"What if life were only moments..."

Moment #1: I was in a room with a beautiful hard-wood floor, wooden tables, bookshelves, and piano, lit by a dim but sufficient yellow-light lamp. The gleam of the homey light on the wood, combined with the smell of another delicious home-made dinner, gave the feel of being in a moment trapped in time, transcendent, ever-lasting, yet instantaneous, all at once. It's one of those moments where all you really remember is the feel and the mood of the place, not the events or the words. I was sitting at the piano, accompanying my cousin Evan as he practiced his violin (yet another piece of beautiful wood in the room). It was a simple song, played well, and played better each time. His diligence in practicing, my chance to help out, made it all feel like a home away from home. It was a moment filled with family, and beauty.

Moment #2: An old man, dignified by a masterful white beard, wheels an old woman, still lovely with her well-used smile, to my printing press in a wheel chair, accompanied by two faceless younger people. The woman wears large, dark glasses, but it takes me a minute to realize that she is blind. The man takes a card, I tell him to push down on the lever until it clicks, he pushes, and pulls out a freshly printed card with red ink that says, "I printed this at the Smithsonian!", accompanied by an ink picture of the Smithsonian castle. He smiles, looking at it, and gently leans down to the woman in the wheel chair, and reads the whole thing to her. She looks so at home with just the sound of his voice, so familiar, though she cannot see a thing. He looks back at me and says, "I've been her boyfriend for 63 years!" A prouder man I cannot imagine - she looks up at me and tells me that they have been married for that amount of time. As they wheel away, she reaches her hand out to me and clasps mine; I feel like all the love in her heart and the warmth in her smile travels through her farewell into my heart, my smile, my life. This is one of those encounters that, however brief, sticks with you and changes you. That old woman in the wheelchair with the beautiful smile will always be with me.

Bonus points to anyone who can tell me the source of this post's title.

"The First __________"

At long last, the entire purpose of my summer in D.C. has come to pass. My internship at one of the museums on the National Mall here has begun! I work with the Office of Public Programming (OPP), and have great supervisors and great co-interns. It is a blast so far. One of the best things about my specific duties is how much time I spend on the floor interacting with visitors. Just the other day, in fact, I witnessed an event that brought to my attention an unfortunate misunderstanding of what sorts of things museums hold, which I would like to here correct.
I was in the Star-Spangled Banner exhibition, where the very flag that Francis Scott Key himself saw that inspired the writing of our national anthem is kept. In the exhibit there is a display case of some of the sewing tools from the time that the flag-maker, Mary Pickersgill, would have made the flag. As I was standing by said display case, a little boy came rushing up to it, his eyes alight with excitement and wonder. He stared at the case, gasped, and pointing at the scissors inside turned to his mother and said, "Look, Mom! The first scissors!"
And although it was one of my favorite things anyone has said yet, and although many museums do have original artifacts, and although I too would prefer to believe that those were the very first scissors ever, I must here repudiate the unfortunate misconception that if an item is in a museum, it must be the first of its kind. I would like to think that I could tell my child that when they get excited about seeing the first scissors, or key, or feather-duster, or what-have-you, but when it comes right down to it I will probably respond just as that boy's mother did, with a voice filled with as much awe as theirs, and say, "wow, that really is amazing, isn't it son?" After all, why ruin their childhood sense of wonder? So, I think I for one will adopt a policy of treating the first scissors rather like Santa Clause, and until children are a little older, all they will ever know is that those scissors are indeed the very first. Ever.

Red and Black, Friend of Jack

One of the first things I ever remembering learning in a school-type, formal lesson was snake safety. Ironically, this lesson was not taught at school, but at a class for us kids before kindergarten organized by our parents when I lived in Arizona. The especially ironic thing about it is that this is after I had already started kindergarten and proceeded to get kicked out. And do I remember any lessons from my first time in kindergarten? No. I only remember how excited I was about the time I took broccoli for lunch, and how distressed I was the time my best friend threw up on the bus but everyone thought it was me. But, back to this earliest class-type memory of mine: after talking about how snakes sense movement, the parent teaching us that day told us that as a result, the thing to do when confronted with a rattle snake is to stand perfectly still. She had placed outside in her yard a paper snake somewhere, so we were all supposed to run around until we found it, and then freeze. This we did. As I recall, I was either the first or second to find it (it was on the slide), but that could just be my memory trying to glorify myself. I'm sure I stood very still. I'm usually good at that. =) The next part of my memories relating to snake safety is one that I don't recall the origin of, but I know I know it. The following poem is meant to help me distinguish between two types of snakes (whose names I don't know) that look similar, but one is poisonous and one is not:
Red and Black, Friend of Jack,
Red and Yellow, Kill a Fellow.
Thus, if the red and black stripes are next to each other, the snake is not poisonous, etc. There is one of these types of snakes painted in a giant winding shape on the sidewalk at the San Antonio Zoo, and I always loved to walk on it and decide if it was poisonous or not. Unfortunately, I can't remember if it is or isn't. And although I cannot remember for certain, I doubt that the red and yellow snake is a copper head snake. Which means that despite my extensive training in snake safety, not a whit of it would have helped my roommate (who is really cool, named Sisi, and from China), who recently got bit by a copperhead snake.
That's right. On the foot. What are the odds, anyway? She was hiking on a ranch in Virginia with some of the other interns. I was not there. They convinced her to go to the hospital, so she did, and ended up having to stay two nights there while they gave her some anti-venom stuff. Then she had to be on crutches and not go to work for a whole week! Crazy, eh? And the funny part was, she did not seem to realize what an unusual event this was; I distinctly recall at one point the following conversation as we all huddled around in the emergency room waiting for her to be seen:
Us: "We can't believe you got bit by a poisonous snake. That's so random."
Sisi: "You mean you don't get bit by snakes in America all the time?"
Us: "No, of course not. Is it a common occurrence in China?"
Sisi: "No, not at all. I just thought it was part of the American experience and all."

Unfortunately for her, it has become a part of her American experience. I'm just glad she survived, and that the post-bite infection seems to be going away.
Ironically, her snakebite incident occurred only three days after the removal of my wisdom teeth. The whole general anesthesia thing was really quite an experience; I don't recall every being quite so loopy in my whole life. (Yes, that includes after I wake up from naps.) My Aunt Danita, who lives out here, and four-year-old cousin Lindsey were kind enough to pick me up. I'm not sure Lindsey really remembered me, but I bet I was a lot of fun being all crazy after waking up. That first day sitting at there house was incredibly relaxing - I am so grateful that my aunt was willing to pick me up and take care of me! And now, in case you are wondering, I have pretty much completely healed and can eat anything I want once again. So, despite a few days where my roommate and I both were pretty much out of commission, now I can eat again and she can walk again, and all is right in the world.

Dentistry, and Me

Ned Lunt, DDS. Hardly a second father, but a good man nonetheless. The place he works, however, is one that will forever remain to me a sort of second home at home.
Weird, right? What sort of kid thinks of a dental office as a second home? Especially one who isn't even related to a dentist! Well, that would be me. Not the only thing a little bit odd about me, but people love me for all my little oddities, thankfully. When I was just a wee little thing my dear mother went to work as a receptionist at the dental office. I remember sitting for hours in the back room with my sister, watching movies and playing with our G.I. Joe's (and yes, I do still have them). We would roll our marbles down the back ramp, all three sections, and run around loudly on the weekends when we were there with Mom (for which, I might add, we were definitely reprimanded). Even though I remember getting tired of being there for so long, I also remember always getting excited to go there. All those mysterious posters of teeth on the walls, the noises of dental tools always grinding away, the colorful gloves the hygienists wore; everything about it made it seem just a little larger than life to us little kids.

So, as a tribute to the art of dentistry, my sister says in her simple manner, "Dentristy: bittersweet. I hate the dentistry, but I love the dentist." And I say, "Dentistry, I really like the part where I get control of the water and sucking tools." Together we add, "Thanks to you, dentistry, we loved the dental aspects of Finding Nemo more than most. You give us an appropriate appreciation of modern culture." Thank you dentistry, for all you have done for us.

The World is My City

Last night I saw a man get shot. Right in my own neighborhood.* So today, to protect myself from being hunted down by the shooter himself to keep me from talking, I took off and traveled the world, along with a couple of other interns who saw the shooting with me. We went first to Japan, then passed Saudi Arabia and Thailand on our way to our next stop, Ethiopa.


From there we continued on to Bangladesh, where we got ourselves some henna tattoos, and briefly looked a bit at Pakistan.


Next we arrived in Nigeria. Here we found ourselves immersed in loud, indigenous music. We were surrounded by wonderfully happy people dancing in native costume, and could smell tantalizingly good food where ever we went. The whole time I thought to myself, "Self, remember that Nigerian man who once proposed to you? If only you had said yes, this could be your life."



But alas, it was not to be, and so we continued on for a final stop in Malaysia. We figured that at this point it was probably safe to return back to D.C., so we trekked through the jungles of Bangladesh, encountering a lost dog tag...

...on our way through a bamboo field.

We did, however, get slightly sidetracked when we accidentally stumbled upon a Buddhist sanctuary. The receptionist insisted on giving us a tour, and took us through enchanting hallways, passing rooms within which we heard mysterious chanting and saw beautiful shrines and candles. After finally arriving back at Dupont Circle in D.C., we decided our adventure merited a good, hearty meal, so we treated ourselves to the Cheesecake Factory out near where we go to church.

It was a delightful meal indeed.
Now we rest safely back in our home here in Washington, D.C. I believe our extensive travels today were enough to throw the man off our tracks, so I no longer feel concerned for our safety. Tomorrow I shall go to church in peace.


*Although occasionally (perhaps even rarely) I believe in leaving things unexplained, in this case I thought it best not to worry people. Last night I watched the movie State of Play. In the opening scene two people are shot, one killed. The bridge under which they were shot was literally right outside the doors of the movie theater I was in, just minutes from where I live. So, do not fear, my neighborhood is quite safe, although seeing someone get shot in it in a movie even was slightly unsettling.

Fingerprints and Memories are Two Things Uniquely My Own

Those of you who have known me for a while may remember the time I was tricked into believing I was stealing a car. Or the time I stole a riverboat. Now, I have taken it all one step further. I stole a car. As a result, I had to go to the police station here in Washington, D.C. and be fingerprinted. My hands got all inky, but it was otherwise quite an adventure and very enjoyable!
In order to impress the policemen (who turned out to be friendly women), I had dressed up with a suit jacket and everything. When I got home, I didn't bother changing, so when a group of us went out that night I was still dressed up, while everyone else had changed into more casual clothes. We went down to the National Mall to look at a bunch of monuments. Fortunately for all of them, I recently purchased a guide book for D.C., recommended by my good friend Sydney, which I read before we arrived. I kept spouting off facts about all the monuments that no one else knew (such as that the Vietnam War Memorial was designed by 21-year-old Yale student Maya Lin as a class project, or that in the 1830s the Know-Nothing party stormed the partially-built Washington Monument in outrage at the Pope having donated a block of marble and took it over, leaving it unfinished for some thirty or forty years). Everyone seemed to like it, so I kept going. Eventually we ended up over near the Washington Monument, with the entire group huddled around me as I expounded the story of the Know-Nothing takeover. We realized suddenly that because of my much more formal dress, most passers-by probably thought I was an official tour guide. And thus the idea of having me pose as a tour guide was born! I will certainly let you know when we do it, but we are currently planning on me taking us on a tour of the monuments at the Mall to see how many random people we can collect thinking I am a real tour guide. This will be exciting.
In the afternoon on Friday I went with some others to the Library of Congress. There, I found myself severely missing my wonderful friend and museum buddy, Davielle Durfy, as I indeed went so much more slowly than everyone else that they ended up leaving me there and proceeding on to other activities without me. 'Twas a shame, indeed, that I have not found anyone here who puts up with (and in fact matches) my slow museum pace as well as she.
Furthermore, in closing, I have a bone to pick with swine flu, as it has canceled my mom's study abroad in Mexico this summer. I am currently offering a prize to one who can bring me swine flu's head on a platter; we are hereby mortal enemies, and anyone who can shoot swine flu down will become my eternal friend.

Today is NOT a Good Day to Die...

...or to get tetanus. And now, on to the story of the day...
Today I felt like a real city-dweller, so very clever and knowledgeable. I headed an expedition to a very small local art gallery, called Zone Zero, consisting of myself, my roommate Sisi, and another girl whose internship has not yet started, Audrey. The place is in Georgetown, which happens to be right next to the Barlow Center, where I live. So we wandered our way around Georgetown (in a sort of purposeful way, which I suppose definitely rules out the verb 'meandered' and such things), and didn't even have to look at a map once, I was that prepared. Once we finally found it, we discovered that it was in a large red brick building near the water, not on the main street, very tucked away, and that it was one suite and the door was locked. After much confusion at the little intercom thingy-ma-bob (as my mother might call it), we successfully got the owner and creater, a man named Jean-Louis, to let us in. We were not prepared for the wonders we saw next. The outside of the building was completely deceptive. I was expecting something dilapidated and shifty, but instead we found a space where nearly every surface was covered in the most beautiful, shiny hard-wood surfaces. We climbed a few very well-built staircases and met the owner up on the third floor. He showed us inside, to the one-room gallery, again with incredible hard-wood floors, with the pictures we came to see hanging throughout the room, suspended from the ceiling. He turned on some music that made me feel like I was either under water or in outer space, making the entire experience seem just a little surreal. The photographs were pretty awesome, and taken by a local artist. We talked with Jean-Louis for a moment, who seemed very surprised that anyone found his little gallery at all, and discovered that the artists sometimes come and present slideshows of their work. He gave us each his card so that we can come back and watch the artists. It was pretty neat, and we felt really cool for finding it.
From there we proceeded to Alexandria, Virginia, where we rode the free King's St Trolley down to another mysteriously minor art gallery. This one, however, was an entire building filled with independent artists' galleries, each in their own room actively working at their craft. There were Japanese art rooms, tapestry weavings, paintings, and prints. We were trying to catch an exhibit that is closing tomorrow, and met this wonderful woman with flowing grey hair that could easily have flown off her head at any moment. If her hair could talk it would speak Swahili. She even took down Sisi's address and is sending us an invitation to her next exhibit opening! On our way out we stopped in at the tapestry weaver's, only to discover that every one of her works is inspired by places she has visited in our very own Utah! It was a lovely day filled with random artistic adventures. The people we met were real artists creating real art with real purpose, and it was real neat to talk to them. We felt like we were starting to know the city in a less touristy way, finding such small, out-of-the-way galleries.
The metro broke down in Arlington Cemetery on our way back and they kicked us all off. That was quite an adventure too, as was the shifty TexMex food we found to eat at a diner that was definitely not designed to serve TexMex...