silence

Once every two months or so I experience complete silence in the city.

This morning I was lying in bed for one last sweet second after my alarm went off when I noticed it. The fan was off. My incessant alarm was, thankfully, off. My thoughts were still groggy. All the 8:00 commuters had already left, so there was no creaking on the stairs or around the apartment. And most notably, there were no cars honking, speeding up, or stopping at the nearby lights, and there were no buses stopping with squeaky brakes, speeding up with noisy, dirty exhaust, or otherwise announcing their presence--the street or the route or the fact you can answer any further questions at www.transitchicago.com. Thank you for riding the CTA.

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I haven't quite decided if I like living in a big city. I like this city, I like its variety, I like its public transportation (even if it means I can't get to anything on time)--notice I DIDN'T say I like its weather--but big cities in general are horrible messes of places that are often exciting to visit but easy to leave. I think Chicago assuages (GRE word) the mess slightly by being sprawling and composed of 70-something different neighborhoods that each have their own feel: urban, suburban, European, gritty, clean, you name it. It still is a horrible mess, though. The public schools are bad, the north side is disproportionally richer and therefore better funded and maintained than the south and west sides, the sales tax--I just discovered--is over 9% and rising because of the transit system's budget and staffing and service woes... but there's a strange power to it all. I like working downtown, riding the train, craning my neck so I can try to see the top of the Sear's Tower (difficult), strutting across streets like I have something to do and like I know where to go (usually, I have both).

My friend asked me not too long ago if it bothers me that there are people everywhere. Before she asked I hadn't actually thought too much about it... there are so many ways to escape these days, from listening to music, to watching videos, to just plain reading. Then, sometimes, even with all these people, it's quiet. But when I think about the big mess and all the cars and people and hurry and bustle, I want to go back to my little bubble next to the Pacific Ocean, where I could hear the waves.

Happy Anniversary

Today is my six-month anniversary of being a real person. For the past six months, today, I have had a job that I haul myself out of bed for almost every day, I have received a paycheck in my bank account every two weeks, and on varying dates throughout the month I have been expected to transfer this money to various companies and individuals--my landlord, my roommate, my gym, Visa, CTA, Netflix, Blue Cross, etc--now, six months later, I'm not quite rich yet nor do I think I will ever be. But this is beside the point.

On this most historic of days, my six-month anniversary of being the stereotypical, the miserable, nine-to-fiver, I am thinking about the GRE Practice Test I'm taking tomorrow and how I'm going to refuse the company administering this free test when they try to get me to agree to pay them over half of my current checking account balance so they can teach me to do well on this test I am almost certainly ill-prepared for. I am looking forward to, perhaps relatively soon, retreating into the sheltered academic cove I not-so-long ago knew and loved, which will allow me to get up past 7:00 a.m. during the week and, furthermore, see my apartment by the light of the sun. Today I am looking at my recently updated resume and planning what I will wear and what I will say at a job fair I am attending on Saturday. I am slowly scouring job-search websites and planning to update my writing portfolio and cover letter in between completing my least-favorite tasks at my current job.

This is not really how I thought it would go. Yes, by all accounts it is going fine: I pay my bills, I have a little left over, I am working in my field... but I left college hopeful and confident, a strong believer in the absolute freedom of the press, and now I'm disillusioned, confused, bored, and tired. And freedom of the press for me, for my interests, my beliefs, is a myth. That's fine. Unfortunate, but fine. Six months really isn't a long time, but it does feel like one... and what can I do now but look for and hope for something better.

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Today is also nearly my nine-month anniversary of living here in Chicago (and of dating my boyfriend). Nine months is also not really a long time, but Chicago's starting to feel more and more familiar, especially now that spring and summer are rolling around again. Concerts to look forward to, my pride at being able to navigate without a map of the streets or the transportation, my not having to deal with a car, my lovely apartment and neighborhood... so I try to focus on these things instead of the former.

shalom

This afternoon, in the midst of front-page news about Israel and Gaza bombing each other again and the school kids getting shot in Jerusalem last week, I got an email with flights, dates, and a packing list.

Shalom, Lindsey, it said. You're going to Israel.

My philosophy behind traveling or basically doing anything else that scares me out of my mind is to not to think about it until the time comes. This way, I can sign up for things that I feel would be good for me, things that I feel I should do, and I don't have to think about exactly what I'm doing before it's too late. Like going to Spain and moving here, I don't freak out until I get to the airport, and by that point there's no turning back... Like that famous picture that still stands on the shelf above my parents' office computer, of me at the airport about to leave for Spain for six months, my eyes red and tears running down my cheeks. I knew objectively that studying abroad was good for me but if I wasn't an adult I would have tried to run and hide behind my mother's apron strings. But I am an adult. So I do it.

In this case, there are other factors at work besides simply being fearful, tired, or unwilling to leave the country. This is the Middle East we're talking about, after all. Nevertheless, I know this trip will be good for me because it has been for so many others like me, and I am an adult, so I'll do it. And not think about it until it's upon me.

(You can bet that I will think about it while I'm there and when I return. Check back in MAY and JUNE--and before and after that--for my thoughts on Israel.)

the no-send list

This is that post I was talking about...

Easily number two on the Top 10 list of reasons people unsubscribe to the famed WJD is the confession that "I'm Catholic," or "I'm Methodist," or "I'm Christian." Also in the top 10: "@#$%!&#%!%@#$" (seriously, people yell and scream obscenities), "I don't want my mailman in the no-man's land of Kentucky to think I'm Jewish," "I care about the environment and I want you to save paper and postage by not sending this to me ever again," "I didn't pay for this [free] subscription and I want to know whose joke it was to send this paper to me" (findings based on the results of an informal study of an unspecified number of callers conducted by the WJD editorial assistant). Luckily I don't have the job of managing the circulation list so I don't get to hear the best of them. But if I'm good I do get to hear some, because an inconsistency in the phone system sends several of these delightful callers to my desk each day and some of them even leave me messages though my voice mail box message expressly tells them not to.

The woman I just talked to was polite, so she has a leg up on most of our callers. She said pleasantly, almost laughing, "I'm calling to cancel because [suppressed giggle]... I'm actually Catholic. So..." I said "OK" and transferred her to circulation before she could say "I don't want my mailman to think..."

My blood started boiling even before I really thought about the call. No, there is nothing inherently wrong with wanting to cancel a newspaper that is made with the religion and/or ethnicity that's not yours in mind. Maybe it was just her quick and cheery excuse. Why should it matter that she's Catholic? Is it against Catholic doctrine to touch, or, God forbid, open a magazine that has the world "Jewish" written on the cover? It wouldn't kill these people to be a little more accepting and a little less judgmental. It's not very encouraging to work somewhere where the volume of calls to cancel the subscription outnumber the constructive or article request or subscription request calls by at least 75 to 1 (findings based on the results of another informal study of an unspecified number of callers conducted by the WJD editorial assistant).

the absent engagement ring

The secretary looked at me conspiratorially from between the long green leaves of the plant sitting on the edge of her desk.

"Are you getting married?" she asked covertly, excitedly.

I looked down at my semi-professional clothes, the pile of winter gear now in my lap, and the steno pad and pen in my hands, and thought quickly of my boyfriend. And my age. And my dolls. And the single university diploma sitting on my dresser at home. I decided I definitely wasn't, and giggled softly.

"No," I exhaled. "I'm here to interview..."

"I only asked because I was being nosy," she admitted. "When I was your age, I was getting married."

I wondered what age I looked and what age she was when she got married... and the rabbi called me into his office.

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I don't know where 20-somethings disappear to when they graduate from college, but apparently they don't end up at semi-conservative religious publications. People have mistaken me for many things since I've been here, and usually it's not the reporter I am. Or once I sit them down for the interview, they talk about me and my generation... "Kids your age, they don't feel any connection to stuffy Jewish institutions." (True.) And when, yesterday, we touched on "the problem of" Jewish continuity and intermarriage, I tried to sit up straighter and look older when I realized that I embody the quintessential "problem" the older generations talk about when they fear the religion will die.

I don't mind, really. I smile understandingly and look forward to one day when I will hopefully be among the hip, young journalists at some publication or blog that publishes articles I would read and things I would believe if I wasn't forced to.

the myth of objectivity

Incidentally, I am in the process of composing a long, rambling post about why people hate journalists and the media, specifically my newspaper/news magazine/newsletter/magazine... whatever you care to call it. I may never get to the point of the post, in which case I will never post it.

Do not fear, this article should tide you over. It's concise, honest, and refreshing. It explains a lot of important things that most lay-people don't understand about "the media." It's what I wish I had been saying in the media's defense all along. Well, I have, but maybe not in so many words.

I still hate the phrase, "the media."