Archive for the ‘Friendship’ Category

Late Night Creations

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

written by Sabina Ashbaugh

We always substitute an egg with two tablespoons of vanilla soymilk—a slight variation that leaves the dough runny and easier to mix with the cracked wooden spoon. The timer is set for 12 minutes, not 14 as the cookbook suggests, with a reminder at the six-minute mark to switch the top and bottom trays in the oven. Despite these careful discrepancies, accumulated over countless nights, our creations are never completely predictable. We speculate whether it might be the heat of the dimly lit kitchen, and that volatile summer breeze that seeps in through the windows and seems to soften the contours of the room.
Despite our many trials, my sister and I never fully plan our baking efforts, or even carefully measure out the ingredients of our amended recipes. The soymilk substitution, now a permanent step in the cookie making process, came from a late realization that the egg carton was deceptively empty. As if to support this impulsiveness, the planned desserts baked for family dinners—the pumpkin or apple pies, the blueberry cobblers, the cinnamon buns, the madeleines—are never as good as the spontaneous endeavors to satisfy late night cravings. The immediate satisfaction of these creations quickly assuaged the worries and anxieties amassed during school or work. Tasks divided and ingredients laid out, my sister and I get to work setting right the wrongs of the day.
It has been a year now since I moved away from home. Some months have flown by while others have painstakingly inched to a close, with pangs of homesickness and late night baking cravings that seemed to arise out of nowhere. Family, a concept that had seemed so natural and tangible just a year ago, has slowly been abstracted to stand for that sense of place so radically reconfigured after leaving for school. In times of stress, I often caught myself about to call the house with a confused plea of “What should I do?”
With distance I have come to realize how often I unintentionally underappreciated this form of support. I cringe at the thought that the ease and spontaneity of those nights spent baking are a lost bridge between my sister and I—treasured memories to look back on fondly but ones impossible to recapture. And yet the removal of this crutch has also forced me to examine how I will right the wrongs of the day in my own way—not by baking, but through the careers and choices that lie ahead.
Moving away is an exciting step towards independence and deciding how and what one wants to change in the world. In the midst of so many choices, the advice offered by family is a means of grounding oneself in times of transformation. Finding a niche in college involves exploring how one will contribute to society and improve the lives of others, but it also requires the recognition of the debt owed to those at home.
Growing up compels us to accept these recipes, relationships, and plans for future change. Family rituals become memories as traditions are re-made. It is important to maintain ties with those that helped us get where we are, and continue to want to see us succeed. Helping others starts by looking out for and appreciating those at home, and paying tribute to those left behind.

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The Melody Of Unexpected Rhythm

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

written by Angela M

Illustration By Tao Zao

I grew up on Disney and nightly walks with my Russian grandparents, sunflower seeds sticking to my fingers, old lady tales dripping from my ears like borscht. I was never told not to smile at a cute Asian boy, or to repress a casual wink at a dashing Spaniard.

Maybe I was never told to not do these things because: 1) I don’t smile often, and 2) I can barely wink. Regardless, there was never any objection to multicultural friendships. Romantically speaking, though, it was never really spoken about, perhaps because it was never really expected.
My first legitimate ounce of interest in the opposite sex could have something to do with my current situation.
I was in the first grade, and his name was Timothy. He was everything I wanted in a boy. He never spoke to me; he rarely, if ever, held the staircase door open for me; and he cheated on me. I don’t know whether it counts as cheating if we were never in a relationship, but my heart was temporarily in shambles. Did I mention that Timothy was Asian? Did I also mention that I’m white and Jewish and from Brooklyn?
At 22, and not a bit less romantic than my first grade self, I find my heart taken once again (this time, in a less make-believe type of way). I am in love with a writer who just so happens to be outside of my race. Raised Muslim but not practicing, my Indian love connects himself with the folk of Jackson Heights, Queens before anything else. To sum things up, not only am I dating a fellow who’s a hundred beautiful shades darker than my pastey self, but I am also dating someone outside of my borough.
We met at a house party. His band was playing, and I later on learned that he had asked our mutual friend to invite me, since he was too shy to do it himself. The night felt like something taken out of one of those typical teenage movies where the girl seems to be playing coy, not realizing what’s going on, and the guy is fumbling over every other word, crossing his fingers that he doesn’t look as dumb as he feels. It took me half the party to realize that I was falling heavy over someone who I had never expected to come across.
Surprisingly, my mother was more accepting of my new found love than some of my friends. When I say some, I really just mean one. My Jewish friend Rebecca* was stunned to realize that I was romantically involved with someone so far from my religion. I kept it secret from her for as long as I could, afraid of the very reaction that I got. She started telling me that being a Jew meant that I was part of the chosen ones, and how keeping religion alive in my family was imperative. Basically, she made me feel like the black sheep of the herd. A day after her attack, she apologized wholeheartedly and told me that I have her full support in any decision that I make in life. (I can only imagine how Rebecca’s reaction would have been if I had confessed that I was getting married!) Just to be clear, I consider myself Jewish more in terms of culture than practice. Echoing Keats, “Love is my religion.”
In a city where love has an astigmatism and hearts beat to their own bongo, interracial coupling is more common than ever. Every way my head turns, I see it: hands of different colors holding on to each other. It’s beautiful, really. And now, I am part of it. We grew up hearing different languages being spoken at home, eating foods synonymous to our cultures, but we were also scolded by our parents for leaving cookie crumbs in our beds, and watching too many T.V. shows instead of doing our homework. Plenty of people in college date people who they didn’t expect to be with. We aren’t really all that different, though. We both love literature and writing, we listen to the same type of music, and, obviously, we both enjoy a good house party.

*Name changed to protect privacy.

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Make New Friends and Keep the Old: Looking Back

Thursday, June 3rd, 2010

On February 20th 2007, I turned 17.  In New Jersey, when a person turns 17, and if they have fulfilled all of the requirements, he or she is eligible for their license.  Well, I got mine – along with my first car (a 1990 Buick LeSabre, navy blue).  I was so in love with my car, and had so many plans for it…my parents had already gotten me a really awesome sound system to get installed, and I couldn’t wait to drive it down the shore for the first time.

Fast forward to March 4th 2007.  In New Jersey, high school juniors have to go take the HSPA, High School Proficiency Assessment.  The HSPA spans four days, and lasts about three hours each day.  March 4th was the first day for my class, and I wore my favorite tee shirt and most comfortable pair of “lounge” pants, and flip flops.  By the time the day was over, I was ready to get home and relax.  So of course no more than hour after I had gotten home, I got a call that I needed to go to my best friend’s house for an emergency band meeting.  Not exactly excited to get there, I nevertheless got in my LeSabre and started down my street for the easy two mile drive.  This is where things get fuzzy, because not halfway down my street I, for some reason, swerved, then over corrected, and ended up driving straight into the side of a house.

The first thing I did when I woke up, having passed out for probably a minute or two, was call my dad (not 911, of course, because that would have made sense).   I then texted my friend something along the lines of “I was just in an accident on my street.”  The friend I texted, my best at the time, got to me in record time, before my father and the ambulance he called on his way from the office.  Now imagine, I’m sitting there in my own blood, cradling my broken wrist; I didn’t know it at the time, but the front of my car was crushed all the way to the windshield , which was also cracked from my face meeting it (and that’s why they tell us to wear seatbelts).  After checking on me, my friend took it upon herself to knock on the door to make sure no one was inside and injured, ignoring the danger she could have been in from the now structurally unsafe house.  That being done, she came over the passenger side, which I had somehow slid too, procured napkins from somewhere and did her best to wipe the blood from eyes and mouth – she did all of this before any other help arrived, but checked first to make sure help was going to arrive at some point.  Now, you may wonder why I bring this story up.

I think about it sometimes, about her wiping blood from my face and staying with me until I left in the ambulance.  I think about it because just a little over a year after my accident, we were suddenly no longer friends.  I wonder how we could be so close, and care so much about each other, and how that could just end.  It’s horrible how the fact is that friends, no matter how close they are, can just grow apart.  It started with a fight that probably wasn’t even that bad, and then radio silence.  BOOM, no more friendship.  We still talk occasionally, and when I’m in town we’ve gotten coffee before, but there’s nowhere near, and never will be again, the closeness we used to share.

On the other side of that, there’s the friend who made the half hour drive to visit me in the hospital each of the five days I was there after the accident.  She brought me movies and real food, and even washed my hair for me after about three days of me living with the blood, glass, and vomit that was by then crusted into it.  Of course, with my broken nose I didn’t even notice how rank I was, so the hair washing was more for everyone else’s benefit, but that’s not the point.  I’ve known her for twelve years now, I believe; she actually was my babysitter when I was younger, fun fact.  Our relationship is probably more like sisters than friends, and we can go from laughing hysterically together to me wanting to punch her in the face.

I just wonder why that friendship is different from the other one.  There’s no denying that Friend B and I have had probably over a million fights, radio silence included, yet we’ve always remained friends.  I’ve questioned in another blog on whether or not some people are just more important in our lives, and I didn’t want to think that I could rate my friends like that.  But I guess somewhere inside I do, because the simple fact is that one of those friendships is over, and the other is just as strong as ever.

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The “Is it Worth It?” Test

Saturday, May 22nd, 2010

In his book, The Magic of Thinking Big, David Schwartz gives the following relationship advice:

Before you start getting upset and fighting about something, put the situation to the “is it worth it” test. In other words, is fighting/complaining/crying/bickering (whatever your relationship poison) worth the consequences? Is it worth the risk of creating bitterness and resentment? Is it worth the potential for hurt feelings and ruined moods on both ends?

Here are some examples:

– Your boyfriend forgot it was your mother’s birthday, and your first instinct is to make him feel guilty. Is it worth it?

– Your roommate used up all the toilet paper and forgot to renew the roll. You’re ready for battle. Is it worth it?

– Someone bumped into you on the train, and you’re already taking in a deep breath of air for all the curse words you’re about to unleash. Is it worth it?

You get the idea. I love this strategy because it’s so simple and so effective. Just asking yourself this question helps puts things in prospective and diffuses so much frustration. So much relationship tension exists because we overreact to insignificant things (and this holds true for ALL types of relationships). My sister, Kat, might snap at me because she’s had a rough day, I take it personally and get defensive. She gets even more upset. I get even MORE upset. And before you know, it we’ve both got our arms crossed and our bottom lips jutting out. (Story of our sisterhood).

Of course there are also times when this approach isn’t the right fit. For example, if you walk in on your girlfriend making out with a stranger. In that case, I’d say it’s almost definitely worth it to have a pretty serious chat. Stewing in silence even over small stuff is never a good choice, but the point of this advice is that if you can let something roll of your shoulders, do. We say so many things we don’t mean and do so much we later regret all because of a lousy mood or displaced frustration. In fact, I once read a theory that a lot of the world’s most brutal battles have been spurred by generals because of maddeningly severe tooth aches. Hey you, generals. Was it really worth it?

– Tania Luna

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Make new friends AND keep the old?

Monday, May 10th, 2010

I have these two friends, and they’ve been dating for seven years. A few months ago, they got engaged. I’m always surprised when I think about them because their relationship is so strong, and growing stronger, yet ever since high school ended they hardly ever see each other. The guy is currently in upstate New York with the Navy, and before that he was in the Midwest somewhere – Chicago, I think. The girl is in South Jersey for college, and understandably doesn’t get to visit him all that often. Regardless of all that, and despite their young age, they’re one of the most together couples I’ve ever known.

My question is: How do they make it work? Sure, it can be said that distance makes the heart grow fonder, but enough distance is equally as likely to make the heart forget what it loved about a person in the first place. I’ve been in New York for two years, and I find it extremely hard to keep up with my friends and family back in South Jersey.

I always find myself dividing my relationships up into two sections – New York and Home (because even though I have an apartment up here and live here, I will always think of my parents’ house as Home). It’s very rare that the two ever merge, though I often share stories of home to people up here and vice versa. When talking about friends, I say, “Oh, my best friend back home…” or, “You remember, I told you about her…she’s my best friend at school?” I never just use a person’s name, it’s always with some epithet – a way to keep everything separate and clear in my own mind.

Stories about home are getting less and less the more time I spend up here. I always find some excuse not to visit; oh, I’d come home this weekend but I don’t want to leave Sassy (my cat) alone and she doesn’t like travelling; dude, sorry I’m gonna miss your birthday but I have, like, a zillion tests I need to study for next week. I even missed my Aunt’s wedding because of school obligations and the hassle of travelling two hours on the New Jersey Turnpike.

What I want to know is how people who go away for college – or even if they don’t go away, but are too busy with new responsibilities to enjoy old fun – stay in touch and up to date with their pre-college lives. Is it really as hard as I feel it is, or is it like it is for my two engaged friends, meaning easy and natural?

-Mary K

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The Love We Deserve

Friday, May 7th, 2010

In the quintessential coming-of-age high school novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, the following exchange takes place:

    Bill smiled and continued asking me questions. Slowly, he got to “problems at home.” And I told him about the boy who made mix tapes hitting my sister because my sister only told me not to tell my mom or dad about it, so I figured I could tell Bill. He got this very serious look on his face after I told him, and he said something to me I don’t think I will forget this semester or ever.

    “Charlie, we accept the love we think we deserve”

    The Perks of Being a Wallflower, page 24

As students caught up within the hustle and bustle that comprises New York, there could be no truer sentiment. There is so much that we are consistently told we ought to be, whether it is by our parents, roommates, friends, bosses or more importantly, the media at large. New York is a glamorous city and the billboards and advertisements scream that attractive equals thin, utterly gorgeous women who are wasting away and whom we must all strive to look like. Yet the reason behind the urge to change oneself or otherwise undergo makeovers often has less to do with the simple desire to fit in and more to do with the simple craving, desire and need to be loved. The question, of course, then becomes: what does it mean to love or to to be loved? There is a sentiment expressed in C.S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce that it isn’t what we might imagine:

    You mean,” said the Tragedian, “you mean- you did not love me truly in the old days?”“Only in a poor sort of way,” she answered. “I have asked you to forgive me. There was a little real love in it. But what we called love down there was mostly the craving to be loved. In the main I loved you for my own sake: because I needed you.”

    “And now!” said the Tragedian with a hackneyed gesture of despair. “Now, you need me no more?”

    “But of course not!” said the Lady; and her smile made me wonder how both the phantoms could refrain from crying out with joy.

    “What needs could I have,” she said, “now that I have all? I am full now, not empty. I am in Love Himself, not lonely. Strong, not weak. You shall be the same. Come and see. We shall have no needfor one another now: we can begin to love truly.”

    But the Tragedian was still striking attitudes. “She needs me no more- no more. No more,” he said in a choking voice to no one in particular. “Would to God,” he continued, “but he was now pronouncing it Gud- “Would to Gud I had seen her lying dead at my feet before I heard those words. Lying dead at my feet. Lying dead at my feet.”

How to find love in New York City? The first, and perhaps the most difficult task, is to actually identify what love means. The craving to be loved and possessed, to live out the decadent but dark fairy-tale romances that appear in fantasy or fiction, doesn’t cut it. Struggling to identify love between the Edward-and-Bella, Blair-and-Chuck, Stefan-and-Elena images that we are consistently fed via television is difficult. Simply listen to the radio; women are consistently disrespected in the lyrics. I’m no feminist and I’m guilty of dancing to “Sexy Bitch” and enjoying it. I know all the words to 3OH!3’s song “Don’t Trust Me,” which blares from Z100 or 92.3 when I wake up in the morning. I intellectually know that there’s a problem with lyrics that reflect an attitude that disrespects woman and totally objectifies and sexualizes them, but in my party mode, I rationalize it away. The problem occurs when the pressure of school, work, parents, friends and the media all combine to create an unhealthy cocktail where we determine that acquiring a boyfriend/ girlfriend and via that person, love and status, is worth the ultimate sacrifice on our part. By this I don’t reference any groom running from bride-wielding-ball-and-chains type of scenario, but rather the danger there is of entering into verbally, emotionally or God forbid, physically abusive relationships simply due to the desire to feel less alone within The City That Never Sleeps.

I recently read a fantastic book entitled Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity written by Kerry Cohen. She beautifully and movingly explains exactly how it can be that a woman desirous of being loved can become promiscuous, thinking to herself that the men she’s sleeping with care about her:

    What statistics can’t get at are the feelings of uncertainty and confusion that surround a young girl’s sexual behavior. They don’t get at how easy it is for a girl to use sex for attention. A boy once said to me, “Boys have to put forth real effort to get laid, while all you have to do is stand braless in the wind.” It’s true. What’s easier for a girl than to get noticed for her body? Using my sex appeal was default behavior. To not do so would have required more effort. Add to this the fact that I was desperate for attention- any attention-and men’s interest in my body was the easiest avenue to being noticed. Of course, I confused their base interest with love. I needed to believe it meant something. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t see myself as entirely innocent. My story is also about addiction. Addiction to power, to the attempt to control others through my body. It is about how desperate I was to feel loved, less alone, and how, misguided by all those cultural mixed messages, I tried to fill my need with male attention and sex. How, as with most addictions, I managed to push most everyone away, foiling my greatest intentions. And finally, how I learned to stop.

    ~Loose Girl by Kerry Cohen, page 3

One of the most disturbing things I noticed in college was the plethora of bright, talented and otherwise creative and attractive young women who themselves did not feel as though they were worth anything. Male attention, especially sexual, made them feel noticed and better about themselves. They would seek it out and enter into relationships in which they were dominated and controlled by their partner, often not realizing the extent to which this had happened. It was almost impossible for them to voluntarily extricate themselves from these emotionally abusive relationships because they loved simply in terms of need and the need to be needed or craved. And as Bill says in ‘Perks,’ we accept the love we think we deserve.

Love is a great, complex, complicated and grand adventure, but it is something which requires work and commitment in order to thrive. Anyone who hurts, disrespects or abuses his/her partner in any way is feeding into a false belief which they firmly espouse: namely, that they don’t deserve to be loved, respected or thought of as worthwhile. The reason I know this is because I was once such a girl.

-Oliva W

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