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On procrastinating in grad school

I’m back from blog hiatus! Firing it up again to tell a few stories and mull over what’s next.

Dissertation year (2013-2014) was hard. I spent a lot of time fighting with myself and needed help getting through it. It’s hard to remember to be gentle with yourself when setbacks feel like personal failures, or feel connected when your friends have moved away, or keep perspective when your job is a mix of “Spend every day realizing how much you don’t know” and “Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show.” I loved it best when colleagues put away their grant-writing, everything-is-awesome faces and we could all just admit we were learning on the fly together.

So alongside the research were the self-reckonings and the ways I learned to work with myself, which my mom (herself a Ph.D.) pointed out was perhaps the true value of the degree. I am very grateful to my advisor and Duke’s counseling center for the lessons on non-judgment and compassion for myself and others. (Insert plug for CAPS’s mindfulness courses. So, so glad they were there.)

Today’s topic: that most human of habits, kicking the can down the road. For me, the procrastination monster reared its head early and often. In fifth grade my mom got mad at me for spending the weekend sculpting a clay bird due next Friday while neglecting a report due Monday. In college, I relied on my knack for pulling off term papers hours before they were due. Same thing for grad school—I worked and re-worked grants until the absolute submission deadlines. I was never late, but man did I get things in under the wire.

Fear of failure and the accompanying perfectionism hovered nearby, and still do. The bioinformatics learning curve I (and others in biology) have been ascending is steep. Tasks like figuring out programming pipelines and working with massive amounts of data for the first time were daunting. I didn’t know where to start, felt bad asking for help all the time, didn’t yet have the vocab to Google my way around, and ended up putting off a crucial step for months out of sheer paralysis.

And, of course, the mental pile-ons included beating myself up in comparisons to friends who made steady progress, whereas all I had was a habit of thriving under pressure. It took therapy to accept that needing deadlines is just how I work. I also noticed that I was hard on others who procrastinated because I so disliked the trait in myself, yet I couldn’t stop succumbing to YouTube or Wikipedia when hitting an analysis or writing block.

In emotional terms, practicing mindfulness gave me that vital moment of awareness before clicking “New Tab” for a temporary distraction. In practical terms, what saved me were productivity tools for focus and writing. Here are the ones that worked for me — you can find lots more with Google searches (example here).

researchPaperI mean, this is what we’re up against. (credit) And I have no interest in implying that I have conquered procrastination. That is laughable, because there are ALWAYS more crosswords to solve.

1) Leechblock: I found this website-blocking program in January 2013, after my friend Jason posted “SOMEONE TAKE THIS INTERNET AWAY FROM ME SO I CAN WORK.” You list the websites you want to block and specify how long to block them. Alternatively, you can specify how long per hour you’re allowed to visit before you’re blocked. You can create separate lists with separate settings, and you can force yourself to type a password before the program gives you access to change settings.

Pros: This is SUCH an effective tool. I’m going to use it forever. It broke my pattern of automatically escaping to the Washington Post (my homepage) when I was facing a rough patch in the writing. My passwords have been either miserable sentences featuring my advisor’s name or questions on how I’d like to be spending my time. The act of typing them when I’m trying to access a site is often enough to wake me up. The program works because I set the permissions, but during my moments of weakness, like Odysseus yelling to be untied from his ship, it’s an external control saving me from the Internet sirens. Now that it’s been in place for two years, it’s trained me really well to recognize new distractions and to wait until my nightly window to read blocked sites.

Cons: You can game it, of course. There are lots of news sites carrying the same stories. And if you mess a lot with your settings, the power of your password gets diluted fast. I had to figure out a balance between lax and draconian measures so the program could do its job.

2) RescueTime: After I submitted my dissertation to the grad school in March 2014, my friend Mari told me about this plug-in, which monitors your computer use both online and off-. It categorizes each website/software from Very Distracting to Very Productive (tweak as needed) and gives you a productivity score at the end of the day. You can pause monitoring, receive a weekly summary newsletter, and track your scores on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis.

RescueTime

Pros: If you’re grade-oriented, as I am, you’ll find it useful. In the week between submitting the dissertation to the grad school and my committee, I was sailing on high scores from all the time I spent revising. Nowadays I average 50-60% productivity, which seems low but usually means I’m on track. The visuals are good at showing to your face when you’re the most (un)productive.

Cons: I had to manually configure Windows for it to start up with my computer by default, which is lame given its purpose. Also, multi-purpose websites are tricky to categorize. Where does email fall—neutral, productive or distracting? Probably neutral, but because I spend so much time per day on it writing professional emails, it adds less than it should to the productivity score at the end of the day.

3) Write or Die 2: The name caught my eye when I was Googling around in August 2014 to kickstart manuscript revisions. It’s a web- or desktop-based plugin that’s targeted for the NaNoWriMo crowd: your goal is to write text non-stop without worrying about formatting or editing. The fun part is the reward or punishment settings you choose to help make your writing goal. Below is an example from the Consequence category. (An additional perk is Kamikaze Mode, where if you go a certain time without writing, an invisible monster starts eating all the vowels in your sentences.)

WriteOrDie

Pros: We have birds in our lab that are rewarded with birdsong when they accomplish certain tasks. Likewise, I wrote an entire introduction to the soothing sound of crickets. Thank you, cognitive behavioral psychologists.

Cons: It’s buggy, costs money, and is mostly good for the novelty. It’s also not great for revising because you can’t format EndNote or other fields, so eventually I had to abandon and return to Word. So I’ll mainly stick to using it to jump-start drafts.

==

Finally, perspective really helped.

Russ’s passing during my dissertation year consistently nudged me forward. I wrote a few words to myself after he died.

Do it for Russ.

Remember the short-term pain that you want to avoid is countered by the long-term sense of accomplishment, and of success, and of getting the credentials you need to do the things you want. Don’t shortchange yourself now. Don’t torch your dissertation out of procrastination. At the end of the day, it is yours, and you want to be able to own that statement with every cell in your body. Now go forth and make it something you’re so proud of you can’t wait to share it with the world.

Remember how much you want to know the answer. Remember the excitement. Remember the difference between liking and loving your research. Sometimes you may dislike it intensely. Often you are convinced it’s so shitty and clumsy that anyone else could do better. (Which is maybe why you put it off.) But behind the anguish and the fear and the uncertainty is the love you have for your work. The love you have for birds, and sunrises, and that puffer fish in the silent mangrove. The love you have for the people who have gotten you here.

In closing, the PostSecret card that got me through.

metoo

Happy muddling. And thank you all for your beautiful brains. 🙂

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You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

This is a story about two women in science.

I finished fieldwork on Monday and drove down the next day to San Francisco to hear my friend Laurie’s practice talk for an upcoming meeting. We first went out to dinner at a Korean restaurant, where we were seated at a tiny table for two. To our left was another pair of diners, a man and a woman, close enough that we could have all linked arms and sung Kumbaya if we’d wanted.

Except things went from fine to sour. While summarizing my fieldwork to Laurie, I noticed the man (next to me) twitching his head in my direction and gesturing to his companion. Was he indicating something about me? Then I heard him say: “Upspeak. She’s using upspeak. Do you know what that is?” The woman replied no. “It’s where people’s voices go up when they talk. She’s doing it. I can’t stand it.”

Reflexively I began checking my speech. First, his definition of upspeak was wrong. While I was certainly altering my pitch, I was not turning every sentence into a question. (Hold on, why did I instantly try to correct myself?) Second, it became impossible to continue the conversation. It was like talking on a cell phone that echoes — mid-sentence, I’d see the head jerk and lose my train of thought. We were not happy.

Laurie tried to tell me about her own latest work, using tools to scan the genome for transcription factor binding motifs. Ignoring the fact that we were talking shop, the man started gesturing toward her with his chopsticks. “Women do it more than men,” he informed his companion. “Girls more than guys.”

Laurie soldiered on, asking me an actual question ending in an actual question mark. When he waved in dismissal at her upward inflection, the irritation boiled over. I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry, it’s really annoying to have you commenting on our conversation.”

I stared into the blue eyes and frozen smile of a middle-aged man; I registered wispy light hair and a sport jacket. Who was this person who thought it was okay to treat us like bugs under a microscope?

We were all flustered. I wanted to say more, but I knew I would trip over my words. Laurie and I recall his reply, “Well, it’s more annoying to have to hear it. And I didn’t realize you could hear us,” followed by the woman’s apology. (Hold on, why was she the one to say sorry?) Everyone returned to their respective conversations, but of course the tension remained.

He quickly made himself disagreeable in other ways, undermining his companion with statements like “You never know how to make a long story short, do you?” Also, he said “No!” when requested to eat his food.

The awkwardness flared again when we made room for them to leave. The man turned before reaching the door, looked at us, and said, “I hope you have a nice night.” I gave him the benefit of the doubt, managing a tight smile and thank you before watching him exit our lives.

We spent the rest of the night talking in upspeak. Oh, wait, no, we worked for two hours on Laurie’s talk, which contains two years of impressive and meticulous findings on recombination rate variation in great apes.

Then we spent the rest of the night talking in upspeak.

P1010354

The offenders in question? Clearly we need some more recent photos?

==

Some thoughts:

(a) I re-read the recent commentaries on vocal fry, the latest women’s speech pattern to throw everyone up in arms. Quotes:

  • “For years, women have been criticized for raising their voices at the end of sentences…So we’re wrong when we raise our voices, and we’re wrong when we lower them.” (Amanda Hess, Slate, 7 January 2013)
  • “Judgments about speech are judgments about the speakers themselves…Inherently there is of course nothing unsophisticated about vocal fry, up-talk, or using ‘like.’ All this is to say that normative judgments about linguistic prestige are relative, and merely reflect social attitudes.” (Gabriel Arana, Atlantic, 10 January 2013)

This isn’t to say I don’t notice those tics myself. After all, my peers and I grew up with those same social attitudes. But something about that man’s fixation was especially grating. He interrupted a serious work discussion to comment on our voices and not our words. We were judged for something unrelated to the content of our character, then treated to an unsavory glimpse of his. I only hope those judgments weren’t shoved directly into a mental bin of All Women Are. Given his behavior, I’m not optimistic. But I can still hope.

(b) Corollary 1: Even if we had been talking about clothes/hair/dating, we still shouldn’t have felt obliged to defend our intelligence or ourselves. Corollary 2: Would he have done the same thing if one or both of us had been male? If there had been a man with us? (“Further experiments manipulating sex ratio will test whether the subject’s reactions are always this awful.”)

(c) It felt so good to speak up, even if I wasn’t totally composed. Credit to Women in Science and Engineering, “Lean In,” biology seminars, and my mom (who once stopped in the middle of a violin recital to tell the audience to shut up). I wish it hadn’t felt revolutionary to be assertive to a stranger, and I wish I’d stayed articulate under pressure. But this just means next time will feel a little less boat-rocking, and I’ll keep my presence of mind a little longer, until it will no longer be blogworthy to ask for respect. I want to try again.

(d) So, to the man at dinner, wherever you are: I hope you understand our perspective and why your behavior was upsetting. My friend and I were engaged in normal adult conversation and deserve to be treated like normal adult diners. Please refrain from judging us, and judging us incorrectly. I hope we made an impact on you as much as you did on us.

Also, we are very sorry about your penis.

Hit it, Feminist Taylor Swift.

Letter from (almost) Cuba

Dear friends and family,

In 2009, when I first pitched my Big Dissertation Idea to my lab, my advisor Steve concluded the discussion by saying, “I think Cuba is in your future.” He was far more prescient than I was. After three years of receiving lip service, the notion of traveling there gradually became a reality over this past year. On Wednesday I board a flight to Havana and will spend the next two months in southwest Cuba chasing blackbirds.

Because I don’t expect to have internet (more on that later), I’m writing this post as a stand-in message before going offline. It covers why I’m going; how my contacts and I got this thing in motion; and what I know about my living conditions so far. I’ll say upfront that I’ve never kicked off a field season knowing so little about what’s on the other side, so there’s a fair amount of speculation about that last part.

Anyway, enjoy!

What I’m doing in Cuba

I’m going so I can sample two of the five blackbird species I study. Basically, I need to know how much they cheat (ahem, “engage in extra-pair mating”) relative to the other three species. I collect blood samples from Mom, Dad and the kids, then run DNA paternity analyses to see which of the kids weren’t fathered by Dad.

[Aside: If you’re interested, here is a video of me giving a five-slide research talk in early April. The fourth slide shows the distribution of my five species and explains why I go where I go each summer. My segment starts at 07:40 and is followed by fascinating talks from fellow grads who have all summed up years of their lives in five minutes.]

For multiple reasons, I predicted that the three species in the Caribbean—the one I sampled last year in Puerto Rico, and these two Cuban species—would cheat less often than the two continental North American species. Initially, I was going to sample just the Puerto Rico birds, then extrapolate their behavior to the Cuban birds.

To my surprise, I found that the Puerto Rico blackbirds basically cheated as much as one of the continental species. Out went my ability to infer the Cuban birds’ behavior. And in came the excited responses after I presented my findings at a conference last summer. In describing my project to a roomful of witnesses, I inadvertently made it official that I was going to discover what those Cuban birds were up to.

Still, it wasn’t clear that Cuba would even allow samples to be exported for genetic analyses. The country is a signatory of a biodiversity convention adhering to rules stricter than anything the U.S. belongs to. And, like Brazil, there is a measure of commercial protection of its natural resources. I was initially told that taking out blood samples would be out of the question.

But to my great good luck, I recognized a contact early one morning, at the conference 5K, who has since become one of my life-lines. (Kids, this is why Google-stalking is an important life skill.) I’ll call him F here. F traveled to Cuba last fall to talk with officials about his own projects and to ask the current policy on exporting blood samples. Back in 2001, he had received a yes. With the Bush years, that answer turned to no. I got the phone call in late October where he told me they were saying yes again. Full speed ahead!

Where I’ll be

Here’s Cuba.

Cuba_01

I land in Havana, spend a few days sorting out paperwork, and then…somehow…will travel 80 miles southeast to that lovely green peninsula inside the blue box. Also: I cannot believe how close Cuba is to Florida.

The green spot is Zapata Peninsula, home to Zapata Swamp National Park, a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve and the largest tract of preserved wetland in the Antilles. It’s home to almost 200 species of birds, as well as a staggering amount of peat moss and all three genera of a rodent called a hutia. (Wikipedia: “They are hunted for food in Cuba, where they are often cooked in a large pot with wild nuts and honey.”)

Cuba_02

Alas, I may not get to see the hutias. Because of unknown political stuff going on at the Ministry of Science, I was ultimately not given access to the park. I was told I’d have to get so-and-so permits from so-and-so agencies, and that previous U.S. ornithologists were similarly denied entrance to the park’s protected areas.

Before the bad news broke, F had connected me with a colleague (I’ll call him R) in the Ministry of Agriculture who manages a reserve just to the east of the national park. After the bad news, it suddenly became my only option, as well as the first of many times F would save my ass.

If you click on the map, you’ll have a better view of the little lake east of the green area. That’s where I’ll be, near a town called Guamá. Apparently it is home to a recreated Taíno village and a crocodile farm. (Rough Guide: “On a tour round the swamp you can witness a mock capture of an exhausted-looking baby crocodile and are then invited to eat one at the Croco Bar.”)

I’m there until late June, and then I spend my last week in Havana getting my affairs in order until returning to the States. I come home on the Fourth of July.

Also, check out the inlet between the park and the lake. That’s the Bay of Pigs.

Yeah.

Getting there

This has been a long and painful process. On the U.S. side, I have travel and import permits from three federal agencies plus Duke. On the Cuban side, I have…no visa, no site permits, and no export permits.

At minimum, I needed a visa even to board the charter plane in Miami. Ideally it would have been a work visa, issued from the agency overseeing the field site, that would allow me to work for 70-odd days. Things were looking good, until my Agriculture contact R disappeared from email. As my flight date approached and no visa appeared, my travel agent and I switched to Plan B: Fly in with a 30-day tourist visa, buy myself a month to meet with Agriculture people, and lobby for the work visa once I’m on the ground.

[Travel agent: So, I will book you a round-trip ticket with the 30-day tourist visa. Once you’re approved for an extended stay, then you can buy a one-way ticket for July.
Me: Wait, why can’t I book two one-way tickets, one for April and one for July?
Travel agent: As a U.S. citizen, it’s illegal for you to book a one-way ticket to Cuba.
Me: Right. Yes. Got it. Very good.]

Tomorrow I receive the round-trip ticket in the mail. Major thanks to my advisor for footing the bill for this unwieldy itinerary.

There’s a happy epilogue (so far): R’s brother, with whom he shares an email address, wrote and gave me R’s cell phone. He added, “The sound is really low, so you’ll have to speak loudly.” So there I was, in my lab with the door closed last week, shouting to R how much I looked forward to coordinating the work visa.

Bottom line, I’m boarding that damn plane on Wednesday.

Okay, now for some stuff about living conditions.

Connectivity

Internet in Havana is of the 56-Kbps, five-minutes-to-load-a-webpage, $8-an-hour kind. Internet at my field site is probably non-existent. So, while I may be able to send little email telegrams at the beginning and end of my trip, I’m going dark in May and June. It’s the longest time I’ll be without internet since acquiring the internet.

As for phone, the 2009 lifting of the telecommunications ban means my phone could work in Cuba. But after getting slammed with roaming costs in the Bahamas for checking one voicemail, I’ll save way more by renting/buying one in Cuba. I’m not sure whether that, or payphones with phone cards, is the better bet. Either way, phone calls to the U.S. are more than $2 a minute, so goodbye to heart-to-hearts for now.

I’m also not sure how the communications cut-off will turn out. I think it will be good for me to run around experiencing a life untethered by email. But, you’ll have to indulge my two-month-old version of the world when I return. (“Guys, did you hear the Supreme Court’s decisions on gay marriage/gene patenting/baby Veronica?!” “Yes.” “Oh.”)

Plus, high probability of seeing unusual things + inability to share = Irene writing pages and pages of observations to herself. Every time I see something breathtaking in the field, I’m reminded of this line from Randall Jarrell’s The Animal Family, a story that begins with a solitary hunter:

“One winter night, as he looked at the stars that, blazing coldly, made the belt and the sword of the hunter Orion, a great green meteor went slowly across the sky. The hunter’s heart leaped, he cried: ‘Look, look!’ But there was no one to look.”

Expect a huge blog blast when I’m back, so we can look together 🙂

Money

You can’t get Cuban money outside of Cuba, so everyone must bring in currency to convert to pesos. There’s a 10% fee for the conversion. If the currency you bring in is USD, you get charged an additional 10% fee. So last week, my friend Matt accompanied me to Wells Fargo, where I picked up a giant f-ing order of Canadian money. ATMs are rare, and no U.S.-issued credit cards are accepted. I am traveling with all the money I have.

Cuba has a double economy to accommodate the vastly different financial situations of tourists vs. Cuban nationals. Tourists pay with convertible pesos (CUCs; I’ll call them “tourist pesos” here). Until 2004, the tourist peso was pegged to the dollar, but the consecutive conversion fees obviously elevate its value.

In contrast, Cuban nationals, whose salaries rose to $19 last summer, use a subsidized currency of national pesos. The conversion fee is 1 tourist peso to 25 national pesos. Each of their pesos is literally pennies for me.

Depending on whether their clientele is predominantly tourists or Cuban citizens, different places use different currencies. In theory, I’m supposed to stick to tourist pesos, but I know I’ll inevitably receive national pesos in change. Those I can use to buy food and drink from places accepting national pesos. This will be the fastest way to cut costs.

Tourism is Cuba’s cash cow, with salaries in that sector way higher than in others like medicine. As a result, it’s not a very cheap place to travel, with daily costs around $75-100 per day in Havana. Since I’m neither in Havana nor doing “normal” tourist things, I anticipate spending far less. Mostly my expenses will be in lodging, food and transportation (including taking the driver to lunch).

Health and safety

Fortunately Cuba has a reputation for being a safe place, especially compared to other Latin-American countries. But I’m aware that I stand out in this part of the world, so I’m taking the necessary precautions. Crime in Havana is higher because of all the tourism. I don’t know about the situation at my field site, which is part small-town and part tourist attraction.

The mosquitoes are supposedly horrendous. Hello bug shirt (haven’t seen you since Maine 2006!), 98% DEET that will melt paint, and permethrin on my sleeping bag liner. Anything to avoid dengue fever, an underreported tropical disease for which there is no vaccine. Everything else (Hep A/B, typhoid), I’ve gotten shots for.

Drinking water straight from the tap isn’t recommended, nor is the usual eating raw or peeled food. Please don’t let me get firehose diarrhea.

Lodging and transportation

In Havana, the alternative to a more expensive hotel is to stay in a casa particular, a kind of bed-and-bath where Cuban citizens are licensed to accept either other citizens or tourists as guests, but not both. (Keeps the currencies separate.) I have a place in Havana, recommended to me by a fellow Duke grad.

Beyond that…eugh? Most likely I will rent a bedroom from someone at my field site.

Since it’s way too expensive to rent a car for two months, I will be working with local drivers to pick me up and drop me off at the reserve each day. I probably won’t get to drive…but just in case, over the weekend I re-learned stick shift with Steve.

Food

Also a wild card. Rations are in place for Cuban citizens (for example, only children under 7 can receive milk), so it sounds as though supplies are hurting from the embargo. I anticipate eating a lot of rice and beans. Also, because I really can’t give up PBJs as energy food for 12-hour days…

P1000004

Behold, 11-and-a-quarter pounds of lunch.

Bucket list

A neighbor’s friend reports that the Bay of Pigs has great snorkeling. This statement is bizarre and wonderful in so many ways. I’ll report back.

The bee hummingbird, endemic to Cuba, is the smallest bird in the world. It weighs TWO GRAMS (just over a paper clip) and its eggs are AS TINY AS PEAS. Its Spanish name is “zunzuncito.” This is the best word.

Summary

The worst-case scenarios are still out there. I could be kicked out of the country in 30 days (I really think this is unlikely). All my money could get stolen. The Ministry of Science could change its mind about genetic samples and completely deny my export permit. But at this point, I think I’ve done everything to at least ensure a smooth arrival.

This entry is way too long and I totally have to get back to packing, but before I leave, some thanks are in order.

To those of you who listened to six months of developments; to those who called me “brave” and “strong” these last few days (know that I feel the same way back!); to those seasoned travelers who assured me that things are infinitely easier face-to-face; to my committee members who agree that even if everything goes down the toilet this summer, I still have enough for a dissertation…

Thank you. I hope you know how much those comments have meant to me. It hasn’t been easy dealing with the uncertainty, especially considering the value of this trip to my research. But your confidence in me has been contagious. So here we go: I’m going to Cuba, I’m going to do science, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it when I’m back.

Tell the cicadas I said hello.

Love,
Irene

==

Some recent articles on Cuba:

Raúl Castro to step down as Cuba’s president in 2018 (NYT, 24 Feb. 2013)
How capitalist are the Cubans? (NYT, 1 Dec. 2012)
Where is Cuba going? (NYT Magazine, 20 Sept. 2012)

On death in the field (killdeer)

This is what I saw in the refuge parking lot one evening in late May. I’ll never forget the moment I realized what was happening. Alternately snapping photos and retreating to the car, I spun entries of wonder and excitement and “yaaayyy!” The last sentence was going to be, “Life is so cool.”

(Go ahead, watch and squeal with me.)

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That night I woke up to their unmistakable shrieks. The feral cats—kittens really, with small sinewy bodies and hard eyes—got them all in a few days. By the end of the next week, the mother was once more on eggs in the parking lot, the traffic cones shielding her from inadvertent motorists as she tried again.

==

Maybe this is what draws me to the field. It doesn’t sugarcoat death. It reminds me that to focus only on life, however joyously, is to neglect half the picture. It is a place where beginnings and endings are arbitrary, with value attached to neither. There is only survival: uncertain, unadorned, cells dividing relentlessly until they stop.

I envy that lack of judgment, and I need the reminder every year that death is to be acknowledged as much as life. I know one day this idea will be unspeakably painful to hear and I’ll wish I could be impervious to grief.

But if there’s one thing the field restores in me, it’s a sense of balance. The flip side of life’s coolness is its cruelty, yes, but they’re two halves of a picture that shape each other. Magnitudes of love and loss, equally matched. I think I can work with the whole human mess of emotions if I see them as the price for loving the people I do, as scary as it will be, come the day.

(This is about dying from natural causes, not from mass murders or terrorism. There aren’t really non-primate field equivalents for those. But the same bargain we’ve struck, to feel goodwill and mourning instead of briskly moving on with neither, seems even more important when those things happen to strangers. Thinking weary thoughts toward Colorado.)

I left the field before the killdeer’s second clutch had hatched. May the chicks long be scurrying among the watered lawns; may their ends be quick and painless. And may the invasive cats long be feasting upon the invasive iguanas.

==

Some links I thought of while writing this entry:

This is the end (Guardian, 31 Mar. 2008): an extraordinary series of portraits before and after death
‘You Will Die Someday and It Will Be Sad,’ All Area Man Thinking During Dinner with Parents (Onion, 19 July 2012)

“Some things you must never stop refusing to bear”

The morning after Amendment 1: Your world. And mine.

A beautiful, carefully structured essay on the passage of Amendment One by Durham journalist Barry Yeoman.

Some food for thought here, in the form of status updates of Amendment One supporters. The ignorant ones are cheap. The civil ones are enlightening, if in a “is that really how you explain the world to yourselves?” kind of way. I find it akin to imagining how someone with color-blindness or synesthesia sees the world. I can’t do it.

And any mention of distinguishing the sinner from the sin reminds me of this reply by Washington Post columnist Gene Weingarten.

Atheist in the Deep South: Hi, Gene. I have a question, from one atheist to another: how do you deal with people who think homosexuality is a sin? I’m a gay rights activist and a queer, and I have seen the words “homosexuality is a sin” do immense damage to peoples’ lives, alienating them from their families, their communities, and their own senses of self-worth. Internalized homophobia is a terrible, destructive thing. Yet these “homosexuality is a sin” people insist that there’s nothing at all wrong with thinking that, especially because, as they say, “We’re all sinners.” When I point out that they think their sins are what they DO, but our sins are who we ARE, they just look at me blankly, most of the time. I’m asking because I have a couple of liberal Mormon friends who, in a conversation about the Mormon church’s atrocities against the LGBTQ crowd (they actually agree with me about this), just told me they think homosexuality is a sin, and we got in a big fight. In venting to other friends who don’t know the Mormons in question, several other people told me they feel the same way – love the sinner, hate the sin. This is making me feel sick to my stomach, and I don’t know what to do. This is the deep south, I don’t expect tons of enlightenment, but it’s a university town that overwhelmingly went for Obama, so I guess I thought it was a safer environment than I’m learning it is. So: What would Gene do?

Gene Weingarten: Gene would dislike these people intensely.

You happen to be treading on an area where I am uncommonly sure of myself and obnoxiously opinionated. (With food, I’m sort of kidding. Here, I’m not.)

Yeah, I’m an atheist, but I don’t disrespect religion; we’re all seekers of truth and understanding, and science and religion go about it in parallel ways. I’m most comfortable thinking about religion as a form of philosophy.

So far, so good. My problems with religion are when it is so reactionary that it institutionalizes bigotry. At that point, reason and faith no longer coexist, they are at war. At that point I feel it is the duty of the moral person to jettison the bigoted faith for another. Or for none.

“Love the sinner, hate the sin” is astonishingly patronizing, and duplicitous. It’s a cop-out. Love the slave as though he weren’t your property. Separate but equal.

I had a very close friend, a devout Christian, who told me that she worried about me because, as a nonbeliever in Jesus, I would be going to hell. What do you SAY to someone like that? I said nothing, but I never felt the same about her. She’s chosen an interpretation of her religion that consigns Mahatma Gandhi to hell. I’m supposed to RESPECT this?

Here’s the thing you need to remember: All those people who tell you that homosexuality is a sin, but they love you? They don’t. They think you are a lesser form of life.

Act accordingly.

Sorry. I got really angry about this yesterday.

Liz, can you link to the NYT story from yesterday about the anti-gay activists who had a hand in the Ugandan movement to EXECUTE gays? They’re trying to back away from it, but they can’t. They’re poison.

washingtonpost.com: Americans’ role seen in Uganda anti-gay push (NYT, 4 Jan. 2012)

Brothels

Tis the season for commencement speeches. Here’s one of my favorites (thanks, Stan).

Also: 10 Things Your Commencement Speaker Won’t Tell You (WSJ, 28 April 2012)

You’ll never read the following obituary: “Bob Smith died yesterday at the age of 74. He finished life in 186th place.”

High-school me had an inkling of this, but she operated as though grades determined her value as a human being. (High-school me wept when she got a “bad” score on the practice PSAT.) Grad-school me still has a long way to go, but she knows enough to send a hug back in time. And also some amused thanks for the mindless grade-grubbing, which ended up translating into some significant financial help. Thus, I was rewarded for being paranoid and vow never to change my behavior.

Durham stories

Durham story #1: Last night I came home to a Department of Water Management flyer alerting me to sewer-line tests at the end of the month. Using pressurized smoke, the test was going to flag leaks in the pipelines for repair. If I lived near a pipe break, smoke residue might appear in my house, but I could prevent it by filling my tubs and sinks with water.

Call me a crazy liberal, but: thank you, government, for swooping in and providing us with these sorts of services. Especially since I recently read two unsettling articles about our aging pipelines and the savory stuff they carry.

About $9.4 billion more per year is needed for water and sewer work between now and 2020, according to a study released last month by the American Society of Civil Engineers. Without that, many Americans should prepare for regular disruption of water service and a jump in contamination caused by sewage bacteria, the study said.

…But with the economy sputtering and Congress eager to slash a burgeoning deficit, selling Americans on the need to pay billions more in water bills or taxes to salvage a system they didn’t even know was breaking may be impossible.

“The customer base really doesn’t know,” Hawkins said. “Like when I turn on the faucet, what on Earth is needed to deliver that water? It’s like magic. And then it goes down the drain. It’s like magic again.”

(Billions needed to upgrade America’s leaky water infrastructure, Washington Post, 2 Jan. 2012)

I always get uneasy when I’m reminded that, despite my efforts to be an informed consumer, there are still so many resources entrenched in daily life that I literally never pause to consider. Water will always come out of the faucets, A/C and heating are foregone conclusions, yesterday’s garbage will be carted away forever. Life as I know it is comfortable and tidy. No grossness allowed. (Unless I go to a less developed country, after which I have the audacity to share Roughing It stories like I’ve earned some kind of worldliness badge.)

Which is why it was so striking to see Durham mentioned in the fourth paragraph of a lengthy feature about sewage. Read the intro to the article and just try not thinking about it the next time you take a dump.

“People wake up in the morning, they brush their teeth, flush the toilet,” said Askew. “They think it goes to the center of the earth.”

(Wasteland, Harper’s Magazine, Feb. 2008)

Well, I educated myself about the origins of my food until mindful shopping became both a habit and a central part of my identity. It’s time to do the same in less familiar terrain. Engineers and urban planners, teach me your ways.

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Durham story #2: It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, and I’m biking downtown on my way home from a ten-mile ride. Waiting in front of me at a red light are two—how do I say this—textbook hipsters dressed in textbook hipster regalia, followed by me clad in all black. We’re waiting and waiting, and then I catch someone whistling, softly but unmistakably, the theme song to the Wicked Witch of the West. I stare to my left and there’s a couple sitting outside Bull McCabe’s, giggling that I heard them. We grin at each other. The light turns and I head home. I love this city.

Orioles

My friend Matt sent me this post: Baltimore Orioles Unveil New Logo, Uniforms The author was evidently unimpressed with the mating and feeding habits of orioles. Being a Maryland native, I felt a little wounded, so I did some digging to follow up on both.

“After reading the word ‘monogamous,’ I stopped paying attention.”

After reading the word “monogamous,” I sit up and start citing papers. Case in point: Orioles, like most songbirds, are socially monogamous, but a study that ran DNA tests on Mom, Dad and the kids found paternity mismatches in 32% of chicks. Also, orioles don’t eat seeds, but instead stab fruit with their beaks, rip open the flesh, and suck out the juice with their tongues. I imagine them forming crazed zombie hordes that ravage orchards and leave raisin-y paths of destruction. The only thing missing on that logo is a thick, dark smear of juice dribbling ominously down their bills.

I decided to look up extra-pair paternity rates for the other two bird species featured in baseball. Up to 35% of cardinal chicks are sired by extra-pair males. As for blue jays, the jury’s still out, but with 90% of socially monogamous songbirds found to engage in extra-pair mating, I’m willing to bet a lot of sunflower seed there’s some intrigue going on.

I don’t know that I have much standing to comment on mascots, though. In undergrad I cheered for a bipedal turtle with eyebrows, and now I watch a guy in a blue cape surfing over my advisor every week.