporters quickly chose someone to give a one-minute speech of support for her. Obama supporters took longer, and people started to get bored. We kept telling the Obama supporters that their speech could only be a minute long, though they had trouble hearing us.

The chair and tally clerk (my neighbor) poured over the pages and pages of detailed rules and found them incomprehensible. I wrote notes with enthusiasm in blue ink. Occasionally, my boyfriend, in the midst of Obama supporters, would wink enthusiastically at me. He was having fun, though the look on his face also betrayed surprise: he couldn't believe the caucuses were this disorganized. Did the Democratic Party not comprehend human nature, and its tendency toward chaos? I winked back.

The Clinton supporters gave a great speech, but the Obama supporters had to be cut off because they ran out of time. The more enthusiastic Obama supporters looked at us with hatred. I resisted the urge to snap at them: "Oh, sure. Blame the technocrats. We told you 1,000 times that your speech could only be one minute long!" I bit my tongue instead. Obama and Clinton supporters tried to convince the uncommitted voters to switch their votes to their respective candidates. The precinct chair, myself, and the tally clerk poured over more pages of caucus rules, and the chair panicked when she realized we were skipping some formal speeches that had to be given explaining the caucus rules and its history. Obama and Clinton supporters overheard us and asked, "Who cares? We're just here to vote." Some people left, as they'd already voted for a candidate who was going to get delegates. The precinct next to us skipped most of the formal rules and left early. One latecomer tip-toed in to join that precinct and cast a vote, only to see her neighbors going home. I tried to feel bad for her, but had trouble since I've been reading for months that latecomers can't cast any votes.

Some of the uncommitted voters decided to cast votes for Obama in the second round of voting. As the tally clerk and I counted votes, the Clinton supporters chose their single delegate (and an alternate) and left. The Obama supporters began to select their four delegates (and alternates). Other precincts finished their business and left. Some Clinton and Obama supporters began to debate one another right next to us, while we were counting. Once we determined the final delegate count (Clinton 1, Obama 4), the chair and I filled out paperwork. Zach beamed at me from across the room - he'd been selected as an Obama delegate. Getting them to fill out their paperwork was a chore, due to Democratic Party rules regarding the order in which delegates and alternate delegates must write down their contact information on our official form. The chair and I kept apologizing to people for the delay. Slowly, people realized the final results. Obama supporters cheered at the supermajority of votes. Clinton supporters were just glad they showed enough support to win one delegate.

Handshakes were exchanged between caucusgoers as I finalized the notes. Some delegates left without their credentials for the county convention, and I made arrangements to ensure that they'd still get into the convention anyway. Zach talked enthusiastically with the old man and some of the Obama delegates. Our precinct population trickled to a few delegates, myself, and the chair. On his way out, the old man gave me a firm handshake, thanked me for "doing the jobs that no one wanted to do," and wished me well. We tried to find a caucus official to hand our official results over to, but we were told they all went home already. I was dumbfounded, since two precincts were still conducting business. I tracked down some Clinton and Obama campaign officials, who helped me find out where to turn in my precinct's results.

We finally walked home two hours after walking there, exhausted and excited. I sang Fernando again, while Zach reminded me that the Iowa caucuses were "Way more organized" than these were. I kept the sweaty-palm-warped "1404" precinct sign as a memento.

I can only hope and pray that other caucuses and primaries are executed with more coherence.

Finally

My governor has found her voice.

Lone Star

Monday, I turned in a draft of the written portion of my general exam for my thesis advisor to go over. Yesterday afternoon, she and I had an appointment set up to go over the draft together.

me: "So, tell me the truth."
her: "Huh?"
me: "Straight up. How bad is it? Is it awful? Does it need tons of work?"
her: "Oh, no. It's really great, James! It's an excellent draft, and you should be proud of it..."

I would have been more reassured, however, had her dog not chosen that exact moment to barf next to me on the carpet.

Everyone's a critic.

The Super

earlier this evening
me: "Oh my God, you guys! They've called Georgia, Alabama, and my former home state of Illinois for Senator Obama! They've called Oklahoma, Tennessee, and my birth state of Arkansas for Senator Clinton!"
co-workers: "Already?"
me: "Yeah! This is so f***ing cool! I have to go home and watch the results!"
co-workers: "Aren't you giving two presentations tomorrow, too? Don't you have to get those ready?"
me, dismissive: "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll get those ready eventually. But, for right now, I'm going to go home, open a bottle of cheap white wine, feed my cat, and make mozzarella cheese sticks and watch the results come in!"
co-workers: "Uh...."
me: "Well, Zach's working in Olympia. If he were here, though, I'd be doing something cooler."
co-workers: "Like, what?"
me: "Well... all that stuff I mentioned earlier, but with him. Plus, I might just be in my underwear."
co-workers: "Uh...."
me: "Gotta go! They might call Arkansas for Governor Huckabee. I love my life!"

Saturday couldn't come sooner. The Washington caucuses are at my fingertips!

Summary

Friday in Eight Points:
(Why eight? It's my favorite number.)

1. At 7:00AM, I was caught sleeping on one of the benches outside of lab, rather than setting up a PCR set.

2. At 8:03AM: "Hey everyone, guess what! The washingtonpost.com's political blog has possible VP picks up for all the main candidates, and I guessed all but one beforehand!" They weren't impressed.

3. "Dude, that's nothin'. I get back at my enemies by throwing leftover Chinese food in their yards!"

4. "Hey everyone, take a look! This piece of matzah looks just like Ohio!" I apparently said that as a Nobel laureate was passing by.

5. Five minutes into my first exam-prep meeting with my thesis advisor: "Can we take a quick break? I'm so stressed out that I'm about to pee my pants."

6. Fifteen minutes later: "Do you think it's bad if I told my graduate committee that I'd love to own a used bookstore today? Like, one of those bookstores where there are lots of cats running around?"

7. At 5:30PM, I walked into the men's restroom with an agarose gel. I don't know why.

8. Friday evening, to boyfriend (home after five awful days in Olympia): "What do you mean you're too tired to play Axis and Allies?!"