My Alpine Path

Final Video Essay

2008-03-20T18:44:00.001-07:00

Here's my final video essay for the class. I originally planned to do an essay about the prevalence of Wagner's music in the media, but I saw this video by "thecaster" on YouTube which prompted me to do this instead.

He argues for the free use of profanity in everyday language in everyday situations. This, of course, got a ton of positive response videos, mostly consisting of middle-aged men flipping off the camera and saying "YEAH! @#$%*#@$&^@%!" enthusiastically. There weren't many negative responses to his video, so I thought I would step up.

Online Videos by Veoh.com

2007-12-04T19:17:00.000-08:00

I finally remembered to bring a camera with me, so I thought I'd take a few pictures.

Please bear with me as I experience technical difficulties.

Hope is on the right, and Laurel is on the left. They were suspiciously more than happy to let me take a picture of them. The boy in the back is Alan. He's a perfect student, which is why I haven't written about him -- nothing funny happens to him. He's diagramming a math problem he got wrong.

This is Simon, the class troublemaker. It looks like he's smoking a cigarette in this picture, but (luckily) it's only a lollipop. I swear my whole class isn't Asian...except all the non-Asian kids ran away when I pulled out my camera.

Alan and Laurel in the front, and Nathan in the back. Nathan is my token White Guy. He was actually on his way out, when I told him to hold it and get his bottom back in his chair. "Pose," I told him, "Like you're working on your math." The result is sadly accurate. I think Simon is on the other side of the room making faces at Laurel, which is why she's getting up. Alan is sitting resignedly in his seat, unable to deny my request for him to be in the picture. What a good boy!

2007-12-04T19:07:00.000-08:00

I was really behind on my laundry. That was the only excuse I had for wearing one of my least favorite shirts – a white t-shirt with the blood red words “HEARTBREAKER” scrawled across it. I kept it because one of my best friends had given it to me as a joke, and really, it was a comfy nightshirt and/or dusting cloth. It was also clean and unwrinkled.

So I was forced to wear this striking shirt to tutoring, which of course grabbed the attention of the class immediately. They were entranced by the idea of this shirt, the implications of the pure, snowy white shirt disfigured by the scarlet, shaming letters. Okay, so maybe not, but they thought it was fascinating that I would own a shirt like this; surely, since I own this shirt, I must be a so-called heartbreaker.

Puwahaha, I thought.

I cunningly used this to my advantage, and announced that if the kids did at least half of the work, I’d let them bug me about the shirt later.

“Whoever gets the most work done will get their questions answered first,” I hinted.

This worked like a charm. It worked better than any candy bribe or threat I could conjure up. Why didn’t I think of divulging personal information in exchange for good behavior before? The kids were so quiet and unlike themselves that it was frightening. Simon, who had been loudly declaring his disinterest just minutes before, was working on those fractions that he hated so much. His little posse was following his good example and diligently flipping through their packets. The only sound in the room was the noise of scratching pencils and the occasional cough. It was a miracle.

Then break rolled around.

Hope waltzed up to the front of the room and sat on my desk. “So, are you a heartbreaker?”

I couldn’t help laughing. The whole class looked at me, owl-eyed, more serious than I’d ever seen them before. “I don’t know what you mean by heartbreaker. Sorry.”

“Nooo,” said Simon. “You know what we mean! Have you broken any hearts?”

I considered this. “Well, I have made quite a few boys cry.”

“Tell us!”

So I told them. Nothing worth repeating, I think, and it would take a super long time to write it out. I still maintain, though, I didn’t really make them cry; they were just crybabies to begin with. One of the boys cried during class, and nobody felt sorry for him. He was that kind of boy. Only one boy will I admit provoking to tears, and it was because he was being completely stupid and everyone knew I was right.

The stories didn’t satisfy the kids, so they began to pester me with questions. They wanted to know if I was married (uh…do I look that old?) if I had any kids (this was coming from a first grader, so I could partially forgive him) and more random things along the line of “tell us every embarrassing encounter you ever had with a guy.”

The rest of the day went really well. The kids had some weird stories to think about, and everyone got their work done. Part of this was because I promised that, next time, I’d tell them about the time a neighbor’s cat ate the bird I was babysitting for a friend, and I had to chase the fat thing around the apartment complex with a frying pan. Somehow, kids really get a kick out of that story.

2007-11-24T12:27:00.000-08:00

I went to the senior center again this week, since I wasn’t going to be able to go for the next few weeks. I figured I’d make a few rounds and wish everyone a nice Turkey Day before I left. When I got to the front desk, I had a specific request from Mrs. Wright to visit her first. I wondered what was so important. Oh, wait, don’t tell me…

“I’m sorry, dear, about last time,” she began. “I know young people don’t like to hear about funerals.”

Great. I knew it. I really, really knew it. When I left the other day, I knew she had been itching to tell me more. She just couldn’t help herself. This topic was obviously too irresistible.

No, I said to her, I didn’t mind hearing it, if that’s what she wanted to talk about. Funerals are just something I don’t like to think about too much.

“When you get to my age,” she replied, “You’ll already have yours planned out.”

“Like how little girls plan their dream weddings for fun?” Except not.

“Exactly. What kind of music, food, ambiance…that sort of thing. I don’t want it to be left in the hands of my family, you know. They’d have enough on their plate already, and I wouldn’t want to stress them out. I want my funeral just right.”

“I want my funeral just…right,” I echoed. What a supremely twisted version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

Actually, this wasn’t a very surprising concept to me. I watched a movie where a woman, upon hearing that she only had a few months to live, decided to plan out her entire funeral to the last detail. She organized the music, the catering, and the locale – much to the horror of her family. She made a tape of all the songs she wanted to be played throughout the ceremony, and made a very, very long video of herself and her final thoughts. I thought it was pretty morbid at the time, but now I suppose it’s not as strange an idea as I originally thought.

“So do you understand now?” she asked me.

“Yes, I see,” I said, resigned. It seemed my Thanksgiving holiday was not getting off to such a great start.

She nodded, satisfied. “So it’s only natural for us to compare our friends’ funerals with what we imagine ours to be like. But at my funeral, I want champagne to be served.”

Suddenly I imagined it: a fancy cocktail party, with chic guests dressed in black, à la Audrey Hepburn circa Breakfast at Tiffany’s, holding tall flutes of bubbly champagne and mingling around a casket – closed, of course. Man, I thought. I have to stop talking to her. She’s wrecking my sanity.

“Gosh, Mrs. Wright, that sounds so festive. It would be a pleasant change, I think,” I babbled on my way out the door. “Have a great Thanksgiving, okay?”

“Same to you,” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to my daughter’s house for dinner – her husband looks like George W. Bush, did you know that? Horrid little man. And he doesn’t know how to carve a turkey, either.”

Relieved, I left her place, but not without a very somber frame of mind. When I finally got back home, I dug up my ancient Andy Williams Christmas CD, and cranked it up as loud as I could. I also vowed to myself to visit a stranger next time, someone who wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to discuss funerals and depressing things with me. In the future, I’ll stick to stories about grandchildren and pets and how when they were still young they drove across France in a rattling green Peugeot that stalled every quarter mile incessantly emitted pitch-black exhaust.

2007-11-15T20:46:00.000-08:00

When I went in the common room to read with Mrs. Wright, she was deep in conversation with her friend. The topic: the recent funeral of a mutual friend. Luckily, I didn’t know who they were speaking about, or else I would find it decidedly more disturbing than I did.

“Such a lovely funeral. Pink gladiolas go so well with white roses,” Mrs. Wright’s friend said to me as I walked in.

I nodded and kept my eyebrows up like I was interested. That’s great to know. I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.

“The music was beautiful. I wish my grand-daughter was a harpist, so she could play like that at my funeral,” Mrs. Wright added. “And did you notice how it was closed casket and not open? I really appreciated that.”

“Why?” her friend asked curiously. “I didn’t like that at all. I would have preferred it open.”

“I want to be able to remember Geraldine when she was still in good health. The picture they put on top of the casket was a really nice one. She should be remembered happy.”

“I think it’s disrespectful,” announced her friend. “We should have enough respect for the deceased to say goodbye to them one final time.”

“What’s the point in open casket?” Mrs. Wright sat up in her chair, annoyed. I could hear her voice getting stern, her school-teaching days coming into use. “The makeup is always hideous, like a clown, and they never look like they’re close to being alive. Geraldine was sick, and it showed. I, for one, would not want my last memory of her to be a shell of what she really was.”

“Really!” her friend huffed.

At this point I decided to cut in, before either lady decided to explode in righteous indignation. I had heard enough about funerals and open or closed caskets to last me a lifetime. Much more of this and I’d be picturing grotesque, brightly painted faces peeking over caskets. These are the stuff of real nightmares.

“Are you ladies planning anything fun for Thanksgiving?” I asked brightly.

“I think one of the reasons why she got sick so fast is because her husband died so suddenly. It’s a shame that he died before her,” Mrs. Wright said meditatively, completely ignoring me. “My two sisters’ husbands both died young, and it’s painful to see how lonely my sisters are.”

“You’re really blessed to have your husband still with you, Mrs. Wright,” I said cheerfully.

“No, my husband is so mean. My sisters married the nice men; such sweet, gentle men. My husband is the meanest man alive.”

She wasn’t joking. Really. There was no twinkle in her eye, no deadpan humor in her voice. I was wondering what I could possibly say to this, but her friend agreed with a big sigh. “That’s true,” she said. “All the nice ones die first.”

“When we were young, my husband treated me something awful,” Mrs. Wright continued. “Yelling all the time, penny-pinching me to death. I never got a moment’s rest. I think it’s the meanness that’s kept him alive. ”

“Well, you know how men are,” I said feebly.

“However,” her friend replied meditatively, “I think it’s better to have a husband than to have no husband at all. Since Adam passed, I get really lonely at night. I think I’ve read every book in the library twice. Nights are really the worst time to be alone.”

“You know what I do at nights? I watch ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’,” Mrs. Wright said excitedly. “It’s on at 8 o’clock on Channel 23, and it’s the funniest thing. Sometimes they have two episodes in a row, and I really look forward to that. Especially when they have lots of videos about children and babies.”

Her friend took out her little paisley notebook and dutifully penciled in her new appointment.

Painful. It was painful, I tell you, watching these women get excited about such an un-funny, hackneyed show as “

America

’s Funniest Home Videos.” It’s at these kinds of moments that I feel most powerless; I visit these elderly people so they’ll have a little fun, seeing a different face, talking to someone younger than themselves, yet I know that the novelty I bring is only worth so much. I’m not even sure if going to these sorts of places helps; if I were in their place, I think I’d feel even sadder knowing that at the end of the day, I don't have much to look forward to.

2007-11-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

I alternate teaching a class of around 12 kids, and privately tutoring two or three kids from that class. Today I had Alex, Laurel, and Hope, the most disastrous combination possible.

Hope is a 5^th grader who loves Spongebob. She has a Spongebob backpack, lunch box, binder, pencils, and at least six shirts with various Spongebob characters on them. She often sings a song called “Deep Blue Sea” while she’s working, and I haven’t gotten her to be quiet for more than 10 minutes at one time without resorting to the dreaded checks and minuses system.

Laurel’s the quiet one, but I think Hope is slowly bringing out the Spongebob lover in her. Recently she’s been singing “Deep Blue Sea” along with Hope, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s because she’s been watching more episodes of Spongebob, or because Hope has sung it so many times she’s memorized the song too. I know I’ve memorized it already.

Alex is a 2^nd grader with ADHD. I would find it a miracle if we could go through a session without him throwing a tantrum (along with various sharp objects) in class. He looks like a little doll, with blond ringlets and bright blue eyes, and pale, pale skin. When I’m showing him how to solve some problem, he stands super close and I can’t help but stare at his baby skin. I can see the blue veins running under, like some twisty map. It sounds weird but I assure you it’s really quite interesting.

It started off well. Hope didn’t start singing her song yet, and she and Laurel were working on their math packets. Alex was a little whiny, but everything was under control.

I told the kids I had to copy off some more pages, and I’d be back in a second.

I swear I was gone for less than five minutes, but when I came back, it was like Dr. Jekyll had politely left the room and Mr. Hyde had blown in. Hope was drawing big Spongebobs all over the whiteboard, Laurel was sitting on my desk in the front of the room, licking a lollipop, and Alex had taken my fat grease pencil and was calmly writing “EMLY IS BAD” all over the walls.

“Laurel! Hope! It’s not break yet!” They scrambled to their seats.

“Alex, what do you think you’re doing?” I asked in the sternest tone I could summon.

He turned around with a big grin on his face. “I thought you said you know how to read!” he replied snarkily.

Hope and Laurel got a big kick out of this. They doubled up and laughed until they cried.

“Okay, that’s it. Everyone is getting a minus right now,” I announced.

This produced wailings to the tune of “Nooo, please, Emily! Please, Miss Emily! Miss Emily!”

“You don’t have to make me sound like an old country spinster!”

The kids cracked up even more.

I eventually negotiated them into cleaning off the walls and finishing their packets, for which I’d take back the minuses and consider giving them pluses instead (yeah, right). When their parents came to pick them up, they were angelic, sitting quietly at their desks and straightening up their backpacks. Really, I think children are naturally sneaky. They instinctively feel who holds -- or is used to holding -- authority, and defy everyone else at their whim. At the same time, these kids are so young...what they consider being "super bad," as they call it, is rather hilarious.

2007-11-03T18:16:00.000-07:00

Senior citizens complain most about their children. Naturally. Parents are parents and kids are kids, no matter how you look at it. I’m sure everyone’s mom or dad has said at one point or another, “I’m still going to worry about you when I’m a hundred years old!” I know my parents have. Multiple times.

I dropped in on the used bookstore at the Home today. The volunteers at the front desk were deep in conversation, so I just slipped by and headed for the bookshelves.

Really, they were talking so loudly, I couldn’t help but listen. They also spoke with such conviction it was hard to resist. Mr. A was complaining about his daughter. “Thirty-five,” he said. “And still not married.”

“My son just got divorced,” Mr. B replied, “but no kids. He was married for 6 years and it was rough the entire time. His mother and I told him he shouldn’t marry her. And look what happened.”

“At least your son was married.”

“Well…you have to marry young. Once you pass a certain age, it’s hard.”

“My daughter is so busy with work, she can’t even meet people. I told her that all the men she’ll ever meet will either be divorced or have kids. She shouldn’t have all that baggage to carry around.”

“True.”

“The problem’s that she was too picky when she was young. Not tall enough, not good looking enough, not smart enough, not funny enough. She only brought home a few guys that I can remember. No choice at all.”

These words rang true in my head, and I stopped feeling sorry for the girl and started panicking for myself. I shouldn’t have broken up with my ex. I picked on him way too much. I should break up with my boyfriend tomorrow so I can start meeting new people. I have to meet a lot more guys before all the good ones get taken by really beautiful (but nasty) girls. I don’t want to end up alone. When I go back home, my parents always tell me to go out more. My mother would choose this time to quote Dr. Laura and say, “It takes at least two years of dating to really know someone.” But I’m too lazy! I’m tired after work and school, and I don’t want to get dressed up and put on makeup and have to be happy and cheerful when I’m not.

“Leaving so soon?” Mr. A inquired as I tried to sneak out of the store.

“We-ell…I didn’t want to eavesdrop on your conversation.”

Mr. B laughed. “Don’t worry, dear. Nothing private or secretive going on.”

“I heard part of your conversation, and it got me a little uncomfortable.”

Mr. B guffawed louder. “You’ve got a little bit of time left.”

A little?

Title-less for now

2007-11-02T01:43:00.000-07:00

(I've been having problems logging into blogger and editing posts for the past 3 days. Anyone else have these issues?)

When I go to a senior center, I usually make the same rounds, visit the same people, but the nurse at the front desk told me there was a new couple that just moved in, and they seemed to be pretty lonely. Orphans, she called them.

I’m always a little hesitant about meeting elderly people. They usually fall into two categories for me: the super nice, stereotypical rosy-cheeked grandmas and grandpas, or the sullen, very angry people. I don’t think I’ve ever met an elderly person that was a combination of the two. I’d also like to comment that the grumpy ones are not always the ones with no family – often, they have lots of family coming to visit all the time, leaving flowers all over the place and giving them something more to grump about.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Emily.”

“Our daughter’s name is Emily,” they said at the same time.

I could tell they weren't the grumpy kind.

I read their file before going in, and I knew the wife was in hospice, and the husband was close behind. They had just been transferred from a different retirement home. I usually ask where they came from, what their favorite hobbies were, but this time I couldn’t bring myself to ask. The nurse was right; they did look so lonely, surrounded by picture frames. The walls were covered with frames, their nightstands and tables were cluttered with them. They looked up at me, so hopeful and interested, that I actually felt a little overwhelmed. They definitely wanted more than I could give them.

I settled down across from them, introduced myself a little bit. Hi, I come here a few times a month, I’m here to keep you guys company, let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.

What I could do, Mrs. Johnson responded promptly, was fix some of the pictures in her photo album. When they were unpacking, some of the photos were knocked out of their sleeve.

I don’t really enjoy looking at old photos, especially black and white hand-colored ones. They give me a sad, nostalgic feeling, and all I can think about is how these people were captured in the prime of life, and now they’re most likely dead. The Johnsons had many black and white wedding photos in their big album, and it was clear Mrs. Johnson was dying to hear what I had to say about them.

“This is such a beautiful picture,” I said. “Beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” She said proudly. “My sister and I hand sewed that dress.”

“The groom looks pretty good too,” Mr. Johnson said.

“How did you two meet?” I asked.

“I’m sure I’ve forgotten,” she said dramatically. “It’s been so long that I don’t remember a thing.”

Her husband turned to me, exasperated. “She remembers everything.”

Mrs. Johnson gave her husband an evil look.

One autumn day when she was seventeen, a frisbee had flown into her backyard. Three minutes later, a dog came galloping into the yard, followed by a tall (“much taller than I am now,” Mr. Johnson insisted) boy. He tripped over the dog, landed in the mud. They took one look at each other, and that was that.

“That sounds like a meeting made in Hollywood,” I commented. “You couldn’t have gotten it any better.”

“We were married five months later,” she continued. “Except he wasn’t there.”

I wasn’t sure I heard correctly.

“We were married by proxy,” she explained. “It was the middle of WWII. He was drafted. It was a hard time.”

“I have to admire you for that,” I said. “I don’t know if I could have gotten married by myself.”

“I had to,” she replied, “or else someone else would have done it.”

I started laughing, thinking she was joking. She wasn’t. I looked at Mr. Johnson with new eyes, trying to see him as a dashing young man with dozens of women hanging on his arm. I couldn’t do it. He raised his eyebrows knowingly.

They declined to have their picture taken. “Maybe next time, when we’re better dressed,” they said.

Intro

2007-10-24T21:46:00.000-07:00

I should give a little background, just so you won't be lost. Twice a week, I go to a place called GATE Academy where I tutor children from 2^nd grade to 7^th grade in all the general subjects, like math, science, literature, etc etc. I have around 12 kids, and over half of them have ADHD. This makes for quite an interesting day. When I first started teaching, the parents of the ADHD kids told me: absolutely no sugar! This is quite unfortunate for me, as now I cannot win over the kids with sugary treats. I have to resort to more complicated wiles.

Once a week, I go to various senior centers to visit the elderly, which entails playing piano for them, reading to them, or sometimes just talking to them. Get them started on talking, and they’ll never want to stop. Sometimes they just want someone to listen, a fresh face to see. The subject matter is really quite surprising. They talk about everything, from politics to sex, to knitting, to their youth, to how rotten their grandkids are. Most of all, they talk about death. These people live, surrounded by death. I love going to talk to these people, hearing about their fascinating lives, but I always have a certain amount of dread, dreading to hear whose death is Gossip of the Day. I always leave vowing never to let my parents live in a Home, ever.

I get some pretty interesting experiences from these two extremes of life. Hopefully something worth writing about.

2007-10-23T21:48:00.001-07:00

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