This is one of those composite, short posts, one of those mind dumps of pleasant things to jot down in virtual memory -- a compost if you will. [cue the groans]
Like one of those benign, only mildly creepy individuals who like to retire from the forefront of the world, and simply watch the world from behind the heavy velvet curtain - a group often known as writers, of which I'd like to someday be a part - I like to people-watch, and even more so, to people-listen.
Not in a creepy, sit-so-close-that-I'm-right-on-top-of-you, purposely snooping way, of course. And not like eavesdropping, with its negative connotations. Mostly, it's about filtering the ambient noises coming from my neighbors in coffee shops and public places, and maybe turning down the music on my ever-present headphones. (In my opinion, if you're talking so loudly that everyone can hear you, it's basically public property)
Occasionally, it's disturbing. Often, it's TMI. Occasionally, it yields wonderful little ditties like this, heard while waiting in line at the register at an store.
You know those kids on the street corner, the ones carrying shoeboxes of candy bars and fruit snacks, with a plastic jar for donations for their basketball teams stuffed beside? You know, the ones you sneak by guiltily, because you
1) don't have cash,
2) really don't need to have any chocolate or excess sugar lying around
3) their adorable, accusing eyes just weigh on your soul?
Or those bent little ladies, pushing their granny carts down the clattering metal boxes known as the MTA subways, wrinkled paper signs proclaiming "$2" in thick black Sharpie, taped to rumpled cardboard pallets of what must be Costco-style bulk chocolates, or worse, slightly off-putting self-packaged (?) Twizzlers or soft candies or nuts in opaque sandwich bags?
They should have learned a lesson from this woman, who according this cashier girl, apparently wandered into Philadelphia clothing store in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, hawking her sugary goods. Maybe not the best place or time to try to sell her goods.
But her business plan?
"Chocolate baa-aars, I'm selling cho-co-late ba-aars!" (just imagine this in a rich, brassy gospel voice, fabulous vocal runs included.)
"We were totally mocking her the whole day," says the cashier girl, while plonking away at the keys of her register, "like, 'Fold those clo-othes, Jess-i-ca pu-leeease!'"
"Yeah," says the teen customer with wildly grown-out crimson streaks in her hair, but who, despite her youth and misguided hair, speaks for us all, "but did you buy anything? Because that's hilarious - I would!"
"I would have!" replies the shopgirl, "But she was asking for two dollars for a chocolate bar, and why would I do that? The Rite Aid down the street sells them for a dollar."
(Common sense and fiscal responsibility: nice to hear from the mouths of the babes of America, and from salespeople at that.)
But that doesn't deter this spunky street treat-seller.
"Yeah, they might cheaper, but," says this sharp, shark-eyed vendor of snacks, "will they twerk for you?"
No -- no they won't. Someone put this woman on The Apprentice already!
Moral of the story: If you want to make a sale, always offer a little something extra on the side-- particularly if it's a dance move. (It's worth at least a dollar more!)
Other things making me happy this week [watch out for random links below!]:
a. This wonderful, lovely interview with David Mitchell, the British author whose elegiac and widely differing books should be on everyone's reading list, by Kathryn Schulz, whose every articleshould be on everyone's reading list, too. (She finds ties in his books with Madeleine L'Engle's Chronos & Kairos series - an amazing observation!)
b. This gorgeous short film with Roberto Bolle & Polina Semionova (give it a chance even if you're not a fan of ballet - this could change your mind. I'll twerk for you if you watch!)
c. This hilarious interview of our favorite, curiously work-unimpeded OB-GYN Mindy Kaling, by it-girl/observer of our generation Lena Dunham, and these golden quotes:
Dunham: “I love seeing women stand up for things they believe in, teach their daughters how to do the same, prepare meals out of whatever they have in their fridges, wear helmets when they ride their bikes, call BS when they see it, and accept that feminism comes in a lotta different forms.”
Kaling: “I love women who are bosses and who don’t constantly worry about what their employees think of them. I love women who don’t ask, ‘Is that OK?’ after everything they say. I love when women are courageous in the face of unthinkable circumstances, like my mother when she was diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer. Or like Gabrielle Giffords writing editorials for the New York Times about the cowardice of Congress regarding gun laws and using phrases like ‘mark my words’ like she is Clint Eastwood. How many women say stuff like that? I love mothers who teach their children that listening is often better than talking. I love obedient daughters who absorb everything — being perceptive can be more important than being expressive."
d. This cover of "All About That Bass" - the original song offends me musically and lyrically, a little bit, but the existence of this fabulous cover by the fabulously husky voiced Emily Davis covers a multitude of the original song's sins, and makes it so much better.
e. A little good news in troubling times: so glad to see something being done - finally - about the Ebola outbreak, and so proud that someone I know is involved in this cause!
Hm. Maybe I should publish this on Tuesdays, since 1) I never seem to be able to publish on Monday, anyway, and 2) it makes more sense, title-wise.
I have a few posts in the pipeline, thanks to James Vincent McMorrow's fantastic concert at Union Transfer and a spate of fantastic podcasts (which are my current media drug, since Lent has taken Netflix and Hulu away from me). So bear with me.
In the meantime, behold, the links for the week! This week's theme: historical-turned-contemporary females heroes - women throughout history who made a difference in their time, and are now being recognized and lauded through a contemporary lens.
Drexel University College of Medicine Archives and Special Collections / via
I was always fond of photography as a medium of art, but strangely enough, never gave much thought to it in terms of historical documentation. Perhaps it's because photographs can be easily manipulated, or that many photos used in historical documents are not particularly beautiful. When I see photographs in a museum, I am forever analyzing the individual elements - location, expressions, clothes - rather than taking the moment as a whole. I take photos at face value; a snapshot of time representative of what the exhibition intends us to perceive. Rarely does a photo inspire me to delve more deeply into the story. When I heard that Tumblrs of historical pictures were really popular, my first reaction was, "That's a thing?" followed quickly by "Who would follow these things?"
This picture proves me absolutely wrong.
Even at first glance, this is an unusual photograph. Just the fact that these three women of vastly different ethnicities are in the same room, in the same picture, is mind-blowing. How often would you find women from India, Syria, and Japan in the same photograph today? But then your eye takes in the time-yellowed sepia, and drops to the caption: Dr. Joshee. Dr. Okami. Dr. Islambooly. Drexel College of Medicine. 1885.
As the article points out, this was a time when women could not vote and were discouraged from pursuing education, a time where mental illnesses and even normal female behaviors were attributed solely to their more fragile nervous systems and their uteruses through the grossly insulting term, 'hysteria'. And yet these women, minorities by both ethnicity and gender, found a way to overcome distance, prejudice, and social norms to obtain educations by which they could aid their countrywomen.
This article demands to be read, and encourages further follow-up on behalf of the viewer. It struck me on several levels. For one, I live in Philadelphia; I would love to see this photograph in person, and dig further into the stories of the women in the picture. Also, having graduated from a medical school that was the last in the country to accept women, I am incredibly grateful for these women, and for the Women's Medical College of Pennsylvania, for having paved my way centuries before. The field of medicine for women is still bumpy in places, but it is nothing resembling the landscape before. Additionally, one of the small inspirational things that kept me doggedly climbing onwards during undergrad and medical school was a Japanese female doctor on a historical-based show, a character whose strength overcame discrimination and tragedy to help those in need (points if you can guess who). To think that she was not merely a ghost of imagination, but someone who possessed a name, a life, a spirit and determination - and in living, impressed herself into history itself - condenses my once imaginary handhold into something true, encouraging, and overwhelming real.
Another inspirational female physician, Elizabeth Blackwell, is the focus of this fantastic podcast. She's particularly interesting because she seems to have stumbled into a career medicine by arbitrary coincidence:
- she "hated everything connected with the body," but reluctantly considered studying medicine because of a suggestion from a dying friend;
- she needed another outlet for her intellectual restlessness;
- she wanted to remain unmarried and independent, and medicine was a socially acceptable way to accomplish this;
- her acceptance to medical school was mostly because the students voting on her admission thought the whole thing was a joke.
She was an incredibly unique and driven woman, an early feminist. She came from a poor family and was very much self-made; she fought for social reform in many areas, and thought of her pursuit of medicine despite rejection and insults as "a moral crusade"; she eloquently talked her way into the reproductive medicine course, for which her mind was thought to be too delicate; and eventually studied in Paris at La Maternité.
Basically, she's my role model.
Her family, her background, and her influence on medicine in New York - it's all very interesting, and covered at an entertaining pace by Tracy Wilson and Holly Frey.
This book shines light on the fascinating, complex, and unforgivably time-obscured life of Christine Granville, a British spy in WWII who fearlessly dodged her way past bullets, skied into Nazi-occupied territories as a courier, and rescued many of her fellow spies. She was renown for her bravery and her willingness to help the allied cause, as well as her string of lovers; she was potentially the model for Vesper Lynd, who happens to be my favorite Bond character. I've only read the first couple of chapters of this book, but I can say that Clare Mulley does a great job elucidating the mysterious life and opaque motivations of this incredible woman who was ahead of her time. I'm really not sure why her life hasn't been made into a movie yet.
Also, her name is Christine; and I am compelled to mention how grateful I am to be able to add a name to the short, short list of memorable Christines in culture and literature, which includes only a lovely but passive, naive opera singer and a psychotic killer car. (Thanks, creatives of the world.)
Speaking of forward-thinking women ahead of their time, is there any female character in literature more respected and held in awe than The Woman, Irene Adler? When Sherlock Holmes gives you a seal of approval - hell, if he even registers your existence and intelligence - you know you've made it. While the story of the original Adler, the only woman to outwit and impress Holmes and the only good thing to ever come out of New Jersey (kidding!), remains fresh and worth reading even now, I actually prefer Steven Moffat's updated version of the story. This episode is a great lesson to all those intrepid screenwriters and filmmakers out there on how to properly reinterpret a story ages old through a contemporary lens (Sorry, Guy Ritchie).
Yes, to the benefit or the detriment of the story, the great Irene Adler has been translated to the present as a dominatrix. Generally, I'm underwhelmed by culture's attempt to reinterpret feminism and re-appropriate female objectification through aggressive and excessive displays of sexuality (that's another blog post). But even I think this interpretation works in this case.
For one, it's not that far of a leap; female performers in the past were not considered much more highly than prostitutes. Secondly, Moffat uses her profession, and the people she interacts with, to up the stakes from the original story. Additionally, the dichotomy between Holmes' learned coldness and precise demeanor and Adler's bold sexuality and mischievous intelligence makes for intriguing, enlightening conflict and really great TV. And Lara Pulver is amazing, as is Benedict Cumberbatch, so I'll basically forgive them for anything. In the end, it's a fabulous study of two complex characters, a showcase for fantastic acting, and a tightly-built, worthwhile story.
And speaking of reinterpretations, I don't think there has ever been anyone quite as reincarnated in modern light as Helen of Troy. Simply a weak, careless, and beautiful woman passively passed around like a cereal box prize in the original myths, she's been given actual depth and private motivations in modern reinterpretations. I love explorations of female characters previously defined only by their beauty and gender, which apparently was enough for male gazes of writers from antiquity to present (see MPDG). Helen of Troy is a particular favorite of mine; I haven't had a chance to read CS Lewis' incomplete take on the myth in "After Ten Years," but I do particularly love Margaret Atwood's cynical and blazing Helen, and the simple strength and life that pulses through "Love Letters from Helen of Troy" - those last lines - chills, just chills.
(I also secretly love the fact that they're in poem form, which seems like a giant middle finger in the direction of Homer and the ancient bards.)
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