Gravedigging: a Burden and an Honor

I remember taking Global History back in high school. It was one of those courses that were split into two years--so the first year, we learned about pre-history up to Japanese isolation after Imperialism. It was a very broad spectrum of material to cover, but I remember that most of the interesting stories came from my global history classes (the tradition of sati, the Rosetta Stone, Caesar's assassination, the feudal system...all that good stuff). When doing our unit on India, one of the things we learned about was the caste system, and how the untouchables were at the bottom. The untouchables got the jobs that were considered beneath the upper castes...such as gravedigging. It's not a glorious job, but someone has to do it.

Fast-forward to my Fall 2011 semester at college, my journalism professor, Marek Fuchs (look him up), told us about an article he wrote for the New York Times, which you can read here. My professor had the unfortunate task of writing a day story on the day of a blizzard. There were hardly any people on the streets, and he was beginning to feel concerned about actually finding a story. As he was traveling, though, he passed by Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and noticed that someone was there. It was a gravedigger. Death does not stop for the weather, and neither do the gravediggers.

In the past few months, I've been inspired to research a topic that's fairly unrelated to gravediggers: urban decay. No, I'm not referring to the costly cosmetic brand. I'm referring to the stuff this man takes pictures of. (I know you technically should not end a sentence with a preposition. I don't care.) I also wanted to research the topic after watching this book trailer. In the Film Noir class I took this past semester, we watched the movie Shutter Island, which again reminded me of a place that I had read about in my research--really, the place that started it all--Hart Island.

For those of you who do not know--and indeed, many my age (an even some older folks) don't know--Hart Island is a Potter's Field floating off the coast of the Bronx. Next door to it is the commercialized small town of City Island, where mom-and-pop shops open late and close early. But I digress. Hart Island was not always a Potter's Field. It was at one point a prison, at another point an asylum, and it has been several other things during its history. Now, though, it is just a Potter's Field, surrounded by crumbling buildings which the government has neither demolished nor renovated. The rich history and this photo by Richard Nickel, jr. have sparked my interest in visiting this place.

Sadly, Hart Island is not open to the public. Like "Shutter Island," Hart Island is only accessible by boat. There was a walking tour for some elite folks a few years ago, but to my knowledge there have not been any since then. The Kingston Lounge photographer actually had to sneak onto the island with someone who owned a handmade boat. The only people who get to visit this island, on a relatively regular basis, are...the gravediggers.

The gravediggers at Hart Island are prisoners from Riker's who volunteer to do this task. Back in the 70s, Eyewitness News did a segment that showed the gravediggers at work. I do not envy the job they have--it's kind of morbid, when you think about it. Mass burials of corpses in crudely constructed boxes does not sounds like a career path I'd like to take. Yet, these gravediggers, doing a task that most would rather eschew, get to experience the beauty of Hart Island, even if they are not free to wander about it. The job that no one wants comes with that slight advantage.

Where am I going with this entry? Ok, back to the title. I've already explained how gravedigging can be a burden. However, it is also an honor because without gravediggers, corpses would...what--be discarded in landfills? Or perhaps everyone would just opt for cremation, knowing that nobody is going to bury their body. Gravediggers are important to society, and their job is ageless, considering that people have been dying since The Fall (not referring to Autumn here).

And so, this blog entry goes out to all the men (and women, I guess) who have the loathsome task of burying our dead. You may not have a glamorous job, but I gather that you have a greater understanding of mortality than the rest of us do.

That Rare Breed of Guys

Last week, I was going to my journalism class and I showed up about an hour early. I decided to leave my stuff in the classroom anyway so I wouldn't be walking around with all my baggage (those who have seen me on campus know I carry a lot of baggage, haha). When I walked into the classroom, I saw a guy standing on the platform cleaning the whiteboard. He had shoulder length hair, and a newsboy cap, and I couldn't tell if he was a professor or a student. So I asked. To my surprise, he was a student.

He was cleaning the whiteboard with that chemical spray, and he was diligently trying to clean the marker streaks from the board. He made it clear that this was something he was not told to do, so I asked him why he chose to do it.

He told me that his professor wasn't going to clean it, and he didn't want the board to be dirty for the next class. He also picked up one of the whiteboard erasers and showed that the erasers do more harm than good.

I asked if he needed help. I went to grab more paper towels and soon I was on the platform with him, putting elbow grease into this menial yet frustrating task. We talked a little. I told him I gave him kudos for cleaning the board, especially since he wasn't asked to do so. He seemed like a nice guy.

Before he left, he told me he was a chemical engineer. When I asked what year he was in, he told me he was a junior. I thought, "Wow, so am I!" I said, "So, I guess I'll see you at graduation." The chances of us running into each other again are slim, given our different majors (my major is Communication).

When I introduced myself and asked for his name, it turned out his name was similar to my name. (I won't name names because the people reading this blog will be able to put two and two together and figure out who he is.) Anyway, our last names are far apart in the alphabet, so I doubt I'll even see him at graduation.

Of course, given the modern technology available to us today, I immediately ran across the street to the RLC building (it has computer labs), logged into my facebook account, and looked this guy up.

He has a girlfriend.

Of course, I'm used to disappointment so I found the situation pretty humorous. Of course he would have a girlfriend. He's a great guy. He takes responsibility for things that aren't even his responsibility. He had the consideration to think of the next classes that would use that whiteboard. He did something without having to be told. He manned up and took initiative.

They don't really make them like that anymore. A lot of guys my age are not like this, Christian or not. I thought my single problems were exclusive to me because of my faith, but later on as I was telling my friends this story, they said they have the same problem too.

All the good guys are taken! The rest of them tend to be immature, self-centered, not willing to commit to anything, slackers, or too shy/weak to "man up and take initiative"...I mean, not *all* single guys from ages 18-22 are like this, but you get the point.

Oh, mighty men of valor, WHERE ARE YOU?

Commuters' 10 Theses

This is directed toward my friends who dorm.

Commuters' Theses

1. I exist. Being a commuter does not mean I am dead, nor does it mean I am invisible.

2. If I am indeed your friend, you should reach out to me once in awhile. Not just when you need something from me (like a video edited or a paper proofread), but also because you want to say “hi” and ask how I'm doing. I acknowledge you, please do the same for me.

3. You cannot use the excuse that “I am never around.” I am not around because I don't dorm. If you want to meet with me, we can compare schedules.

4. Invite me whenever there's a party or a weekend outing. Even if you know I'll probably say “no,” the very fact that I've been invited will make me super happy. If you all go out together without inviting me, and I find out, I will be super sad. :(

5. If you see me, don't ignore me. If I always have to say “hello” first, surround myself with siren lights, or get out red flags to get you to see me walking directly towards you, that is a sign that either you have amnesia, you're blind, or you don't think I'm worth your greeting.

6. Don't invite me to Locke's. It costs me 9+ bucks for entry and I barely eat the food.

7. On the rare occasion that I am in your presence, don't ignore me. I hate awkward silences more than I hate stepping in dog poop. I also hate being the third wheel. And I hate your inside jokes which I never understand because I'm not around because I commute.

8. Don't complain to me about dorming. There is nothing I can do about it, and you're the one who somehow acquired the money to be able to dorm. To be able to get away from home. To be able to live in a building with a skamillion other people your own age. Lucky you, and aw, you poor thing, having to wash your own clothes and eat dining hall food must be a strenuous burden. But it's nothing compared to waking up before 6 AM and taking 3 buses with a bunch of angry Bronx people.

9. Don't gloat to me about the joys of dorming either. I get the point. You have it better than I do.

10. Once I start driving to campus (for senior year, finally, God-willing), I might stay later. Which means I may not leave campus until night time, which means I may want someone to accompany me to my car, preferably a male. Don't all jump at once.

I had to make it ten points. It's a compulsion.

I also know for certain that I am not the only commuter at our college who feels this way. I like talking to people who don't fit in because I know what it's like to be alone. That said, no one does the favor for me, save for a few.

And regarding point #2, yes, this has happened before in real life. One of my friends—not naming names—texted me last semester and asked if I could edit a video for him because he needed it for his sound mixing class. He didn't say hi, didn't ask how I was doing, and he hadn't talked to me in a LONG time...and yet, once he needed something from me, he suddenly remembered who I was.

Don't be that guy.

I love all of you, even those who dislike me. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

And for gosh sakes, if you're a member of The MC Crew group I made on Facebook, please post once in awhile! The whole point of that group was so that we could share links and talk to each other in a general forum.

Case closed.

A Blog Entry About Sleeping :)

It wasn't until this academic year--my junior year of college--that I started napping at school. If I'm really out of it and I'm starting to doze off in class, that's when I know I need a nap. I'll go to the Student Government lounge, flop onto a piece of furniture, and drift. I don't care who sees me. Today I learned that I can fall asleep in the library, too. Especially if I'm reading a book for class.

The funny thing is, I never napped when I was younger. In fact, I hated sleep. My mom would put me to bed at 8, and I would stay awake and play with my toys. My sister went to bed at 9, and since we shared a room back then, we would be up until 10 or even 11, sleepily telling jokes and singing "Kumbaya." (Yeah, we sang "Kumbaya." Rather dramatically, I might add).

Then, when I was 9 years old, I went through a phase of insomnia--I couldn't fall asleep. I would be up late at night crying because I wanted to sleep. I would even go the whole night laying awake with my eyes closed, then report to my mom the next morning that I "slept the entire night." (I didn't know what sleep was, apparently). Eventually, this phase ended. We went on a vacation to the Poconos that summer, and at night I slept pretty well, probably worn out from the day's activities. Whatever the problem was--too much energy, too much sugar maybe--it ended.

Over the years, my bed and I had a love-hate relationship. I wasn't so much an insomniac anymore, it's just that I didn't appreciate sleep. I didn't see what was so great about it. Once emotional problems crept in--depression, anger at either of my parents after they split, guilt, fear--I was starting to have trouble sleeping again. Thank God I was an energetic kid, otherwise I would have been super sluggish during the day. I kept having strange dreams, too, so I felt a little adamant about sleeping.

Once I started college, though, I gained a huge appreciation for sleep. As a commuter, I get up around 6 AM, and I don't go to bed at night until 11 or 12. During my sophomore year, I got ulcers, and the only time I felt pain free was when I was asleep. I remember waking up in the morning and thinking "I can't wait to go back to sleep tonight." Getting panic disorder expanded that desire to sleep. Sleep was my escape--and it's 100% legal and prescription-free.

Last Fall I began getting night terrors. They're not like nightmares--night terrors happen when you're about to fall completely asleep, and then you suddenly wake up gasping, bolting upright, a little disoriented. I once saw a video of a guy having a night terror and even though it looked simultaneously funny and scary, i said, "yep, that's me." Sometimes I got a few each night, and it got to the point where I was afraid of sleep again. I would abruptly awaken for the 4th time at 3 AM and think, "I just want to get some sleep already!" I still get night terrors occasionally. I think for me they're brought on by stress/anxiety and also by sugar :) i can't eat sweets late at night. I shouldn't be anyway.

Nowadays, I'm still a night owl, but I'm the kind of person who likes to be in bed by 10:30 or 11, even if I'm not going to sleep yet. I love my pillow, it's the best pillow in the world, I don't care if you think your pillow is better, haha. I am grateful to God that I can sleep more peacefully now.

Why am I saying all this? Because I can! No, but seriously, I know I'm not the only person who's had sleep problems before. Sometimes people feel like they're the only ones who deal with certain things, and one of the reasons I'm so open about myself (in general) is because I never know who I'll run into or who will read my blog and think to themselves, "Hey, I thought I was the only one." I think I'll always have an underlying fear that my vulnerability will come at a cost, and maybe it will, but ultimately I try not to care what others think, so long as I'm living rightly before God--and I ain't perfect, mind you.

Anyway, I hope everyone reading this has a good night's sleep tonight. If you work at night, have a good day's sleep.

-Nicole <3

The Break-Up Story

Sometimes, I get tired of love stories. So here's the story of how my ex and I broke up.
It was Saturday, March 12th, 2011, and I remember because it was the first official day of Spring break. I was a sophomore in college at that time, and I had just begun a recovery process that was going to take about a year to come to fruition.

I was recovering from over 4 months of ulcers and IBS, which played a part in me getting panic disorder a few weeks after I started the spring semester. It had gotten to a point where I had to go on medication, and a week after I started taking meds was Valentine's Day. My ex and I were in a long distance relationship, so he sent me a card in the mail saying how he would support me during this hard time, and how he would be there for me.

Our spring breaks coincided that year, so we decided we would get together during the second weekend of the break--he would be staying at his grandparents' house here in the Bronx. The saturday of that weekend was the day my sister and I were going to visit our dad to celebrate his birthday. I wanted to give my ex a heads-up, so I called him on March 12th, in the morning, right after I had finished eating breakfast and taken my pills.

During the week and a half before this phone call, my mom asked me if anything was wrong between my ex and I. She noticed he hadn't called the house in awhile, so she suspected we were breaking up. To my knowledge, everything was fine, so I dismissed what she thought. I did notice, though, that my ex and I had not talked in a while. He barely even texted me, which was unlike him. He was the kind of guy that stayed quiet when something was wrong, so I wasn't surprised with our conversation on the phone on March 12th.

"Hi," he said, his voice a little blase.
"Hey. What's going on? We haven't talked in awhile..."
"Yeah..." he trailed off. The next 15 minutes went something like this:
Him: "I don't know how to say this...I guess it's like ripping the band-aid off...*sigh*...I guess I should just say it...I'm not in love anymore."
Me: "...Okay." I was suddenly grateful I had taken the Klonopin before I called him.
Him: "I've been thinking about it...and I've been thinking about what you said, about how we're not the same people we were when we first met..."
I remembered that week he had gone on an ice skating trip with some friends from college, and one of his friends was a girl that he was starting to like--and he had previously felt torn between me and this other girl. So I then asked:
"Is this because of the ice skating trip?"
"It's not just because of the ice skating trip..."
After some more slow-moving conversation, he asked me:
"Are you okay with all this?"
Me: "Well, it's not like I have a choice...I mean, I can't make you do something you don't want to..."

After the phone call I immediately went to my room and started throwing stuff away--gifts he had given me, photos of us, the half-mizpah necklace I permanently wore around my neck--it all went in the garbage. It's a good thing I kept almost all our mementos in a manilla envelope (I was planning to make a scrapbook because I thought--and everyone thought--we were eventually going to get married). Everything went straight into the trash, except for a bracelet he had given me that my mom suggested we sell ("hey! Don't throw that away! We can hawk this!")

I spent the remainder of the day on myself. I washed and flat-ironed my hair, got dressed up, grabbed my leather jacket, and asked my mom to take me to Barnes and Noble--which, ironically, is where my ex and I first met. I don't remember if I even cried that day--the tears would come later. I was sort of in a euphoric state of shock--I felt like I had been set free. Prior to the break-up, my ex and I were having a dry season in our relationship. Neither of us were creative anymore, we were weathered by the issues we each had to deal with, we couldn't be there for each other when we needed each other, and I had become bored with him. I also realized that if he had not made the move to break up, I was probably going to hang in there a little longer, figuring that things would eventually get better again. I was starting to envy single people, though, so the day of the break-up I was more grateful than angry.

A few days later was when other emotions began to kick in. Part of me felt angry--I felt like my ex lied to me in his Valentine's Day card. Part of me felt lost--I was used to texting him whenever I had a problem, and now I couldn't. Part of me felt worthless--like I was too messed up to be loved by anyone. I wondered if my panic disorder was the reason why he broke up with me, and figured that it was at least part of the reason why.

Amazingly, though, I didn't miss my ex. I just missed being in a relationship--having a guy to talk to and reassure me, to hold me, to make me feel loved and cherished. I suddenly realized that I had put too much trust and security in my ex, and I now had to build a new support system. I began reaching out to my friends more. I started writing, drawing, singing and making videos again. In short, I was starting to live again. I felt like my ex's timing was off, given that I was trying to cope with panic disorder and my other health problems. However, God gave me the grace to push through, and now--a year later--I can say I am content with my life. Do I still have my lonely days? YES--but I've learned that my happiness should not be based on whether or not I have a boyfriend. Am I scared I'll end up a spinster? Sometimes, but I trust that God has a guy for me.

I just haven't met him yet.

People Who Should Not Be Protesting in OWS

This is my 50th post (woohoo) and I want to talk about current events (for once).
I'm the kind of person who doesn't watch the news. You can say that I'm disaffected. I don't like politics, I think the news is depressing, and I'd rather be in my oblivious bubble during dinner time than watch a news story about a murder or robbery.

If something is really important, I almost always find out from the internet anyway.

Now that I am a Communication major, though, with a focus in journalism, I kind of have to pay attention to the news now. Of course, what's been fairly popular in the news for the past--what, 3 months?--is the Occupy Wall Street movement. Other cities in the United States and around the world have joined in this protest, and there's not really any clear leadership or purpose to it. All I know is that people are just plain fed up with the economy and how it's run. The trickle down effect doesn't work. 99% of the wealth belong to 1% of the world's population, and the rest of us who share 1% of the wealth are the 99%.

It's an angry world we live in, and the global inclination is toward anarchy at this point. However, I would like to shed some light on this and tell people things they've probably already heard before:

If you do not have a GED, you should not be protesting in OWS. You cannot get a job because you don't have a GED.

If you have a good laptop (it came out in the past few years, as opposed to ten years ago), you should not be protesting in OWS.

If you have an iPhone, iPod, iPad, iAnything, you should not be protesting in OWS. Clearly you have enough money if you've bought an Apple product.

If you're "living above your means," you should not be protesting in OWS. You have debt because you're living above your means. You cannot pay off your debt because you continue to do so.

If you're a drug addict or a drug dealer, you should not be protesting in OWS. If you're a drug addict, you're wasting your money on drugs. If you're a drug dealer, you're helping addicts waste their money on drugs. Aside from that, neither of you are law-abiding citizens, so how can you expect the government to listen to you and validate your feelings?

If you have a family to take care of, you should not be protesting in OWS. Now you might say, "I can't take care of my family because I don't have enough money, and that's why I joined in the protests." I'm sorry, your point is valid but let's be honest, your children would be better off with you present. You can probably cook better than them, and do you REALLY want your mother-in-law carrying the burden of caring for your children in your absence? Think carefully.

People who have a reason to protest:

-College students who are the victims of financial aid cuts.
-College grads who have pounded the pavement and offered to clean toilets and STILL cannot find a job.
-Senior citizens who cannot live on their social security (although they should not be exposed to the elements, and nobody wants to see an old woman get pepper-sprayed. That's just plain horrible.)
-People who REALLY cannot live off of what they're making. They've cut their spending, they clip coupons, they conserve energy, they work extra hours, they have two jobs, they eat the end pieces of the loaf of bread, and they STILL cannot pay all their bills.
-Schools that have been subject to terrible budget cuts. I'm thinking superintendents and maybe principals should be protesting. I do not think teachers should bring their class on a trip to Zuccotti Park so they can protest.
-The people who run homeless shelters. A homeless person can only stay for a limited amount of time because there's a limited amount of space. What the heck.
-People who need better healthcare. I know people who have jobs that do not provide health benefits, so they're under the "Healthy NY" plan, which SUCKS.

Overall, this has been going on for awhile now and I don't think anything's really changed. Is this movement going to change anything? Probably not. While some may say it's brought about unity, I think it's brought about more division. People hate the government more now than they did before, and people hate police more now than they did before.

"Oh, but Nicole, this movement has simply exposed the government and the police for what they truly are--heartless, greedy bastards who do not care about people."

And who are you?

Let's get one thing straight: you are not starving. Children in Uganda are starving. YOU are just HUNGRY.

Some protestors have legitimate reasons to protests. The rest of them are just chronic complainers who delight in rebellion. And frankly, it's hard to pinpoint a specific reason behind the movement because with every protestor you ask, the purpose varies slightly (or vastly).

I'm not for the movement, but I'm not against it either. I think the government has needed a wake up call for a long time. However, I do not think people camping out in Zuccotti Park and putting their health and wellbeing at risk is the right way to go about it. I just hope nobody decides to set himself or herself on fire. Then things will get ugly. And don't let this statement give you any ideas.

If you live in America, you have it waaaaaaay better than the rest of the world, especially the people in third world countries.

So examine thyself.

I say, let's swarm the government with letters, or bottles of tobasco sauce, if you're willing to pay for postage. I mean, if you can afford to shop at the 99 cent store, you can afford a stamp, right?

I Can Lie Just Like You (Mainly a note on anonymity)

This is one of those “heat of the moment” blog entries, so I'm kind of angry, but I will try to keep this civil and rational.
Remember when formspring was big? Many people I knew had a formspring account, and even I had one. One distinctive feature of formspring was being able to ask people questions anonymously. Of course, in the society in which we live, people “grow balls” (pardon the expression) when they have anonymity. The person on the receiving end does not know it's you who's doing the talking, so it's not like they can track you down in person if you say something offensive or upsetting.
My formspring got attacked. I checked off the option to publish my answers to facebook, and this incited more people to go to my formspring and ask questions. People hated the fact that I would talk about my faith on there. (Remember, folks, “freedom of speech” doesn't apply to Christians. It does on the books, but it doesn't in real life, because hearing the name of Jesus really rattles people. It makes them uncomfortable. This idea of a God that loves them and died for them offends them—I don't know why. Salvation's free.)
Anyway, if you want to see the kind of questions I got, you can take a look here (scroll down for the more heated stuff):
http://www.formspring.me/nicolemarie1991

Continuing—I've had tumblr for awhile now (http://keepyourbodybroken.tumblr.com (yes, I'm shamelessly plugging my blogs here)) and today I decided to uncheck the option to receive anonymous questions on there because of this “question” (it wasn't even a question):

“just want to say that u talk about how lonely u are a lot. i also know that ur intersted in a guy. constantly talking about how lonely u r is only gonna be a turn off for him.”

A few things here:
1.)Not bad, right? No cursing me out, no dissing my faith, no name calling. But...
2.)I already have an idea of who this person might be, and if they can't submit a question via their user name, that's called being a coward.
3.)This person hardly ever acknowledged me on tumblr (maybe once) and when I see them in real life, they hardly acknowledge me (if this is indeed the person who I believe it is). So what gives them the right to randomly come out of the blue and say something like this to me now? I would understand if this were a good friend, and we were out drinking coffee, and they tactfully suggested I not broadcast my lonely disease to the world. But this person went anonymous and basically told me I can't get anyone because I am openly lonely.
4.)How do they know I like someone!? I've dropped hints here and there I guess, but I always figured this person never paid attention to me anyway.

So now on tumblr if someone wants to tell me something/ask a question, they have to use their username.
What point am I trying to make here? First, don't be anonymous. Unless you want to say something nice. If someone says something nice and they're anonymous, I'm all for it. But if you want to give advice, or even ridicule, you should use your freaking name. Be mature and own what you say.

My second point is this: if people can say the f-word, post slutty pictures, and wreak havoc on other people's lives over the internet, then why shouldn't I be able to proclaim my faith freely and talk about my loneliness? I'm not hurting anybody.
Chances are the guy I like does not even like me at all. (It feels like middle school all over again.) So whether or not me saying how lonely I am is a turn-off for him will always be a mystery to me, because I have no clue if he even pays attention to what I post online. What I will say is this: whatever guy I end up with in the future will be able to accept my honesty, and (I would hope) appreciate it. Because I don't bury my feelings—I like to have them out in the open. And I KNOW I am not the only one that feels the way I do. With me, what you see is what you get. And hey, maybe someone else who's lonely is reading what I write, and at least they know they are not alone in their loneliness (haha).
Lastly, I write about my feelings online because I can. And I hope people read what I write, and I HOPE someone actually cares. Because I only know a few people who care enough about me to actually talk to me once in awhile. I don't know why. I am a nice person (I think), I don't hold grudges, and when I'm on campus I try to say hello to everyone I know. But this has been the story of my life, this failure to connect, this inability to have staying power when it comes to people. Part of it is because I'm a commuter. Part of it is because I'm white. And part of it is because I've been damaged.

But I've also been healed, thanks to God.

Talk to my face. <3

-Nicole

P.S. For the past, I dunno, ten years, I haven't been able to say that I've had a “best friend.” I just haven't. I've had some good friends, some close friends, but I still never found a best friend.

Until my grandma and I had a conversation a few weeks ago. My grandma's been a Christian for 35 years and she is now at a point in her life where she can't start her day without praying, and she can't end it without praying, either. She doesn't see it as a chore—she genuinely loves God and wants to talk to Him (although I guess sometimes she might feel like not praying. After all, she is human). Anyway, I visited her once and we were talking about the Lord, and I remember her encouraging me to talk to Him, saying, “And remember—He's your best friend.”

After all these years, years of divorce, dealing with mental illness in my family, having ulcers, having IBS, having panic disorder and depression, going through break-ups—the only one who has stood by me this entire time is God.

So Jesus is my best friend. :)