White boy / Asian girl; Black boy / White girl

This entry I originally wrote on my Opendiary blog. I received a lot of feedback from other ODers' about it, so I've decided to copy it to this blog:

I have always fancied myself a sociologist by nature - I'm very observant of those around me, and of society and its trends. This Seattle summer of 2007 offers a lot for one so inclined.

One thing that particularly stands out is the interracial couple phenomenon. It's not new, obviously, but I have seen a great deal this summer, probably more than ever.

The vast majority are either a dark guy (black or mulatto; hispanic, or whatever) and white girl, and then, probably a close second, white guy/asian girl. In fact, it seems that in certain neighborhoods I am seeing (what I would consider) an unprecedented number of white male/asian female couples. The University District, for example. If you walk down "the Ave.", as they call it, you will see them.

I'm not passing judgment - just stating what I and everyone else for that matter, is presented with on the street in this city on a daily basis. I suspect for many, it is not even a "phenomenon", i.e., nothing registers as worth noting for them. But this is a reflection of just how common it has become. The black male/white female thing is kind of old news by now, although their frequency does seem to be increasing. What used to be taboo and illicit and which could even garner outward scorn from passersby has become mainstream. Or at least people generally keep their thoughts to themselves. You even see a good number of mulatto children. Of these, 90% are black male/white female unions, versus white male/black female.

I have always wondered what black women think of this phenomenon...Everyone knows white males don't like it. Most do not, anyway - even if they deny it, I can assure you that most white men do not look forward to seeing a black man with a white woman. The fear of black male sexuality or predation of white women was the fundamental reason for our many years segregation in this country. And it was an overwhelmingly male fear: i.e., white men weren't complaining (well, maybe some were) when black girls were being impregnated or raped in the 18th, 19th centuries.

And now we see new combinations. My adopted neighborhood of Capitol Hill has always had gays and interracial couples, and even transgendered folks. It seems to be a haven, of sorts, for alternative sexuality/lifestyles.A very liberal, progressive neighborhood, tolerant of all kinds of diversity.

The asian female/white male thing is somewhat new, though, at least at the levels I am now seeing it. I would say, for instance, that if you see a couple on the street where the female is asian - Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, whatever - it will be more than half as likely that she has a white guy on her arm. Or even a black or hispanic guy. One sees this, too.

I tend to believe that this is not insignificant. The phenomenon as a whole is not insignificant. Just look at what results from a black male/white female union - the child is of an entirely new race. Mulatto, as the Spanish-speaking Latin American world termed in years past. And so considering the resulting offspring, the ramifications for society are significant. Maybe profound. To deny this is absurd, in my opinion.

Of course, this is an issue which, because of its implicit (and explicit) ramifications, garners controversy and people often feel strongly on the issue. Issues around sex and children and family are by default among the most contested, and most solicitous of passion. Of course, we find that opinions splinter along racial and gender lines.We know what white males tend to think of the black male/white female thing - what do white females think of it? Black females? What do white females think of the white male/asian female thing? Asian males?

7/18/07 (To be continued...)

Movie: Sicko; Book: The Prince of the Marshes

My sister's fiance is organizing a panel on the state of health care in America, scheduled for Wednesday night, and my sister is on the panel as a representative of the CAIR Project (http://www.cairproject.org/washington.html). CAIR is a Washington non-profit that funds abortions for women who can't afford them or can't travel to the appropriate clinic for the care they need. Jesse is billing the panel as an adjunct to Michael Moore's Sicko, which is playing around Seattle, and which I saw last night at the Neptune in the U-district.
The panel is ostensibly sponsored by the International Socialist Organization (Jesse's group) and a few other organizations.

It should be a good discussion. It's the first speaking gig my sister has had that I know of, so we'll see how she does. I have never thought of her as a superb speaker, but she is very smart and can hold her own in a debate. She's fairly fearless, in fact. My father, as part of his consulting business, has been doing panels and speeches for years on his photographic preservation/archivist stuff. He is supposedly the leading expert in that field, and has been for some time.

I'm quite proud of my family. Many of my relatives have accomplished a lot professionally and of those around my age - my cousins and such - academically (my cousin Jonathan Kolstad is a Stanford grad and currently finishing up his Ph.D. at Harvard, for example). It gives me a boost to know that my little tribe can hold their own out there in this fast, confusing world and do more than okay with themselves.

I have always suffered low-self esteem, I can be easily discouraged by failure. I tend to be a perfectionist, like my father, and so when I fall short by my standards I can get depressed and discouraged at times.
But I have taken a non-conventional road in life - I realize this, and so try not to so readily compare myself with everyone else. Competition, envy - these can get anyone down. No matter who you are, there is always someone better, richer, better-looking, whatever it is.

It is easy to recognize this in principle, another matter to live it day-to-day, however. Especially in the city. You have such a mix of people - rich, poor; ignorant, enlightened. The entire spectrum are rubbing shoulders on the sidewalks and bumpers in the street, every day. If you aren't weary enough already, you can become absorbed by others' and their apparent haves and your have-nots. So I am cognizant of this and try to keep a level head in Seattle in the summer. It's hot, too, and there is a level of aggravation that comes with a dense population and a hot summertime.

Since I am still in-between jobs, job-searching, I spend a lot of time at the cafe, at Vivace or at Cafe Vita on Pike Street, reading my books. I recently bought "The Prince of the Marshes" at Bailey & Coy Books, on Broadway, about a British governor of Maysan Province, Iraq - Rory Stewart - during the Coalition Provisional Authority period. Quite interesting stuff. An insider's account, probably not wholly unbiased, but fascinating.

The guy was quite young - 31, I think, and somehow got this job that gave him, nominally anyway, immense powers of allocation and organization in shaping the fledgling government in his province. Maysan is a majority Shi'a province south of Baghdad in the southeast of Iraq, bordering Iran.

I don't envy the poor guy's job! He has to deal with so many factions and situations - the region is volatile - with spurts of civil strife a constant threat. Most of his administration's expense goes toward building the local government up so that the expected transition of authority to the Iraqis, when that time comes, will go as smooth as possible. Infrastructure requires huge investment, as much of the generally poorer Shiite parts of the province are in need of government buildings, schools, and basic necessities like electricity and running water. How best to spend limited funds occupies a great deal of Stewart's efforts. The best part of the book is the account Stewart gives of the various characters who must deal with each other across divides cultural, languistic, sectarian. He meets with the high-ups, too - Paul Bremer and various generals (Petraeus, among others).

- d.g.w. 7/16/07

Dawn to Decadence

I'm at this internet cafe, it's midnight, Saturday night. I walked here through throngs of party people, clubbers and bargoers and what not. Young people out in force tonight. A hot night, too. There was a little stand down on Pike street giving out promotional ice cream, of all things, for some web site. A good idea, I suppose. They picked a good night.

I had a topic for an essay that I was considering, but I meant to bring my Marcus Aurelius book of quotations - I was going to use that but forgot it. Some profound thing, I can't recall, but it sounded good. The kind of quote you see at the beginning of the chapter of a novel as a prelude the author uses to try to make what they are proceeding to say seem more profound. A useful tool, granted.

I remember I was fond of putting nice quotations at the beginning of research papers I wrote in high school and college. I recall I took one from Jacques Barzun's From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Years of Western Civilization (or whatever it is), for a report I did for my "Business and Professional Writing" class at Montgomery College. I remember the prof. well - John Matthews. He was a Yalie, I recall him saying. An extremely smart guy. He looked kind of like Greg Popovich.

Anyway, it was my end of term paper: it had to have a table of contents, an abstract, and had to be organized methodically. I was very proud of that paper, worked many hours on it - "White Nationalism in America: Ideology and Practice".

Yes. I still have it. My mom not long ago sent me a pile of my writings that were sitting in folders in my room. I was excited to get them - it brought back memories, as I can often remember the time period when I wrote each piece, what I was thinking, doing, etc. What was going on. Each piece is a piece of my life, fits into its own context. Indeed, one would be surprised how mood and feeling can affect how and what one writes. Even with dry, scientific-type writing, your mood is of great consequence. Because the words are inchoate until the very moment before they come out, what results is a consequence of the subtleties of the mind. And in turn, the mind depends on the mood, which depends on one's environment, etc., etc. That may seem obvious, but, for example, I am always surprised how many ways there are to say something, even a simple statement - a great many permutations and combinations.

Not that it's an unruly framework of - oh my god now i'm just writing rubbish, the barista girl who works here just walked by fiddling with the chairs and turning off the computers - she is an absolute doll (if she only knew what I was writing right now!) he he he. Yes, an absolute doll. She must know that she has interrupted my delicate prose!

But alas, this is precisely what i am talking about - the vicissitudes of the immediate environment have altered, indelibly, what I have typed on this page! That is great irony. I love it. Although in this case, it was an 180-degree shift to the non-sequitor - the sweet thing with her feminine powers hitting me as a wave...lord, god, oh yes, here we go...Jim Morrison is on the radio and he says, "She's a twentieth-century fox." Accurate, indeed, except for it being the 21st century...

- d.g.w. 7/12/07

Applying for...

The fuck? I am really tired and I can't get any sleep because my apartment is too hot. I have a vascillating fan I got at the drugstore for $20, and it doesn't do a very good job at keeping me cool. I don't know how I sleep at night, honestly. I definitely don't fall asleep very early.
Well, I'm still waiting on the job apps. and interviews. I had two interviews yesterday and haven't heard back yet. It's a drab place to be - unemployed and always waiting and waiting to hear something. I've gotten used to it, truly, being in that state. But it wears on your self-esteem after awhile. You keep wondering what it is about you that these employers aren't liking? or what it is that's keeping you from being accepted for the meager wages you are seeking? It should not be so hard.
So there is that, and then I'm still on the dating site - The Stranger personals, which is quite an exciting site, for all of the absolutely gorgeous and sophisticated women I've seen on it. But here too, I haven't hit paydirt as far as actually meeting someone in person. The pattern is that I will chat with someone for a day, maybe two, maybe three if I'm lucky - and then zero - they stop writing. Usually around the same time I ask for her email address or gently suggest we might meet for coffee sometime (so perhaps it's no coincidence?).
Hence, the job and the woman: rejection and deferrment. These become intertwined in the psyche, into one bundle of sadness and dejection. Maybe that is too dramatic. Yes. After all, one can't expect to win such things quickly. Woman, job - these are valuable commodities in this world, with healthy competition around them.

So I should be patient, I tell myself. And yet I have so much desire for some change in my life. And I do think that I have done more than the average person toward such goals; toward change. One small example I was considering today is that I no longer take naps during the day - not ever, usually. Not even to lie down, even though now that I'm not working I do have the opportunity (then again, maybe I just don't because the apartment is too hot). As a teenager and even a couple years ago, I would savor taking afternoon naps and what not. I loved sleeping, and I'd more often than not sleep late, if I could get away with it. Again, there is the extenuating circumstance that Seattle's latitude makes for a very long summer day - but, now I naturally wake up at 7 or 8, instead of the usual 10-11 or 12 in years past. My energy level is generally higher throughout the day, with less moodiness. My mood used to swing during the day, from low in the morning and early afternoon, to generally higher in the evening and late at night. I maintain much greater equilibrium these days, and I am grateful for that. It really makes life easier. I don't have to worry about how I will feel at this or that time when I'll have this or that engagement. Moodiness always made for added stress/anxiety.

Progress I have made, and yet I feel less satisfaction somehow. I've given it considerable thought, and I do believe that at 25, I have reached that life stage where I truly am biologically desirous of a mate. The human male is at some level always desirous of a mate, but I currently feel as with a fever. I feel this compulsion for love, not just lust, and it permeates deeply because of its fundamental, probably hormonal nature in my being. This I do believe. Environment also has played a role with my desire for love and for a mate - I have described the scene with regard to couples/beautiful young women, etc., in previous entries. This atmosphere only serves as a constant reminder of what I lack and what I desire.

Serendipity and an English Parakeet

Serendipity and an English Parakeet

2002, I'm walking down Rockville Pike to my grandparents' house. I've just gotten off the metro at White Flint station. Rockville Pike/355 is the main thoroughfare north from D.C. up through Montgomery County and into the Maryland suburbs. There is an office park with some greenery and short trees lining the traffic-congested strip that is home to offices buildings, auto dealerships and fast-food joints.
I'm walking along minding my business, my eyes were probably down toward the ground as cars were coming at me, giving me the pedestrian-look-down they sometimes give. It is muggy, the smell of exhaust hovers in a pasty, translucent sky.
I spot a little green thing moving, I barely register it, almost miss it entirely. A lizard? No, a little bird. An obviously weak, helpless little thing I recognize as a parakeet. A budgie! Oddly, it is hopping, almost limping in the direction of the road, through the grass under the sparse shade. I kneel down and consider the little guy, block his path to the road. I pity the poor parakeet, I need to get him some help, I think to myself. Notifying the Human Society - this is the first thing that comes to mind, as he seems so weak, possibly - probably near death. Surely he would not survive much longer out here. Probably wouldn't make it the night. He is still going, however, tiny black, beety eyes sparkle some intelligence and perhaps fatigue - if I could divine as much. He was regal looking - a tall forehead, hooked beak tucked primly into his cheek feathers, and intelligent, pensive, though anxious, eyes. An English parakeet - separate, more-refined breed of budgie carefully bred over the years and favored by the British.
There are office buildings and apartment blocks scattered along the Pike, I look up at the structure towering nearby and consider perhaps that the bird escaped out of one of those windows. It's hard to say how long he might have been out there. Probably not long, as he was in such a fragile, weak state that any sort of creature with a predatory inclination would have gobbled him up.
I cup him in my hand, thinking about what to do. I decide to avert all of the outside dangers here near the road and slip him into my backpack. I carry it gently in front of me, making sure to leave it partly unzipped to give him air.
I take out my phone and call mom, tell her.
She and I both love animals. We have a weakness for any small or baby pet, we both love dogs and dote on our Begian sheepdog, Conree. She agrees to drive down from my grandparents' in Gaithersburg and pick me up.
So she arrives and I hop in, open up my bag and out pops the little green and yellow and white bird!
Mom is fairly tickled. At this point I haven't considered the next step, but she intimates that we ought to take him home. She told me later that she had kept parakeets as a child, her mother/ my grandmother always loved wild birds -bluebirds were her favorite - and was an avid bird-watcher.
I'm hungry and budgie needs some water, so we swing into the McDonald's near White Flint station.
I remember this most fondly about that day - I have Big Bird (we settle on this name later on when we find that he talks and enjoys spouting the name "Big Bird" in a comical, exclamatory tone that always elicited laughter from my mom) cupped in my lap along with french fries and a Big Mac - rather presumptuously, ravenously - as he is evidently famished - hops up my arms and begins nibbling on a french fry. I am trying to give him a little sip of ice water, but instead he goes for my Coke! He takes little bites of the brown liquid that has seeped up above the lid of the cup! This is one of my fondest memories of Big Bird.
Of course, we soon discover, after he has recovered and regained his strength, that he's got quite a knack for talk. He blabbers and warbles on in garbled English, not unlike an ill-received radio station. Mom and I get a kick out of this when we discover his this cross-species linguistic talent of his.
And as I mentioned, he had arrived with an affinity for saying, "That's Big Bird." And so hence the name. We surmised that this may have been the name given by his previous owners. Before too long, he is mimicking sounds and speech from us! When I come in each day, for example, I would often whistle a little catcall to him - soon he would anticipate this and whistle the same little tune to me! I whistle back and he likewise, with perfect mimicry. Very cute.
And alas, I say "was" because Big Bird died not long before I moved to Seattle. He had become quite thin, emaciated at times; in fact his health seemed fragile for the entire two and a half years I had him. He would have sick spells and be lethargic and unresponsive for a week or two, but he did recover again and again. I devised a hydrotherapy for him - whenever I'd shower I would cart him in with me on my shoulder and he would perch atop the cabinet for an hour, door shut / fan off, soaking up the warmth and humidity. He truly loved that. As a matter of fact, he loved taking baths too! A sucker for lukewarm water. Big Bird had a Pavlovian response to the sound of a tap running - Often he'd whistle to me if I was in the bathroom, soliciting a ride to the basin. He needed the tap ever so gentle and warm - needed it just so - and he'd flap his wings and boogie-down his hindfeathers into the bath. He could sit in his bath, tap flowing, for a half-an-hour! It was pretty adorable. Kept his plumage nice and clean, too.

Eventually, not long before I left for Seattle, I awoke one morning to find him at the bottom of his cage, breathing heavily, near-death, no longer perched on his little perch below his favorite mirror. Several more days of this and he expired. Mom and I buried him in the backyard. We weren't so sad, as we could see it coming, in fact I think we were surprised he had lasted so long - a good 3 1/2 years with us and however-long with his previous owner.

And so Big Bird sparked in me a love of birds, and upon reaching Seattle, I sought out a budgie breeder from Bremerton whom my niece, who works at Animal Talk in Fremont, knew of and recommended to me.
I got two two-month old fledgling budgies, sky blue and white. However, as I was staying with my sister for several months last year, I soon had to turn them over to my niece (my sister Sarah has two cats, two rather incompatible species if there ever were). I still see them fairly often, though, and they are in Fremont in my relatives' house in a nice big cage together!

One other little anecdote about Big Bird - my mother once said he was like an angel - a guardian angel perched on my shoulder who had arrived in my life during a difficult and transitional time. Sent from heaven! That might sound corny, but it always rang true for me. He was an angel - a whip-smart little sentient being, my little "man", as I affectionately referred to him.

- d.g.w. 7/9/07

Canadian Girl

Ok, this is my third entry in a row [on OpenDiary.com] - I'm just still not satisfied! I need to keep writing. It is cathartic, I think it is helping me calm down. My thoughts are flowing a little smoother.

As I mentioned, I haven't written in OD for maybe two, three weeks. Since Seattle Central had been shuttered and I currently am without a laptop, I've had to depend on the library for email. They only allow you an hour there, and that's often not enough for everything I have to do these days - apartment searching, email, etc., much less time enough to write a diary entry. But Central is open now, so I should be writing more frequently.

I wrote that I have been frustrated lately - fucking frustrated, to be precise. Muthafuckin' frustrated. Indeed. I just feel so unsatisfied. And stressed. Totally stressed-out.

On top of being homeless, I am still corresponding with the Canadian chick I met online. We talk every other day and email usually every day. She says she is coming down in two weeks. And I still don't even really know what she looks like! She has sent me four pictures, total, but they are a little mysterious; unrevealing. Two are close-up/portraits, but one is too dark and the other is nice, but her hair is covering half her face and one eye. I definitely know what she sounds like; she has a wonderful, almost sultry voice. For a while she was calling me at 6 waking me up for work. It was so nice to hear her lovely little purr bright and early. God, what a sweetheart. I feel a lot for her, I definitely have a ton of feelings for her. I don't know, it's crazy maybe, since she is in Edmonton, Alberta for christ's sake. I havent' told much of anyone about it. Actually I did tell mom - I think she may have found out by reading my OD entries, as a matter of fact - but I haven't indicated how serious Jen and I feel about our relationship. If she does come down - and there is still some doubt about it - I really do wonder what it'll be like. I feel like I know her pretty well from all of the phone conversations we have had. But then I ask myself, how much do I care about the physical? I don't know, I mean how much of a relationship is physical anyway? It usually starts off with the physical, the sensory. What if for some reason we just don't mesh face-to-face? I don't know. I'm in uncharted waters here, and I really have no clue how to proceed with all of this. And of course it is more than a little stressful.

Jenny is fond of saying "I love you", and things like that, and I don't always know quite how to respond. I usually don't say "I love you" back because it sounds weird to me. Right now it does, anyway. I just can't really say it to her and be certain that I mean it. You know, if you're going to say "I love you" to a person, these are some weighty words. You don't just throw them out there, that's for sure. So I'm a little ambivalent about the whole thing, and I would think that she is, too, but those are not the words that come out of her mouth.

Truth be told, I've sort of been dating off and on, too, even while Jen and I have been "together". As a matter of fact, I have a date lined up for this Friday with a gal I met on The Stranger "Lovelab" - the paper's online personals site. I hate to say it, but if it comes down to it I'm going to go with this girl over Jenny.

I guess we will see what happens. I'll definitely be writing it all down in my entries here. It helps me cope, it's therapeutic, and it helps me sort out my own feelings. For that matter, it's a little record of sorts of my life. It might make for fascinating fodder 10 years from now! You never know. Wow, I wonder where the fuck I'll be 10 years from now. Wonder if I'll still be in Seattle. Hard to say. Probably, since I seem to be starting my career and stuff here. Plus, my sister is here and I've become fairly close to her in-laws. They are well-connected in Seattle.

So that's about it. That's three entries in a row! Good enough for you? Well, I think I'm satisfied. And I do feel better than when I started. Catharsis. Literary catharsis for the twenty-something soul, lol~

-d.g.w. 7/2/07