Monthly Archives: November 2013

X of the Week, Entry Two

X instead of read/watch/listen/play etcetera, because there is a lot of stuff here:

Avery Edison’s series on being a transgender woman is fascinating and enlightening. I’ve struggled with what feels like an over-emphasis on traditional interpretations of gender in the trans literature I’ve read in the past. Reading this series didn’t change that for me, but did give me further insight (and empathy) into being trans, which is a good thing.

Hey Yun’s “Brunch Avec Au Pair” webisode (ugh that word) is challenging and great.

An account of working in a 1960s London mortuary.

A New Republic article about 31-year-old Michael Needham’s ascending control of the Heritage Foundation gives insight into the bizarre strategic choices made by the GOP over the past few years. As a 31 year old myself, I am simultaneously annoyed by the article’s suggestion that Needham’s idiocy has anything to do with his generation (it clearly is driven by his privilege and “the moment”), and surprised that anyone would expect anything else out of a 31 year old being given control of a political/policy organization. 31 year olds: most of us know not enough to avoid being total fools (like Needham), but not enough to competently lead an organization charged with defining the goals of one of the world’s most powerful political movements.

I loved my friend Nicole’s post about integrating gratitude into her family’s daily life. This is exactly the sort of behavior I want to cultivate in myself and my future children; it’s great to hear about a real-life example of it working so well.

 

 

Electric Park

Late last night I was stumbling around the Internet at 2am, and, because this is just the way things happened, entered “Kinderhook” as a search term on eBay. I was looking for something I didn’t end up finding, but also: I found something I didn’t know I was looking for. Namely, I discovered, via countless vintage postcards, that one hundred years ago, a full-fledged amusement park operated on Kinderhook Lake.

I don’t know much about Kinderhook Lake. I know it is very built up, and that the few times I’ve swum in it I wished the water was cleaner. That’s basically it. I think it’s safe to say, then, that my knowledge of the lake has approximately quadrupled in the past 24 hours.

My favorite new facts:

  • Around the turn of the century, there were lots of small amusement parks operated along trolley lines by train companies, planned in order to increase their weekend business. Kinderhook Lake’s Electric Park was one of these parks. It was open from 1901 to 1917 or so, and during that time was–apparently–the largest amusement park on the East Coast between Manhattan and Montreal.
  • Ten thousand people attended the park each weekend. To put that into a modern, local perspective, that is more people than the number that lived in the entire town of Kinderhook at the 2010 census.
  • Attractions included two ferris wheels, a roller coaster built over the lake, a carousel on an island, and water slides that were converted into toboggan runs in the winter months.
  • Chatham was a dry town; Kinderhook was not. I wonder if this helps explains the two towns’ modern-day personality differences.

More information can be found here, here, here, and here.

A Tale of Two Cities

Twice in my adult life, I’ve moved to Albany. The first time was in August 2004, right after I graduated from college; the second was this past March, after my wife graduated from law school and got a job working for the state. Nearly a decade separates these moves, and in many ways, they could not be more different. In 2004, I came here because it was, paradoxically, the scary choice, full of unknowns–all my best friends were busy moving to Brooklyn, so that felt too safe. This year, my wife’s job was the motivator, but we are happy to keep choosing Albany because of its solidity. We know so many people here, and are so much closer to our families: there is promise of a knowable and comfortable joy.

And yet, there is one overwhelming similarity between my two moves. Both times, when I’m elsewhere, someone inevitably politely but pointedly asks, “And how’s . . . Albany?” I think they ask it this way because they think they already know the answer. Albany is supposed to be dull, small, and uncool. They’re not all wrong. There are certainly bigger, cooler, more exciting places. Sort of.

There are bigger cities, but in the time it would have taken me to get to my friend’s Greenpoint apartment, I can drive to the Adirondacks and be half an hour into a hike. Few things feel bigger than the Adirondack wilderness.

Albany's Washington Park

Albany’s Washington Park

There are cooler cities, but in New York, we generally couldn’t afford the time or money to go do the cool things. We’d sit inside our giant-for-NYC-but-small-for-Albany apartment playing Settlers of Catan or streaming the West Wing–fun, but not exactly the epitome of cool. In Albany, we can walk fifteen minutes and be at the Speakeasy, or drive the same and be at the Confectionery.

There are more exciting cities, but in New York it was nearly impossible to round up people to share those exciting experiences with. When every social commitment involves at least a forty-five minute train ride, the exhaustion of travel starts seeping away the wonder at living in a city where you can ride the Staten Island Ferry through New York harbor, go to the top of the Empire State Building at midnight, or take the train (for two plus hours) to Coney Island. In Albany, the stakes may be lower, but in twenty minutes our friends can mobilize a game of late-night Washington Park glow-in-the-dark bocce ball. There’s a joie de vivre that accompanies that level of immediacy. Put another way: I’m 31, but I get to live in a city where I still sometimes feel like I’m in college–all my friends are right hereWhen we lived in New York, going to see our neighbors involved a half-mile walk and thirty block subway ride. In Albany, we walk down one flight of stairs and to the end of the hall.

This is not to say that everyone should live in small cities, or that I don’t miss parts of living in the City. But I think there is part of living in New York (and, I imagine, other big cities) that “the media” and the world at large can forget. When my parents moved to the Upper West Side in the 70s, 100th Street and Riverside was about as far north as bougie white people would comfortably go, and they were rewarded for their spirit of adventure with a rent-controlled apartment that could easily swallow my current Albany apartment. I know the City was different then, and came with its own set of problems, but it was also effectively much smaller. All my parents’ friends from that time lived in the same twenty block radius. They did not have to transfer trains three times to visit their friends, or spend forty-five minutes each way commuting to their jobs. For the rich and/or well-entrenched, the City is still like this, and it must be unimaginably lovely. Cool. Exciting. Big, but not too big.

But for me, and nearly everyone I know, modern life in the City involves moving ever further out–to Northern Manhattan, or parts of Brooklyn and Queens my friends wouldn’t have even thought of considering ten years ago–and settling for less of everything except time on the subway to listen to podcasts.

Surprise! This is actually a photo from my walk to the subway in NYC.

Surprise! This is actually a photo from my walk to the subway in NYC.

I try to explain all this when I’m asked about life in Albany. I try, but I don’t think most people are able to wrap their heads around the idea that it might really be worth it. Ah well. It is.

 

 

F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

The most surprising part of adulthood, for me, has been the occasional impermanence of friendships. At 17, I very much expected that my favorite then-friends then would be among my best friends forever. Though that inevitably and quickly was proven false, I still haven’t readjusted my expectations for my friends-in-the-moment. I am still caught off guard when my favorite now-friendships go sour or fade away, and I still don’t quite know how to handle it.

The fade away is the easier of the two, though sadder. This is a much longer list, and pays its dues to geographical distance, busyness, changing interests, and lack of time. With all the time in the world, most of these friendships would still be stronger; but in reality, most of us have to choose between cultivating a handful or two of good, strong friendships and a few dozen superficial friendships. And even so, past a certain age (26?), it becomes nearly impossible to keep up with all the people you’ve had a good connection with. There is a lost potential in the fade away that makes it tough, but no guilt or real regret. These are people you know you could still have a good time with, if only you could find the night or weekend or week to do so in.

Soured friendships are harder. If there is a reason for your “break-up,” it’s harder to move past the friendship, and to cultivate love and forgiveness. The reasons for the break-up are often silly, or hard to identify. And different people can give you wildly divergent advice on how to handle these relationships. My parents, whom I admire greatly, will always counsel complete forgiveness: “Be not too hard, for life is short and nothing is given to man.” Or, less elegantly, get over it. My aunt, whom I also admire greatly, suggests nearly the opposite–that life is too short to spend time on drama and negativity, and that a worthwhile friend will always meet you halfway. My philosophy, I think, falls someplace in the middle. Forgiveness is important, if only for yourself; but so is only pouring your energy into friends and friendships that are willing to do the same. But always leave an open door, just in case.

Either way, I think, there is love left in the space that the friendship used to hold. Or, at least, that’s what I hope.

Read of the Week, Entry One

I’ve been slowly making my way through this Q&A with Art Spiegelman this week. I loved Maus (as have all humans), but just loving something doesn’t mean that I have any real investment in its creator. This interview stands on its own merits, discussing modern American Judaism, counter-cultural movements, the Holocaust, and–most interestingly, I think–the experience of creating a canonical work.

Read it.