Ever wonder who those people are who are typing away on their computers in the windows of coffee shops in the middle of the afternoon? While everyone else is stuck within the confines of cubicles, standing behind counters, driving motor vehicles, or otherwise hunkered down somewhere under the thumb of The Man, these people are seated in these caffeinated havens, their ceramic cups steaming obediently at their sides.
Today, I am one of them. And that’s a cup of chai tea to my right.
I hoped the court would excuse me from jury duty—you know, under that whole “patient care” clause.
The superior court blandly rejected the letter my boss wrote on my behalf, unimpressed with the fact that I am a physician. (Why, yes, that’s my self-righteous elitism erupting again. I keep forgetting to apply the topical cream to the area on a daily basis.)
There are two superior courts in King County: One is located in downtown Seattle; the other (the “Regional Justice Center”, otherwise fondly referred to as “RJC”) is located in Kent. I was sent to Kent. (Those of you in the area can appreciate the pleasure that comes with mingling with the other drivers that are trying to avoid the construction traffic on I-5.)
From what I can tell, Kent is a small, fairly industrial suburb, though the RJC building has that unadorned, sterile, official feel to it (compared to the courthouse in Seattle, which is this uppity marble-glass-metal structure). Across the street is a prepubescent strip mall that is honestly trying to live up to the legendary malls of Southern California. (Not enough palm trees or pretentious names.)
The jury assembly room resembles an airplane, in appearance, arrangement, and purpose. The chairs, arranged in crooked rows, feature a peach-pink floral pattern against a light blue background. Magazines, newspapers, and other readables are folded underneath random chairs or strewn against the windows (which overlook the burgeoning strip mall). Small televisions hang from the ceiling.
No one was thrilled to be there, but everyone looked unruffled. Like airplane passengers, everyone was waiting for the time to pass and hoped to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.
In an effort to combat boredom (which does not respond to a topical cream), people brought their computers or packed several books. A few women brought (non-metal) knitting needles. Several people listened to their portable music players. Some people nodded off and snored loudly—people looked at them in mild amusement, but bid them peace in their slumber.
I packed three books and completed more reading during the course of my two-day jury duty than I usually complete in an entire week.
Productivity can stave off boredom for only so long, though. And a room packed with bored people for two days makes for interesting people watching:
Men stare at women. Women also stare at men, but they exercise more discretion when doing so. Men, on the other hand, will watch a woman the moment she walks through a door. Their eyes will follow her as she crosses a room, says, ‘Excuse me,’ to the people seated at the end of the row, stumbles over a few people, and settles into her chair. And they will continue to look at her, kinda slack-jawed—and not in that stunned, overwhelmed sort of way, but in that eyes glazed over, not-entirely-aware-that-they-are-staring sort of way—until something else (real or imagined) refocuses their attention.
Many of the extroverts immediately start making connections. They open with a small remark—”I had to drive in all the way from Shoreline”—and nearby extroverts raise their eyebrows and exclaim, “Wow! That must have taken you a long time—they couldn’t send you to Seattle, huh? I’m coming from Lake Forest Park.” “Hey, my sister lives in Lake Forest Park.” “Oh really? Where about? I live off of 178th and 28th.” and on and on and on. Soon, they’re talking about the fructose content of honey, blood types, and anxiety disorders. No kidding.
Meanwhile, the introverts are hiding behind their books or plugging their ears with headphones. Or, perhaps, eavesdropping on the extroverts and capturing images with their retinas.
Some people don’t seem to mind that everyone can hear their end of a cell phone conversation. Some people were clucking about mental retardation, negotiating plans for dinner, mourning the difficulties of an elderly parent with dementia, or cooing “I love you” to their spouses (mistresses, whatever).
It was with great glee that we were dismissed early from our jury duty today; not only had we completed our service, but we were released before lunch! The way some people cheered (including yours truly) was reminiscent of kids running out of the classroom for an overdue recess. (Yes, we are eager to fulfill our legal obligations for this democracy.)
One of the three books I read was Lamott’s Bird by Bird (thanks, Wesley!). I only made it to page 18 before we were dismissed. In those few pages, though, Lamott makes the point—several times—that getting one’s writing published isn’t all what writers imagine it to be. This isn’t something I didn’t already know, of course—we all have fantasies about how experiences might unfold, though they frequently do not occur as our imaginations suggest. She instead emphasizes the joy of writing for its own sake—something I both agree with and warmly accept.
In those few moments before I was dismissed from jury duty, I pondered this. Perhaps it’s not that I want my writing published—I just want to write well. Lamott remarks
Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do—the actual act of writing—turns out to be the best part.
I’ve equated good writing with published writing, which, to be fair, isn’t necessarily a false relationship: Most published writing is good writing, but not all good writing is published. Maybe that’s solace for my unpublished soul; maybe it’s an excuse for my reluctance to try harder. Maybe I’m just delusional about the quality of my writing.
Some nights, I sit in front of my computer and watch the blinking cursor, wondering what the heck I shall write. Nothing appeals to me. An hour will pass and I will have started ten, fifteen sentences, only to unceremoniously delete them in dissatisfaction. Other times—like now—I recognize the wealth of stories I can tell, though I fear telling them. Writing is wonderful. It also makes one vulnerable.
I’ve finished my cup of chai. I didn’t expect to elaborate at this length about writing.
But how I do love it.
21 Aug 2007 | 8 comments.
How to Order Dim Sum.
My friends laugh at me whenever we go out for dim sum. (Today’s restaurant recommendation: House of Hong. Terrible name, yummy dim sum!)
They expect me to exercise my usual restaurant etiquette: Smile broadly at the waiter or waitress, order in a concise fashion, say “please” and “thank you”, make discreet eyes at wait staff when I want their attention, and generally attend to the world confined within the boundaries of the table. I practice courteous manners. (”I got it from my mama.”)
At dim sum, my friends laugh at me—partly in surprise, partly in embarrassment, I imagine—when I raise my arm up, wave it about like a windshield wiper on high speed, and say in a commanding voice, “Pot sticker!”
It’s as if I am hailing a taxi. Or commanding a dog to sit. The ease with which I convert nouns into imperatives is impressive. “Congee” no longer means rice porridge; instead, when uttered from my lips, it demands submission and warrants immediate attention.
And, wouldn’t you know it, bowls of congee instantaneously appear on the table, steaming and ready for consumption. That’s what I’m talking about.
This barking method simply works at dim sum restaurants. You can’t wait for the carts to stop at your table; sometimes they wheel past because another table has captured the pusher’s attention. Sometimes there remains only one plate of shrimp balls and if you don’t call it, another table will snag it and you’ll have to wait another whopping twenty minutes before shrimp balls are available. Sometimes the same cart (which always seems to boast only turnip cakes) will endlessly circle your table and the cart you really want (the one with the pot stickers and sticky rice) is on the other side of the restaurant.
Sometimes you must forego usual manners to get what you want (for the good of the table, of course). This is called effectiveness, people.
And though my friends laugh at me initially, soon they, too, are waving down cart-pushers and transforming nouns into commands. This is called fast learning.
To add to my collection of silly fortunes in fortune cookies (”Your ideas will be totally acceptable“), here’s the fortune I received from the dim sum restaurant:
You will reach high levels of intelligence.
So, what, now I’m stupid?
19 Aug 2007 | 4 comments.
Professional Woman Syndrome.
So I’m on the shuttle and the guy is just talking on and on and on. We’re not really having a conversation; he’s talking at me. Initially, I tried to interject with fully-formed sentences, but my efforts failed. So now, I am nodding and uttering the occasional, “Ah.” “Oh.” “I see.” “Uh huh.” “Yeah.”
The psychiatrist is talking about his research. He’s passionate about it; he’s waving his hands around and Seriousness masks his face as he pontificates about the finer points in his area of interest. He’s expounding on theories of personality and different manifestations of the same, hypothesized condition. He’s expressing his fascination with the same story he hears week after week, month after month, from different patients.
“Uh huh.”
He’s offering examples—there was this young woman, you see—and I saw this young, college-aged kid—and the widowed wife—
“Yeah.”
“There just something about the personality structure—and not that I think the personality is disordered, I don’t think that at all—there’s just something about these personalities that leads them to manifest their symptoms in this way, you know? Like I saw this young woman—she had ‘Professional Woman Syndrome’—″
I blink at him. Professional Woman Syndrome? What?
“—where highly accomplished women are very stoic and blame themselves when things don’t go right and, you know, they’re very smart, but they end up manifesting their emotions in these unhealthy ways so they end up in the hospital with these lengthy medical work-ups—”
I bite my tongue. Do you not realize who you’re talking to…? a professional woman? your colleague? hello?
“—and it’s not a disease, it’s just the way professional women cope with stress.” His prattling continues.
“Uh huh,” I dryly reply. I decide he’s not worth the effort—I shan’t engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.
17 Aug 2007 | 5 comments.
Looking to the Future.
A close friend of mine recently earned his Ph.D. I was unable to attend his graduation ceremony or his defense of his thesis. However, I did have the opportunity to flip through his 150 page dissertation. He plopped the hefty stack onto the dark wood table of the coffee shop. We both eyed it, impressed with the dimensions of the tome.
“Wow,” I breathed. “That’s amazing.”
I skimmed the paragraphs, read through some of the data, and perused the graphs. I carefully restacked the papers, smiled at him, and remarked, “I’m very proud of you.”
And I am. This dissertation was the manifestation of his diligent efforts in graduate school. He was already working on his project before I met him; he griped to me about the difficulties in data collection and analysis; he took brief breaks to call me to bitterly complain about the drudgery of writing this lengthy paper.
And now he’s a doctor (”but not a real doctor,” he snidely interjects) and will soon be departing for his new life as a post-doc in New York City. He is confident that I shall join him in less than a year. I don’t want to jinx myself.
This sounds weird—and he mocked me for this remark—but the amount of work he put into this degree is astounding, particularly in contrast to the work I put into obtaining a medical degree.
“I’m not saying that I didn’t work hard… but this is your dissertation! You did original research and wrote up this lengthy document for your findings! I never did anything like that—thank goodness.”
I do not mean to trivialize medical training, but since I actually did that, my work seems “easier”. Particularly since I am not enamored with collecting vast amounts of data and crunching numbers for statistics.
“Yeah,” he countered, “but I can’t stand the sight of blood. You can.”
Fair enough.
I’ve been fortunate to receive more offers to interview for fellowships; only one program remains tacit.
Though I am excited—thrilled! tickled!—with the prospect of living in New York in less than a year (God willing), I am also saddened with the accompanying departure from Seattle.
My friends are already telling me that they will miss me. They ask if I shall return. Already they are making plans to visit.
While waiting for the bus today, I looked up into the sky. High in the stratosphere were gigantic puffs of stationary, unblemished clouds. They overlooked a leisurely parade of thin, grey-white wisps that silently travelled below them. My eyes followed the weightless caravan through the trees.
Will New York have clouds like that? I’ve never seen clouds like Seattle clouds anywhere else. Why do I want to leave this visually stunning state? Where else in the world can I drive on a major interstate highway and see the sun reflected off of two, deep blue lakes, two snow-dusted mountain ranges in the distance, a looming volcano, and an architectural oddity (the Space Needle)?
There is a greater sense of urgency now to make the most of my time here. The measured pessimist within me repeatedly asserts that I am not guaranteed passage to New York simply because I have secured many interviews; the potential for unanimous denial is very real (though, truthfully, unanimous rejections are unlikely). However, hoping for the best and expecting the worst is a common practice amongst doctors.
Time passes.
I was inadvertently pulled into a discussion about writing a book. We were polarized: the group tried to mobilize progress; I resisted. They were optimistic; I was not.
We finally settled on the idea of a short story. Fine.
Indeed, getting published “for real” (whatever that even means; I haven’t operationalized that yet) remains on my list of things to do Before I Die. Perhaps the time has arrived for me to try yet again.
Help me: Which posts of mine have been the most compelling for you to read? Any editors out there willing to provide feedback about my writing? Any print resources want to take a risk and run something written by a dreamy psychiatry resident?
16 Aug 2007 | 11 comments.
Gratitude.
I have awesome blogging friends. They’re so thoughtful. (Directed at the person who sent me the article about finding cheap hotels and at the other person who sent me the link about a vaccination for multiple sclerosis.
And also to the person who has generously and promptly given advice about Wordpress issues. And to the person who has sent me postcards and personalized Christmas cards. And the person who made an amusing video based on an idea I apparently said, though I can’t recall ever saying it.)
15 Aug 2007 | Comments Off