Truce

I work a lot of overtime, as do many of my co-workers. The hourly rate is double, which is the biggest motivation for most people. Most, but certainly not all. A surprising amount of my colleagues work as much as they can because they prefer the peace and quiet of the workplace as opposed to the chaotic frenzy of home. Some even flat out admit they can't stand to spend a day around their stay-at-home mate. The most interesting group to me though is the workaholics, for I am always fascinated by things far removed from my own experience in life. Experts say workaholism covers up low self-esteem, anxiety and intimacy issues. I am no expert on anything and certainly not on human psychology but the way I see it, workaholism can also be an identity issue.

Occupation is a large part of who we are on a daily basis. For some of us, we spend more time at work than doing anything else, including sleeping. It's natural to include this in how we define ourselves as a person. It is also socially encouraged and valued. When introduced to someone for the first time, is "What do you do for a living?" not one of the first few questions we ask? Do we also not immediately form some opinion of the person based on their answer? I freely confess that I do. I pass judgement which gives my interlocutor a positive or negative hit from the start. Oh, it's not permanent, of course. Getting to know that person will alter this initial rating but I can't deny its existence. A couple years ago, I was planning to attend a high school reunion. I decided I would make up a lie about my occupation, intentionally choosing something that would trigger a negative reaction, just for amusement purposes. A social experiment, if you will. How many would turn away on the spot? Who would show no adverse reaction? Who would show an adverse reaction but nevertheless stick around? Would it be merely out of politeness or would they be fighting this socially programmed judgement to find out if there is more to me than a distasteful job? I find that kind of thing to be a lot more fun than downing a glass of punch while trading pictures and reminiscing about the old days.

Many workaholics I work with just can't retire. They'll die on the job, for sure. They are very proud of what they do. It defines them completely. So completely, in fact, that if you take it away, there is nothing left. The remnants are scattered pieces, vague affinities, drafts of convictions all jumbled together like a personality garage sale. They are terrified of retirement because they don't want to face the ultimate question, "Who am I really?" They dread going into the dark attic of their mind to fetch that cobwebbed vague affinity, they dread dusting that sketchy conviction and having to piece together the person that they were all along but never took the time to discover. Because that would be hard work. Much harder than, say, distracting the brain with an overload of breadwinning work. This seems to be typical of the baby-boomers, based on my own observations. Younger generations progressively oscillate towards the other end of the pendulum's trajectory. A job is becoming just a job and not the core of their personal identity but I wonder if that is because values are changing or simply because they can't find work in the field they are truly passionate about.

The inspiration behind this entry is not, as some would have certainly guessed, a co-worker but rather Brett Favre, the Minnesota Vikings quarterback. Brett cannot let go of football. It is his all-consuming passion. He is literally breaking down as we speak, an arm or an ankle at a time. I used to be mad at him for being a media attention whore. Brett loves football, sure, but Brett also loves the spotlight. Today, I have decided to bury the hatchet. I think Brett is one of those people afraid to look inward, afraid to ask the tough questions. His time to face the music will come sooner than for most, due to his career choice. For this reason, perhaps, my animosity has morphed into empathy. He loves what he does and sees no good reason to stop doing it. Who can blame him, really. So Brett, I wish you well, truly. Have a good 2010 season.

Equilibrium

I've been going through some boxes that I have been lugging around, unopened, through several moves. I estimate some of them to have been untouched for nearly 8 years. In one of them, I found a primitive wooden kite reel. The kite that goes with it belonged to my dad, a father's day request made in his late 40's that had baffled me at the time. After his passing, just a few years later, I asked to keep the kite. I knew it to be meaningful, not the item itself, but what it represented to him. I remember the faraway look and dreamy half-smile on his face when he was flying it. I always thought that one day I would figure it out.

***

I have just gotten two speeding tickets within 10 days of each other. One would think that I would have learned my lesson by now but clearly not, and it makes me wonder: if the payoff is big enough, the behavior won't change. So what makes it worth it to me? What is my payoff? Highway driving at high speed puts me in a trance. I feel like I could escape, if I just kept going. Of course, the real cage is in my head: my responsibilities and conscience would follow me anywhere, but somehow, while those luminous white strips on the dark pavement fly by, forever faster, I am able to block that out.

The quest for freedom is a wild goose chase. Shaping the very concept of freedom is already a challenge in itself. Its definition, for me, has evolved over the course of my few decades. In my teens, freedom was backpacking around the world. In my twenties, it was a steady income and my own apartment. In my thirties, it's been learning to forgive myself. Although I look at it from a progressively more introspective angle, all the physical manifestations of apparent freedom still draw me in: all things flying, being somewhere unreachable, off the grid, and... driving very fast.

The quest for power, on the other hand, is something fairly new to me, and that one is definitely no wild goose chase. There is plenty of power to be had. It amazes me how easy some of it is to get: one just needs to reach out and grab it. Perhaps because this quest has very tangible rewards, it is even more addictive than the first. I find myself wanting to stretch the limits, to see how much I can get away with. I am just now starting to understand why my dad enjoyed sales and business negotiations so much. There is something thrilling about getting someone else to willingly do what you want them to do. I know some people would call us manipulators. Others, kinder, would use terms such as charmer or sweet talker. We are not malicious. We're just students of human nature, hunters looking for increasingly more challenging prey with which to play for a while. Oh, what a master hunter my father was.

***

I finally get it, the kite, the dreamy smile. It's all about freedom and power: the kite, struggling to be free, my father, striving to control it, not utterly, no, but just enough... In this delicate balance is the sweet if ephemeral relief of peaceful satisfaction.

A Hamster on Thermodynamics

At around age 10, I was given a hamster. The thing was very cute and soft and I really enjoyed watching it run in its little exercise wheel. Once the novelty had passed, I devised further adventures for the furry creature. We got it an exercise ball and it was very entertaining to watch it roll around the house, despite it spending more time stuck somewhere than actually rolling. One summer afternoon, I came up with a project of significant magnitude: I would build it a huge maze.

I went to work on graph paper, drawing a maze that I deemed sufficiently challenging for the critter to be entertaining for the audience yet not so intricate that it would completely discourage it. Once pleased with the result, I pitched the idea to my dad. I was extremely excited, expounding at length on how many hours of fun would be had watching the hamster run around in the maze, keeping time and comparing results to properly chart records. Dad was immediately on board and asked me for a precise list of all the wood pieces and other supplies I would need and their respective dimensions. I handed it to him on the spot: it was the next sheet under my scale drawing.

The final product measured about 5 feet by 4 feet. I had painstakingly hot glued all the pieces myself, my dad not wanting to let me near nails or screws. The resulting contraption was a bit wobbly but its only challenger weighed a hundred grams, so I considered it satisfactory and suitable for the experiment. The moment of truth had arrived: the entire family solemnly gathered around my work. An unsuspecting Buttercup in one hand, food kibbles in the other, I leaned and deposited the reward at the end of the maze, making sure the furry creature had carefully watched the process. I then carried her to the front and delicately placed her at the entrance. With all eyes on the hamster, the silent air was thick with anticipation.

Buttercup did absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. She just sat there, her tiny ribcage moving rapidly to the rhythm of her breathing, sole evidence of her aliveness. My brother exploded in laughter. My parents, being grown ups, were able to control themselves better... slightly. Frustrated, I gently nudged the hamster forward. Still nothing. I nudged a little harder towards the first wall in hopes of forcing her to make a choice, but instead she started scaling said wall which was precisely 10 centimeters high: shorter than the beast herself. That time, the crowd was not so nice.

Humiliated, I mumbled that I would need a sheet of clear plastic to cover the maze. Dad, an amused twinkle in his eye, agreed that it was indeed necessary for the next attempt. The next day, the Plexiglas was glued to the maze and Buttercup given her second shot.

She did absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. Again. I nudged her around the first bend but my arm could twist no further. I obstinately kept my eyes on her, knowing that she would have to move eventually. She did, after what seemed like an eternity. She sat up and sniffed the air. My heart swelled with optimism. Then she started to groom.

About 6 years later in physics class, we were studying the second law of thermodynamics. I didn't quite get it, to be honest, but the teacher said something about all closed systems leaning towards minimum energy if left alone to reach equilibrium. I immediately recognized how this principle applied to humans, and also hamsters.

There was so much to learn from that experiment. Later on, as a socially integrated working individual, I tested a few of my derived hypotheses on humans, mostly co-workers, and here are my conclusions. First, as a general rule, people choose the status quo, even when they know that pretty much any change to their situation would be an improvement. Change is hard. It requires energy, and we like the minimum energy bit of thermodynamics. Secondly, if pushed, people will likely go in the direction towards which they were pushed. This was surprising to me initially. I had suspected that my subjects would choose the action requiring the least physical energy, but in that I was wrong. People, just as Buttercup had done, choose the option requiring the least mental energy, which is to do as directed, never questioning whether it is the right thing to do, or even the easier thing to do. Mental minimum enthalpy apparently trumps its physical equivalent. This has proven to be very valuable information in my life, for I have often been the one pushed, and also occasionally the one pushing.

Today, my strongest feeling about this story is gratitude. My parents knew Buttercup would never run around the maze like a trained lab rat. They could have told me this, saving me hours of futile work and a healthy dose of public humiliation, but they didn't. They chose instead to let an inquisitive young mind go through the motions to discover for herself, knowing that this is how lessons are truly learned, that this is what creates lasting memories from which we draw renewed wisdom through a point of view continually altered as we age. Thanks, mom and dad.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

For the last year or so, I had been thinking about taking yoga classes. Last week, I finally decided to take the plunge. First, I did a bit of research and learned that there are indeed many types of yoga. One in particular grabbed my interest: Bikram yoga also known as hot yoga. It is a series of 26 postures executed in a room heated to 108 F (42 C). It sounded like the most extreme of them all which appealed to the masochist in me. I thought it would be perfect: the suffering combined with light-headedness would make my mind transcend into mystical exaltation. This romantic fantasy died abruptly in the first few minutes of my first class.

Anni, our instructor, greeted me at the front desk. She smiled serenely as she said, "Nathalie, the heat is very difficult to handle for first-timers. Don't worry if you struggle. Your only goal today should be to remain in the room for the whole 90 minutes. Just try to stay inside." I smiled back, thinking about how sweet she was to set such low expectations for me.

I was covered in sweat before the class had officially started. Not far from me was Jack, the only other first-timer among this group of 22. The first posture is really a breathing exercise that makes you bend your neck backwards as far as it will go. I was dizzy within minutes. The second posture, the half-moon, wasn't bad and I was briefly hopeful that things would be okay. By the time we had finished the third posture, I thought I would die. My muscles were aching already but it was my pride that was hurt the most. The heat was too much, I had to sit down. I stole a glance at Jack, hoping to find him passed out on the floor, but there he was like a trooper, twisting his suspiciously limber body in the "awkward pose." Our eyes locked and I could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched smugly for an instant. I gathered my courage and stood up, perhaps a bit too quickly. I felt like all my blood drained out of my body in a downward rush which I knew  to be a sign that I was about to lose consciousness. I ducked just in time to save myself from the ultimate embarrassment. As I lay down on my mat, I caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall: 70 excruciating minutes to go. The unbearable lightness of my being reminded me of Milan Kundera and I too, asked myself some existentialist questions, such as "What the hell am I doing here?" and "Am I insane?"

For the next 30 minutes, I attempted about half of the poses, having to rest frequently. I kept looking at the clock more and more often, inwardly chanting my mantra: "Stay in the room, stay in the room, just stay in the room." The door was calling to me, the sweet conditioned air awaiting just on the other side. I resisted, somehow. The second half of the poses was done lying on the floor, and I tried to participate a bit more. In one of them, lying on the stomach, we are to raise our legs and torso to mimic a plane taking flight. "You are a 747 taking off," Anni urges, "lift that chest, higher, higher!" I look at Jack. He is soaring like a bald eagle and my two front wheels won't even get off the runway, if you know what I mean. I am seething, a mixture of shame and envy raising my body temperature yet another unneeded degree. I grit my teeth. "Just stay in the room, just stay in the room."

I did stay in the room for the entire 90 minutes. Jack spent the last 3 poses lying down, but I couldn't even summon enough energy to draw any satisfaction from it. As we lay on our backs during the relaxation period at the end, I felt like an empty shell. I had nothing left. I wondered if I would have to literally drag myself out of the room, miserably clawing my way across the carpet. Anni's soothing voice floated to my ears: "It has been my honor to be your instructor today." Two small tears escaped the corner of my eyes and rolled down the sides of my face.

Later, in the shower, the cold water strengthened my resolve. I had to come back. I didn't want to, but this was a chance to push myself beyond my limits, way beyond, and something in me hungers for these challenges. I thought, "I don't care if I must lie down for 90 minutes, I am coming back tomorrow. I'm coming back, I'm coming back, I'm coming back." Near the front desk, as I was walking out of the studio, Jack was sitting on a chair, leaning forward. Softly, he was repeating to himself over and over: "I'm coming back, I'm coming back, I'm coming back." I smiled to myself.

I played that tape in my head for the next 22 hours. When I showed up at the studio the following night, Anni gave me a wide smile. That time, I was able to do all of the poses and, although not always correctly and rarely ever gracefully, it felt like one of the biggest victories of my life. Mystical exaltation was still out of reach, but perhaps not as far away as it had seemed the day before. And where was Jack on that second evening? Why, no where to be found.

Soothsaying Octopus

If you have been following the World Cup, chances are you have heard of Paul, the German octopus who has accurately predicted the outcome of all 6 of Germany's matches. If you haven't, do take a moment to Google him and perhaps watch him in action in one of the videos showing him making his prediction. In one article clearly not written by a gambler, we are warned to use Paul's auguries with caution, for he only got a success rate of 80% in his picks for the 2008 European Championships. That should draw a smirk out of the gamblers, for they would be thrilled with such results. I have been participating in the annual Peter King Challenge for the past two years, in which I pick the winning team of all NFL match ups every week. The first year, I did extremely well, even finishing in the top 50 nationwide (there is a time for humility and this is not it). Last year, I didn't fare quite as well and so, reading about Paul, it occurred to me that I should perhaps get my own clairvoyant mollusk.

Naturally, I spontaneously turned to the world's biggest marketplace: eBay. I was slightly shocked to read "0 results found for soothsaying octopus." Really? Now, Paul may very well be unique, but I at least expected all sorts of charlatans to rush out of the woodwork peddling prescient squids, divining calamari or myriad other prophetic cephalopods. Fortunately, eBay provides a handy link that reads "save this search and alert me later," so I at least should be among the first to find out about any new invertebrate psychics. I removed the soothsaying part and tried again, not really hoping to find anything but lo and behold, I came across the fantastic mug depicted above. I have a thing for kitschy mugs and I am just enamored with this one. It is listed for 32 some dollars + shipping, a bit steep even for this kind of love. However, should a generous reader want to offer it to me as a gift, I would cherish it for the rest of my days and pass it on as part of my estate.

But back to the topic at hand. In lieu of acquiring my own fortune-telling mollusk, I have decided to test the two resident felines for potential psychic abilities. Belle and Mr. Cocoa will be casting their own predictions in the 2010 Peter King Challenge, for all the Steelers' games. The parameters will be rigorously controlled: identical food dishes marked with the teams' logo containing precisely the same number of kibbles will be lowered at the same time and in an equidistant feline-to-either-dish location. The results will be filmed and recorded. Who knows, perhaps in the wake of the next Superbowl, the most popular eBay search will be "soothsaying cat."

Esperando Esperanto

When I was about oh, eight years old, I remember complaining about some grammar rule being stupid. My mom laughed and said, "You should learn Esperanto, then." She explained that it was a created language meant to be simple and easy to learn. I thought that was a neat idea, and forgot all about it for twelve more years.

I must have been about twenty when I finally had a computer with internet access in my apartment. Esperanto was not the first thing I thought to research but somehow, it did surface pretty quickly. I was thrilled by what I found. There was an abundance of information out there, a lot more than I expected. I found Esperanto translations of famous literary works, I found original Esperanto works (tons of poetry) and many websites that offered to teach the language. I quickly signed up with one and was assigned a tutor. The learning was fun and rewarding.

I am very passionate about this topic. When I bring it up, people usually get very defensive and negative. I have heard it all; we, Esperantists, have heard it all before. "It's useless." "Nobody speaks it." "English is the international language." I could go on and on. Now, I do think that Esperanto is unlikely to catch on as an international language ever, for a number of reasons which I will not cover here. I think it is doomed to hobby status for travelers and idealists, but this article is not about the advocacy of a language.

This article is about communication. What makes Esperanto so easy is its agglutinative structure. Words are constructed from roots, prefixes, suffixes and endings. By mixing and matching these, one can easily and rapidly construct words that express a very specific idea that is immediately understood by any other speaker of the language, even if they have never heard the word before. This is extremely liberating. After experiencing the freedom of this language, I realized that for years I had been bending my brain to fit my ideas in the narrow confines of my complex and outdated mother tongue. Language is a tool belt to help share ideas with others. Isn't it nice when that hammer you need is right there instead of having to figure out how to nail down a plank with a saw or a screwdriver?

I speak French and English fluently and use both daily, in my work and personal life alike. Words come to me in either language, whichever corresponds better with the concept I am trying to express, for there are often no precise equivalent in another language, or simply the one more readily available for the snatching at the time. This bilingual speech irritates some (mostly French) purists. I am often scolded, corrected, stared at or made fun of for using two languages in the same sentence. Could I constrain myself to stick with one? Absolutely, but why should I choose the hard way if the easy way does the job, and arguably a better one at that? I understand the importance mastering a language, especially if intending to use it as art in written form. Sometimes, one needs to communicate artfully, but often, one just needs to communicate at all.

Regularly my coworkers make up words. They take a noun, for example, and convert it to the adverb they needed, with a slight frown on their face, suspecting that the result is perhaps not in the dictionary. Their listeners do not react, because they understood perfectly. This happens daily. We all do it, in fact, because it is a natural pathway for the brain. Take bits you know and put them together to build something new that everyone who knows the bits will also decode easily. Isn't that what an efficient language should be like? What they are doing so effortlessly is applying the Esperanto concept to another language, and it amuses me greatly to see it done daily by the biggest of Esperanto detractors.

I love languages and will keep learning more of them, but the foolish idealist in me will always be there lurking, secretly waiting for the rise of Esperanto.

Atonement

There was an episode of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" from 1985 titled "Final Escape." In it, a jailed woman plans to escape by bribing the mortician who will make it possible for her to climb into the coffin with the next dead prisoner. Buried alive, she would wait for the mortician to come back later to dig her out. The plan goes well until she starts wondering why the mortician is taking so long. Lighting a match, she discovers that her coffin roommate is in fact said mortician.

That ending terrified me (and apparently thousands of others, according to google) to the very core of my being. I can think of no worse way to die. It is purely psychological. There is no physical urgency, no adrenaline rush taking over. Just you and your sheer terror, in full control of just how fast you will run out of air.

This episode briefly crossed my mind last week when I heard the faint "click" of a door latching behind me, a door without a knob that left me stranded in a windowless room. The only items in the room were: a pan full of paint, a paint roller (also full of paint) and a 1000W work light. I broke several nails and almost broke a pinky before I decided that I had two choices: wait for someone to rescue me or break down the door. I opted for the rescue. With music unnervingly blaring from the other room, I started passing my life in review, scouring dark corners in search of regrets.

I don't know how other people define it but these are the two questions I ask myself to evaluate if I regret a choice. Before making the decision, did I consider my options and their consequences carefully, with all the information available to me at the time? Did I make what I truly believed to be the right choice for me in that particular circumstance? If I answer yes to both, then it cannot be a regret. People say, "If I had known then what I know now, I would have done things differently." So would I, but that's not fair game and it cannot be called regret.

I sat there and thought of one of my ex's. Super sweet guy, bad breakup. I thought to myself, "If I make it out of here alive, I'm going to track him down, even if I should make it my life's mission, and right this wrong." My spirits bolstered by my new focus, I rose, ready to kick the door to splinters. I let my foot drop away limply mere inches away from the wood when an idea occurred to me. I unplugged the work light and bent the two rectangular prongs toward each other to create a makeshift flat screwdriver. I stuck it in the latch and turned carefully, relieved to hear the "click" that set me free.

Tracking down the ex took about 1 minute with Facebook. I typed up a heartfelt apology for the way I had treated him, my relief growing with the paragraph. The next day I had his reply, and his forgiveness.

I believe that regret makes people age faster. It creases their faces with deep lines and makes them bitter. For these reasons, I try to steer clear of impulsive decisions. I love to carefully consider the smallest of choices, and consequently I have very few regrets (and hardly any debt). After all, if in the face of certain death, all I could come up with was being a bit harsh in a breakup eight years ago, I think I'll be just fine.

Innate Intelligence

A few days ago, I was on break at work when a co-worker and friend asked me to go with him to pick up coffee for the crew. Once in his car, he says to me, "I just need to stop somewhere first, it will only take a few minutes." I shrug in agreement. A few minutes later, he pulls into a parking spot in front of a chiropractor's office. I follow him inside. The receptionist's wide smile and friendly greeting indicate that he is a regular. While we sit in the waiting area, he puts my hand on the side of his neck and says, "Feel the bump? That's my vertebra. It's way off to the side." "Hmm, I don't feel anything." A fraction of a second later, seeing the frown starting to crease his forehead, I add, "My fingers must not be in the right spot." He nods just as the receptionist calls out for him to go wait in the doctor's office.

All alone in the waiting area, I look for magazines or newspapers but find the small coffee table to be sterilely clean and uncluttered. I fall back on reading wall posters instead, including a huge board that boasts "Doctorate of Medicine: 200 credits, Doctorate of Chiropractics: 245 credits." I smirk at the pompous inference.

A lady walks in and is greeted in the same familiar way by the receptionist who even calls her by name. Once comfortably settled into the chair next to mine, the lady asks the receptionist, "Did you get adjusted yet today?" I perk up at the unusual phrasing. Adjusted? "Not yet," she answers, "I've been too busy. I really need it though, I can tell. I get all grumpy and my energy is low." The lady smiles conspiratorially. "I know! I'm the same way." I blink, replaying the short conversation in my head. My initial bewilderment rapidly turns into something much stronger: glee. I realize that I have just discovered a cult, complete with its numerous churches hiding in plain sight all over the city under the guise of medical practice. I can hardly contain my excitement for I find cultists to be utterly fascinating.

My awareness heightened, I decide to scan the room again, looking for clues. I notice a nearby bookcase which I had previously deemed uninteresting. Old medical books crowd the most accessible shelves, with titles having to do with general anatomy, the central nervous system, bones and the musculoskeletal system. On lower shelves, partially hidden from view by chairs, the titles get progressively more esoteric, dealing with holistic healing and subluxations, while the very last shelf holds the most recondite works sporting titles along the lines of "Innate Intelligence Through the Spine." Later that night, I found that this "innate intelligence" is believed by chiropractors (at least the old school ones) to be the ability of the body to heal itself through the central nervous system. If the spine is misaligned, this ability is supposedly impaired.

On the drive back to work, I questioned my friend surreptitiously. How long had he had this neck problem, what was the cause, how often did he go see the chiro, how much did it cost, everything I could think of. "The doctor says I need to go at least once a week, twice is better. If I get it adjusted often enough, eventually it will remember its place and stop slipping out of position." Huh? "That makes no sense," I blurt out bluntly before I can soften my rebuke. "Seems to me that if your vertebra is slipping, it's because it's either being forced that way by something else, or it's missing the opposing force that would normally keep it in place. No amount of moving it back would magically provide such missing force. If a book on my shelf keeps tipping over, I don't keep putting it back up hoping that if I do it enough, it will remember its place. I just get a bookend."

My friend got very defensive at this point, and righteously served me the argument that is always used by people cornered in this manner: "Well she's the doctor, she must know." Ah yes. And here is the whole point of this post.

We are raised to never question authority. I see this blind faith that makes the world dumber one generation at a time all around me and it irritates me greatly. We're all humans, we all make mistakes and no one holds all the answers. Challenging the information, researching the cause and understanding the implications are all healthy mental behaviors that should be encouraged growing up, not discouraged. It starts very early on with parents wishing to curb their children's insubordination, but herein lies the misstep: challenging authority and insubordination do not have to go hand in hand. We can teach our kids to challenge a superior in a respectful, cooperative way, for the benefit of all parties. The best teachers around the world are delighted when they get an inquisitive student that challenges them. Everyone gains from such stimulation.

My true "innate intelligence" tells me that people get defensive when challenged because subconsciously, they know it's wrong to accept something without making up your own mind about it first. It is unnatural, a learned bahavior. It is also sheer laziness of the brain. Too often, the cornered offenders cowardly shape their guilt into a shield. Well, I hope their shield is thick because I won't be lowering my battering ram anytime soon.

"Insolite" finale

In 1993, at the age of 16, I joined a marching band in the air cadets. I had no prior musical training and, in my opinion of then and now, very little talent. I could not read sheet music but I could keep a beat, so I was handed a pair of sticks and a snare drum. The beauty of percussion is that all the notes are on the same line.

I had a really good time that year. We even qualified for the provincial competition, although we didn’t make it very far. Toward the end of the school year, we had visitors from "L’Insolite" (lit. "The Unusual,") a drum corps from the area trying to recruit members for the summer. My American readers are probably familiar with drum corps but for the rest, I will explain briefly what they are.

Officially named “Drum and Bugle Corps” but usually shortened to “Drum Corps,” they are formations of up to 150 people who perform an approximately 12 min choreographed routine on a football field. They are composed of percussion (the “pit,” a static group in front of the field and the drumline, in movement on the field,) brass, and color guards, which bring additional visual enhancement by wielding flags, sabers, rifles and a number of other implements.

Drum corps are big in the US. They have training camps all year round and sometimes hundreds of young men and women competing for the 150 spots. The competition season is in the summer, where the corps travel the country, honing their routine as they near the ultimate showdown: the drum corps international (DCI). L’Insolite de Saint-Jérôme was one of only two corps in Québec that year (the other one was Académie Musicale de Sherbrooke).

Knowing that my snare drum skills were laughable, I did not dare apply as such. Having taken dance classes since age 6, however, made me try out for color guard. I got in and was beside myself with excitement. The wild, wild ride was about to begin.

Never in my life had I lived under such gruelling conditions. I will refrain from detailing it all but let’s say I was going from a life with maybe 1 hour a week of moderate physical activity (my weekly dance class) to 10 hours a day of intense activity. Combined with uncomfortable sleep on either the floor of a high school gymnasium or on the bus… well, you can imagine how fast the exhaustion built up. On those hot summer days, I used to drink somewhere between 6 and 8 liters of liquids a day. I remember one fateful practice in South Carolina where I got second degree burns along the neckline of my camisole, despite re-applying sun-block every few hours. The temperature had peaked at nearly 40 degrees Celsius that day. It took a couple years for the skin discoloration to completely fade away.

I was having the time of my life. We fielded about 100 people for competitions, give or take a few depending on injuries. The satisfaction of accomplishing something as a group had been significant in my 40-man cadet marching band. As a group of 100, the feeling was magnified tenfold. It was overwhelming.

After a few weeks of touring the east coast, we headed to Boston for the DCE, the Drum Corps East, a sort of mid-season mini DCI. After dinner, I was nervously dressing up and doing my makeup. Our costume was an emerald one piece sleeveless leotard with a low-cut scoop neckline and a low cut back as well. On top of this we wore a white lace one piece suit with flared legs and long sleeves. This top piece was equally low-cut in front and back which posed a bit of a problem for me. The garments clearly could not be worn with a bra (must have been designed by a man) and I had large breasts. I feared a wardrobe malfunction every time I took the field. What made me especially nervous is the fact that there were always a handful of judges on the field walking around us with their voice recorder to get an up-close look. I always thought that one day, one of them would see a lot more than he expected.

Weeks of touring with the costume had yielded me exactly zero such malfunctions, however, so I was fairly confident that it was an unlikely probability. Of course, by now you know where I’m going. The final formation of our program had us color guards in a great semi-circle. Today I thank gods of all denominations that my place was at one extremity, facing an end zone rather than the sideline where most of the crowd sat. I threw my flag up in the air for the two and a half turn pitch with all my energy and determination, emotion swelling up in my throat to match the final musical crescendo. Upon reaching full extension of my arm, I felt it. My right boob had popped out.

With that right arm in the air, waiting for the flag to come down, I had exactly 2 seconds to evaluate my options. If I tried to fix it right then, I would not be able to catch the flag at all. This was ruled out immediately. Whatever happened, I had to catch that flag. My real choice, then, was between these two scenarios: One, I catch the flag, then discreetly move my left hand to pull the fabric over my breast, hoping no judge sees the motion when the entire formation is supposed to be perfectly still in the stoic silence that follows the last note. Two, leave it and wait out the two seconds of mandatory stillness before the base drum hits a note, indicating that the show is over and that I can lower my flag.

I made my choice. I held up the flag for those two seconds. I heard laughter and snickering coming from the bleachers. I felt myself redden. But I knew it was the right choice. I would not cost my team some points. Perhaps it even gave us some bonus ones, who knows?

I am very fond of this story. Interestingly enough, every time I have used it during a job interview when asked to provide an example of my team spirit, I was always offered the position.

Tricolor Fever

As I write this, I am sitting in front of the TV watching Montreal play the Flyers. This should shock speechless anyone who knows me, because I have a profound hatred for hockey. This sport, in Quebec, is stronger than religion. The day after Montreal eliminated Pittsburgh, it occupied 26% of all media coverage in Quebec. To give you a sense of perspective, 1% is considered big news (the Haiti earthquake never made it over 1%) and 3% is what a typical scandal reaches.

So, why am I watching hockey? The fever is contagious. The excitement in the air is almost tangible. People everywhere are happier. They are more tolerant and more patient with one another. Cheering for a team brings people together. Someone asked me during the NFL playoffs why it is that there are so many playoff-only fans. During the regular season they are no where to be seen but if their city makes it to the playoff, suddenly they watch games, wear shirts and hang a flag from their car window. The answer is simple. People love to belong to a group. When you know you have something in common with someone, you are more likely to accept their differences. You are less judgmental towards others and you know others will be the same towards you. You let your guard down, you are more relaxed. Who doesn't enjoy that feeling? Ever notice how smokers easily bond with other smokers when they huddle outside a building? They instantly have something in common with them, and it's not simply the physiological habit. I think it's the defiance of doing something socially frowned upon these days.

I have decided to jump on the tricolor bandwagon because I too, want to feel relaxed, accepted and part of something bigger. It has made me wonder, too. If I was stuck in an elevator for 24 hours with any given person, could I not find that we have something in common? Very likely. I think that if we reminded ourselves of that more often, especially outside of playoff season, we'd be more tolerant, more relaxed, and generally happier.