Separation Anxiety

While my students were slaving away at their final exam, I took time to look at each and every one of my students (while not being TOO obvious) and say goodbye to them in my head. Normally I'm not sentimental; the circle of life goes on, and every new semester saddles me with a new set of students who manage to both inspire and repulse me at the same time.

Yet this time is different. For now, I say goodbye to teaching and go back to being a full-time student.

So goodbye to my talkative students. I've learned so much from you, and I hope you have learned a little from me.

Goodbye to my quiet students. You've never given me any problems. I wish I knew more about you, but I respect your silence.

Goodbye to my troublesome students. My sarcasm needs practice every now and then. A game of darts always needs a dartboard.

Goodbye to the students who laugh at my jokes. Please don't repeat them to anyone else.

Goodbye to the students who pester me with questions. You've kept me on my toes, and restored my faith in your generation of thinkers.

Goodbye to the students who have been tardy both in work and attendance. I've learned to zip it and count small blessings. Better late than never, right?

Thank you to those students who come to office hours when they say they will. A professor can only take so much surfing on youtube.com in the dank, dark cubicle.

Thank you to those students who can remember my name correctly. You should be knighted, canonized and awarded a Nobel Prize.

As the bard Louie Llamzon, este William Shakespeare so eloquently put it "parting is such sweet sorrow."

The Priceless Haircut (Literally and Figuratively)

Last Monday was the day that I had been waiting for my whole life. It was the day of my hair appointment at the Bb salon in downtown NYC. Now before y’all chastise me about the frivolous expense when I am supposedly living on a graduate student budget, let me tell you this: IT WAS FREE!

So you see, this is how it works. They have a “University” in the downtown salon where hair guys and gals from all over the world learn the latest techniques in haircuts. Thing is, they need a constant supply of models – real hair to practice with. By signing up on the website, one is invited to a model call, where one’s hair is assessed by a Bb professional, and then to a cutting class suited to one’s hair type. I attended a model call about a month or so ago, where a man who was a lot prettier than me declared that I was a “long hair girl” and promptly assigned me to a long layers cutting class. I was actually invited to a color call as well, and stupid me, I decided to skip it. It would have been great to arrive at my University reunion with funky colored hair.

And so this is how I got here in this chair, in this minimalist salon with large windows facing the Hudson. This place is so hip, it hurts. The men and women of this salon were so impossibly impeccably groomed. Sometimes, I hate coming to this area of the city -- I always feel plain and underdressed. But free haircuts are free haircuts and I am going to get my free haircut even if it kills me (i.e. my pride).

K., my stylist, was unlike any stylist I had ever had in my life. First of all, he was wearing a goth shirt with skeletons and blood – very unlike the artsy-fartsy West Village vibe that the other stylists gave off. Secondly, he had a good sized Swiss Army backpack. I’m willing to bet that there was a Mac Book Pro inside it, and that he is into network gaming. He wasn’t very chatty either, although he was very personable young chap. He reminds me of some of my A-students – they don’t speak unless spoken to, but they turn in extraordinary work. I decided to put everything into his hands. I have had the same haircut for five years – anything was better than this. And if worse comes to worst, hair grows back anyway.

I was amazed at the technical stuff jargon that the stylists used in talking about my hair options. I actually heard the word “occipital” three times while K. and his educator (the-very-attractive-but-would-never-look-at-me-twice-because-he’s-gay N.) discussed how the back of my mane should be cut. They measured the curvature (seriously, they used these words) of the front of my head to determine where the bangs should start. The sections of hair were so precisely measured that I actually asked K. if he was being graded on his shit (he said he would be critiqued later so...pretty much).

K. did a lot of work removing weight from my hair. My ponytail is so heavy that it actually hurts when I tie everything up (oh wait; maybe those are the migraines I am getting from checking my students’ exams). But it never really hit me until I saw all of my hair on the floor and my stylist (who has been cutting hair for a few years) tells me “Yeah, you have a LOT of hair.” Thanks Einstein. Tell me something I don’t know.

K thinned out some of my hair by using broad strokes with a straight edge razor. When he put the razor in front of my face to cut my bangs, I literally froze in place. One false move by either of us, and we would have had a restaging of Sweeney Todd, Demon Barber of 13^th Street. (I wonder if any of these chairs have trapdoors underneath.).

I ended up keeping the length of my hair, but the new layers give it a lot of movement. The bangs are a bit long, but I can sweep them towards the right or to the left. I don't even have to really blow dry...I just zap my hair with a bit of warm hair to take out a little bit of the moisture, then I twirl random sections until they're dry. I must say, I think K. did an excellent job. He said that the best thing he liked about the cut was that I looked a lot different than before I sat in the chair (he has the “before” and “after” pics to prove it too). Most of his “professors” praised his work. My bangs are sooo cute (I haven’t had bangs since grammar school) and I love my sassy new haircut. I’ve been road-testing the haircut this week, and I’ve must have gotten no less than 7 compliments, mostly from guys, mwahahahaha! Batch reunion, here I come!

Now my problem is that my Holy Grail stylist is based in the West Coast (dammit!). What am I going to do now if K. is in California? (Sob!). So if any of you guys are within traveling distance of the Umbrella Salon in San Jose (umbrellasalon.com), look for the Asian guy with the Swiss Army backpack. Tell him that the girl from NYC with the insane amount of hair sent you.

Photo taken from the Bumble and bumble website, I think.

Random Graduate Student Notes

Last Friday, Roomie and I attended a Graduate School Awards Ceremony. Of course, we were excited about getting our certs (and the tres chic free totes and pens that came with them) from the President of the University. Being the most observant (i.e. nosy) people in the world, we noted a few small but very telling things. The first thing we noticed was that the crowd here seems to be pretty different from the crowd in the graduate socials. If our Department's contingent had the most colorful (and if I may say, most stylish) attires in the room, it must be an extra-dowdy affair. Seriously.

Another thing we noticed was that in spite of the abundance of relatively good food and alcoholic drink, we were the only people who stuck close enough to the buffet table to be within easy reach of the cocktail shrimp and the fancy canapes. No one else seemed to be eating or drinking, in spite of the President's exhortation to party hearty. Was there a pre-awards ceremony cocktail hour that we were not invited to? Are these people really grad students? Because if they were, they would have wrapped five of those mini potato cakes in a table napkin to last them for the rest of the week.

We also noticed that the Departments whose names start with P seem to win a large number of these awards. Therefore, on Monday, I am going to visit the Chair of my Department to try to convince him that the only way for us to corner more of the University Funding is to add a P to our Department name. P__________s. Yep. Excuse me while I bang my head on the whiteboard.

Aside from these issues, I wasn't really paying attention. Most of the time, I was staring at the Dean's jewelry, all the while thinking that my necklace sitting at home was better than hers.

On an interesting note, our tiny little contingent was talking about the buildings on campus and how some of them are extremely old. Roomie (scaredy cat that she is) commented half-jokingly that there might be spirits walking around these buildings, particularly since these buildings were once (and some continue to be) residential structures. I told them that there is a priest on campus who holds a talk every Halloween on The Exorcist because he starred in and served as a consultant for that movie. In fact, a scene in the movie was shot in a particular room in one of the dorms.

Suddenly, a knife and a couple of pieces of cheese fell with a loud noise, startling us out of the conversation. Examining the scene of the crime, we could not see why the knife and the cheese just suddenly jump off the buffet table. No one was nearby except for us, and we were standing closer to the tasty quesadilla-like hors d'oeuvre rather than to the cheese plate.

Insert Twilight Zone theme here.

One in Every Ten

Zaccheus was trying to see who Jesus was, and was unable because of the crowd, for he was small in stature.

So he ran on ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree in order to see Him, for He was about to pass through that way.

When Jesus came to the place, He looked up and said to him, "Zaccheus, hurry and come down, for today I must stay at your house."

And he hurried and came down and received Him gladly.

Luke 19:3-6

One of my greatest joys is this statistic: 1 in every 10. I have seen the Pope once in every 10 years, a total of three times. Not bad for someone who doesn’t live next door to the Vatican.

I was four years old when Pope John Paul II visited my city, the first and last time the Holy Father would do so. At that time, I had no idea what he meant to me, and what he meant to a country of more than 50 million Catholics. He was a young Pope then, only in his early 60s. The Popemobile was nothing more than a parade float that was decorated with flowers – the assassination attempt at the Vatican would happen the following May – and no bulletproof glass separated him and the people who called out for him, asking for his blessing.

He passed by my street.

And he stopped right in front of my house.

My heart still swells at the thought.

The Pope stopped in front of my house.

I saw him again when I was eighteen. I had walked miles to see him, although many others had traveled hundreds, even thousands of miles to do exactly the same. He talked to the young people, and millions (yes millions) were there to listen. He was no longer young, and there were rumors of illness. But that night, in the midst of the joy and the singing, he defiantly twirled his walking stick, jokingly telling the journalists that he would jab them with it if they came too close. That night, I happened to be at the right place at the right time. He was no more than three yards away when he passed by. I have never seen so much compassion in someone’s eyes.

After that, I was never the same again.

My heart still swells at the thought.

The man is gone now, and people now call him “the Great.”

Yesterday, I was eighteen again, except I made my pilgrimage by subway, instead of on foot. I waited for three hours without sitting but the wait was full of singing and music and joy. People say that Catholics are a dour lot, all hellfire and brimstone, and yet Fifth Avenue was filled with a happy anticipation.

A roar started coming up the avenue, and the colors of the Vatican flew over everyone’s heads. Finally, the man we had been waiting for had arrived. Benedict XVI waved a gentle wave to the crowd, as shouts of “Viva il Papa!” echoed over and over. Never would the Pope be a distant presence in Rome, but a real person doing real things in the hope of healing the hurts of the Church. People have christened him “the German Shepherd,” zealously guarding the Church that he loves.

Tonight, Shepherd One takes off from New York City.

My heart still swells at the thought.

Mormons at the Door

Yesterday was an absolute mess of a day for me. I hate having to listen to the moaning and groaning of my ickle students. Someone had the gall to say that I should give consideration to him/her because there were TOO MANY GOOD STUDENTS in the class and therefore he/she CANNOT COMPETE WITH THEM.

GOOD LORD. In every class, there will be A’s and there will be F’s. DEAL WITH IT.

Not meaning to disrespect the Lord, but He had a field day with me yesterday. I had not eaten since the previous night, and it was already almost five in the afternoon. I was tired. I was hungry. I was pissed. I needed to whip up dinner early, because I had made plans with my friends for the evening. I was in the middle of dicing my potatoes when the doorbell rang. For a moment, I thought it was one of the neighbors, because it seemed like there was a party in the hallway. I put the knife down and answered the door.

There were two Mormons at the door (should I call them Latter-Day Saints?). Now, I really have nothing against Mormons. I went to school with them. I‘ve worked with them. There might even be a few living in my building. I try to respect the beliefs of the people around me. When they (the Mormons) asked for the lady of the house (because apparently, they thought I was 15 years old), I said politely that I am Catholic, and therefore whatever religious teaching I will listen to should come from my Church.

Once one of the guys heard the word “Catholic,” he began to try to egg me on into a theological debate. How do I know if my faith is the correct faith? Did God tell me Himself? Did I choose to become a Catholic or did I just become one because I was baptized when I was a month old? I kept trying to close the conversation politely but he kept saying “Just answer one last question for me.” He even said “I know about the Catholic Church, I’m Mexican!” and “All versions of the Bible are the same!”

The good Lord was probably laughing up a storm.

Dude, the fact that you are Mexican does not make you versed in Catholic Doctrine. I told the two of them that they can’t offer me just ANY version of the Bible – the ones I use have the Nihil obstat and Imprimatur from the hierarchy of the Church. All the same, I pretty much kept my tongue in check, even though I wanted to tell them that it was gonna take more than just two Mormons to shake two and a half years of University-level Theology, four years of weekly Catholic Doctrine classes, 27 years of Catholic school, 31 years in a loving, devout Catholic family, and knowing deep in my heart and in my mind that the Lord is in constant communion with the Catholic Church

However, at this point, head was pounding and my stomach was growling.

Then finally, the guy got into the topic of original sin (it was still the Mexican guy speaking…the blond Caucasian guy was just standing in the background, carrying the sack of Bibles). He said “How can you have original sin when you are a little kid? You are born perfect…in the image and likeness of God!”

THAT was when I COMPLETELY LOST IT.

HOW PRESUMPTUOUS OF YOU TO SAY THAT YOU WERE BORN PERFECT! How presumptuous of you to say that with your free will, you will ALWAYS make the right choice!

Go ahead. I’m still listening.

GET UP AND SEE THE SARCASM IN MY EYES.

I’m sorry to say that I practically threw them out of my face, but it was just the perfect ending to a bad day that was just beginning. I knew that I had let my temper get the better of me…I could have just tried to turn around the situation and get them to listen to what the Catholic Church teaches.

Like I said, I had no food since the night before.

I look back at yesterday, and I realize that God still has a sense of humor. After all, He made me leave the knife.

So it shall be written: Charlton Heston 1924-2008

I must have watched The Ten Commandments more than 20 times. I had first seen it when I was around 9 or 10 years old, and I have probably watched it every Holy Week since. Charlton Heston was such a huge part of my childhood: in addition to The Ten Commandments, I have seen Ben-Hur, The Agony and the Ecstasy, and The Greatest Story Ever Told and these probably influenced my taste for large-scale epic movies (no, Gladiator is not one of them). My parents are such huge fans that they recognized his voice even when he was not onscreen (not to mention his trademark knock-kneed gait). Even now, when I watch that chariot race, or the parting of the Red Sea, or the confrontations between Moses and Pharoah (played by the also larger-than-life Yul Brynner), I just shake my head and say to myself that people don't make movies like they used to.

Casting on another sock...

I treated myself to a small amount of yarn over the spring break and am currently working on another pair of socks for myself *frantically looks for a pic of the first pair, doesn't find one.* God knows how long it's going to take me this time, as I have to split my waiting-for-my-laundry time between this and reading Gogol. The rate I'm going, it's definitely cheaper to buy socks, particularly from Filene's.

Like the other pair I made, these are knitted from the toe up, using a basic pattern that I found on the Internet. However, I added a herringbone stitch pattern that I found on another pattern. After finally working out the number of stitches I needed (most sock patterns are usually too big for my feet) using Excel (dorky, I know), I got to work and am happily halfway through the foot, at least by this morning.