2002-05-02|9:53 a.m.
"I want to salute the ashes of American flags"
I didn't get accepted to Berkeley. So, I won't be bugging Amar in real life anytime soon (imagine disappointed face). But, I haven't heard from two other schools yet. I have no idea why they haven't decided yet. It is two days past their deadline. I should ask for my forty bucks back.
I am not really that upset about it. I didn't really count on it. I always had San Diego in my head as the best place to go, because it is the most familiar and at least it has family there, even if it is just my mom and brother.
Am, A's friend I have talked about before, has been visiting A's house somewhat consistently. The more time I get to know him the more I enjoy his company. Last night we talked about being of mixed races. He is half-Iranian. He talked about it being much like the conflict of being "mulatto." There is this rejection for being impure, ignorant of the native language, and part of an American self-indulgent culture. Aram put it best when he said something like, "It is as if the American culture is just some consumeristic concept. There is almost no history, no sense of culture. We are white, but that can be anything." I have this same conflict. Being a fourth-Ojibwan, part white, and the rest is some other Native American heritage lost in the time of generations passing and shame, my past has been literally wiped out or sold out. I know that in some ways this doesn't really matter, but there is a lot to be said about being connected to a group of people. Then, again there is a lot that is not so good about being connected to a group of people. I also don't mean to imply that the white race is without culture or that it is a mass of consumer zombies. It is just another sorta unspoken stereotype. In fact, consider the mention of race finished. It is too difficult to talk about race without insult. But, back to Aram, he is going to Iran with his father this summer. It is going to be quite a trip for him. Since he is very interested and talented in photography, I imagine he will get some good photos. His father has even promised to go to some of the Kurdish camps. In fact, I am sort of envious. The trip sounds amazing.
A, the master graphic designer, is going to help me design a template for this diary. I am going to use this really beautiful photo that Aram took to do it.
"You were right what you said about the stars, each one is a setting sun."
I have been writing too many papers lately!!!! Don't my teachers know I am lazy?
I am going to get some retribution for that janitor. Since I am the last person to process documents like claims against companies, I will just void out his deduction from her company. That way, they will all feel content for the kill, and she will never be reprimanded for it. I just hope I don't get in trouble for it.
My mom used to work for the county. When she worked for the welfare fraud department, she used her contacts to harass my dad. Maybe she also did it to get back at me for picking my dad to live with; it isn't impossible. My dad was really poor, and depressed after getting laid off for the last time as an ironworker. It was a labor he understood, and made pretty good money doing. But, after there was no longer a demand like there was in the 80's for the construction of high-rises in LA, he was without work. We went on welfare. I wouldn't leave my dad, because not only did I love him, he was really the only sane choice I had. My mom would call my dad in for fraud constantly. It was insane, because my dad was in no way manipulating the system. In fact, we struggled more than most other welfare families I knew, simply because we didn't have the bureaucratic know-how that a lot of them had acquired over the years. One time a welfare fraud investigator came to our house. He was sitting on our dirty, near-dumpster-find couch as I was leaving to go to a middle school dance. I saw him there and listened while I waited in the kitchen for my friends to pick me up. He demanded that my dad show him paperwork of all kinds as my dad solemnly delivered. Finally, I felt I had it. I walked into the living room, tears streaming and emotional, and told him that he should feel sick every day that he wakes up. I continued to rant about our poverty, about other's poverty on welfare, and about how absurd it was that my dad was being investigated. The investigator sat stoned-faced. He said something simply about how this was an adult issue and that he was only doing his job. My dad was probably shocked, and sat silent. I became even more expressive, and told him that this wasn't a conversation exclusive to age, and that the simple fact that it involved my wellbeing meant that it was an issue important to me. I told him that if he felt it was his job he should feel responsible for the result of it. I told him that the government was too often used to manipulate and badger other people. He ignored me and I left. No charges were ever brought against my dad.
And my mom also called Child Protective Services on him even more frequently. My brother and I would be tugged out of class to answer the same line of questions. It got so out of control that I finally went to my mom and told her that it had to stop. She would always deny it, but it would cease for awhile.
It is strange that I was once very comfortable when I was young. I had almost anything I wanted. After my parent's lengthy and costly divorce, they were both broke. I was dependant on Uncle Sam and your tax paying dollars to feed, clothe, and keep me safe for four years. So, in some ways, America, I thank you. And in others, I want to tell you to fuck-off when someone complains about people on welfare having the "good life." It is absurd, as saying that being in prison is a vacation because there is television. But, of the time period I appreciate most for forming my understanding of the world, it is the time we barely got by, eating rice, potatoes, and large pots of soup for months. It was the time that I wore clothes too small for me because we could afford no more and the schoolgirls called me a slut. It was the free lunches that claimed that they did not discriminate, but made you carry those bright-pink identifiable tickets to claim your meal. It was never being able to go on expensive field trips with my friends. It was that lady behind us in the grocery line who very audibly complained about my dad buying me candy with food stamps. It was feeling like I was less than you were. And I know that my complaints are pale in comparison to the little girl in the Congo starving and dying of AIDS. But, I am not really complaining. I am taking that time and remembering why I care. That is cheating, I think. My empathy is not really some grand epiphany and wisdom pulled from contemplating the pain of others. It is the experience.
Word of the Day: groundling- a spectator who stood in the pit of an Elizabethan theater/ a person of unsophisticated taste