Anthropologies of Age

I unearthed a rather thought provoking blog while on a rather mundane google search of "panda names."

I think this is someone I'd like to meet, though of course because meeting people from the internet is creepy, someone I'd like to meet in a strictly neutral, strictly hypothetical non-threatening pocket dimension, free of the dual burdens of awkwardness and judgmentalism.

The quality of thought changes when you know you actually could meet someone, someone who's not just a nebulous text-spawning "person on the internet." If I went out and took Metro lines so and so, I could meet him... You know when something is "based on a true story," it's a better story? And so it is.

I think he's smarter than me also. Not smarter necessarily IQ-wise (I couldn't judge, but I wouldn't be surprised) but just in the "Oh, I never thought of that," category, a certain level of self-awareness. Maybe this is the difference between old people and young people, what "maturity" is. (Asking me to define "maturity" is like ... well... Blind people don't dream in color, from what I've heard. When people who are born blind are asked, "Do you wish you could see?" they say, "How could I wish it, when I've never known it?") It's only a theory I have; my actual contact with people outside my age group is rare. More anthropological fieldwork on my part must be done.

Unfortunately, whenever I talk to anyone older than me, it's within a hierarchical context: parents, relatives, teachers, bosses, "superiors"¹ even informally. In the case of the blog, I have spontaneously been handed the revelations, stripped of formality and rank, of someone older than me, but not old enough to be "old." You can tell, I think, just from the writing style- reading things by people older than you is like dropping a pebble into a deep pool, watching it sink, and watching the ripples. I can't explain why. It just is.

When I was younger, and my parents kept using the "when you're more mature" line on me, I thought rebelliously that, surely the consciousness of a twenty year old and the consciousness of a forty year old were similar? Your IQ does not improve so much after a certain age. If education were the issue, then a ten year-old public school American brat would be more "mature" than an 80 year old peasant from a third world country. It's not so much about family status and responsibility either- there are thirteen year-old wives and avowed bachelors to the grave. Between age 10 and age 20 a person goes through revelations of seismic magnitude, and compared to that, I didn't think the mental difference between someone, say 25, and 45 was a difference in "maturity" so much as a difference in physiological, economic, social conditions.

That was a theory, and theories can be disproved.

I know I am smarter now than when I was twelve. Smarter than when I was eighteen. How it happened and the nature of this "wisdom" is a mystery. At any age, you dwell within your consciousness. All of the world, for its great size, can be encompassed inside my head, and vast as the universe is, it cannot be bigger than my mind.

So. I enjoy watching thoughts bloom...

Sorry for the two philosophy-babble posts in a row.

¹ Except for lower-class adults. Un-PC, but true. Consider: My boss is "Dr. Mitch." The janitors at Harbor are "Sheila and Lynette." My dentist is "Dr. Miyamoto." My school bus driver was "Bobby." The esteemed culinary expert cum tv celebrity is (the honorable) "Iron Chef Kenichi." The food services employee working the dining hall cashier is "Valerie." Us young'ns are taught to address adults (I'm a "college girl," emphasis on "girl," hence not a "real" adult) as superiors, but if forms of address have any social implication, then what am I to think? I still find addressing adults by first name abhorrent. Sometimes I will call the janitor "Ms. Sheila."

Regarding the previous post: No, I'm not religious at all.

On the Nature of Youth

St. Augustine said, with whatever authority can be conferred upon dead saints, that people, even while they sin, even in the state of their own wretchedness, reach out to God. No one murders for murder's sake, for evil's sake, for the black abyss that claims them after death. People kill and execute other acts, for greed, for glory, for the sake of a woman, for the countless things that they believe life worth living for. Greed, ambition, lust, all of these sins yet at their core strive for comfort, joy, power, rapture, love, all of the things that are the essence of God who is every goodness.

However you regard St. Augustine, I have hope, while others have despair, for the youth and the future of the world. While parents, preachers, and politicians shake their fists over video games, music videos, teen sex, drugs, piercings, youthful disrespect, degeneracy, the general decline of Western Civilization, whatever it is these days that draws fashionable old-timey criticism, I look upon the world with the restless hope of the young, and because I am young, have the luxury to dream.

We play our violent video games, destroying aliens and saving the world because we dream of valor. We watch our thuggy rap tv in defiance of compliance, brown-nosing, softness, compromise and complacency. Through harsh lyrics about pride and strife we seek integrity. We do our drugs like the cloud-seeking shamans of old in pursuit of epiphany and rapture, visions of colors and stars and music. We have sex at sixteen hoping to know the pinnacles of love, this great emotion that shakes the axles of the world. We wear gang colors to know the meaning of loyalty, family, and sacrifice, to take a bullet for a brother, to do jailtime for a sister, to understand the meaning of strength. We bring guns to school in hope of immortality and recognition, because as Machiavelli says, if we have not love, then fear will do.

At school, with clear backpacks and metal detectors and security guards, the first thought of adults should not be, "Does he have a gun?" At the CD shop the first thought should not be, "Is she going to shoplift?" When the news reports a vandalism or a theft, the first line should not be, "Authorities think teenage hoodlums did it."

At the school they should say, "Hello, Sitting-By-Yourself-In-The-Corner, what's your name?" because the best way to stop a killer is not to take away his ability, but his intention. At the shop they should ask, "What sort of music are you going to make?" or "Excuse me, can you help me reach that box up there?" Perhaps if she is expected to help instead of expected to harm, she will. In the news, perhaps the story should be, "Members of local high school pitch in for children's hospital."

When we ask, "How should we live?" we want answers. When we ask, "How should we love?" we want answers. When we ask, "How will I find the meaning of valor, honor and faith?" we want answers.

"Don't do drugs and stay in school," is not an answer.

There is not one teen who does not dream. If we dream in the wrong places, wrong though they may be, wicked though they may be, at least we dream.

We want to change the world; give us a way to do it.

Security

I just spent like the last half hour trying to convince the bank on the phone that I am indeed Angela C, the bearer of Angela C's credit card.

See, I went to UMBC to turn in my timesheets to the econ department secretary so that I can get paid, and then I went to buy food. Well, I had intended on bringing (Jeremy's) pasta, but he had no sauce except an annoying frozen one that needed thawed/boiled. I didn't mind but he was like "Nooo, it doesn't reheat well... You could just get something at the Commons" and I was like, "The Commons probably aren't open" and he was like "yeah they are" and I was like "I have no cash," but it seemed like he was loathe to have me eat his pasta so I gave up the cause.

SO, it turns out that the Grille is actually cash only. I went to the ATM to get money out, grumbling cuz I'd have to pay a "convenience" fee for using another bank's ATM, but I dinnit know my PIN number. (I hate this, BTW. I have too many numbers to remember already, you'd think they'd do a password or something.)

Okay, fine, I go to the OTC and get myself a hotpocket... via credit card. No problem.

Then, since I'm there, I go to the Bookstore to get textbooks. It takes me a while to do that, I'm kind of distracted by all the nice shiny books there and the cute tiny freshmen. Anyway, I try to pay for them (it's like a $200 purchase, and I only bought a fraction of what I need) but the card won't clear, so the cashier makes me show photo ID, and then she has to call the bank and ask them.

Well it turns out they froze the account cuz of my PIN number fiasco. So they ask me a few security questions, where I make a total retard out of myself by being hesitant/getting them wrong.... There's nothing quite so infuriating as having a stranger ask me questions about myself and getting them wrong.

"So where do you buy your books from?"
"Amazon?"
"Uh.. no." (I think the correct answer is supposed to be B&N...)

"What's your current address?"
"(address)"
"No, your current address."

(Turns out the correct answer to the current address question was last year's dorm address, which is, of course, no longer current.)

I sound like such a moron, not remembering my own address. Well I'm not. I don't need to know my address because I know precisely where I live. Only people who don't know where I live know my address. Ex: I don't need to see my nose either to know it's there. Besides:

A) It's not my address, seeing as I don't own the place
B) Anyone I care about knows how to get there. It's that room, over there, at the end of the hall. Yeah, that one.
C) The door has my name in big cheerful letters on it.
D) If you've got the right room, my roommates will be there to tell you whether I'm in or out.
E) Everyone knows I'm "Michelle's Roomie" anyway so all you've got to do is find Michelle.
F) Call me or AIM me to tell me you're coming, and I'll let you in.
G) Nobody sends me mail anyway except for spammers.
(Corollary: I've never sent myself postcards.)

Most importantly:

H) I don't live there anymore.

Same with:
"What is your work/cell phone number?", ... when I told them my actual cell phone number (since I don't have a work number), that was the wrong answer. Apparently the number they wanted was last year's dorm phone. I'd forgotten what it was, so I had to look it up on my cell call list before they were satisfied. Not knowing your own phone number also makes you look stupid.

Well, I finally managed to convince them somehow that I was indeed myself. I closed the purchase on my textbooks, and went out to retrieve my bookbag from the bag check. As you know, the Bookstore doesn't let people bring their bags into the store, for security reasons. They take your bags and give you a little plastic card with a number on it, which you return to them when you get your bags back. But it turns out that in the mess I'd lost the card somewhere in the store..

GRAH!!!

I blame Jeremy. See! If only you'd let me eat your pasta!

Otakon was frickin' awesome. I had a lot more fun this year than last.

Yay, Jeremy! It's a lot better with him there. Also, I think he's finally mastered the art of driving into downtown Baltimore. Also, I was better at finding my way around and scheduling things this year.

Bumped into Lauren there too. That was frickin' awesome. Small, small world.

I had a costume of sorts, on Sunday, if wearing a giant yellow foam World of Warcraft exclamation mark on my head can be considered a costume. Damn the torsion power! It kept falling over, or keeling over in the wind. Plus, I had to take it off to go through doors and low ceilings.

A bunch of people took my picture (most of 'em thinkin' I was from Metal Gear Solid) - I hope none of them get online or you'll have pictures of me in a bike helmet with a styrofoam sphere and a high-density foam block attached to it. I ran into two other people who had forms of punctuation attached to their heads too.. that was amusing. Plus I bumped into a bunch of guildies from my server. The number of WOW junkies at Otakon was just incredible.

(The number of people who went as Full Metal Alchemist characters... less so.)

Jeremy went as Larva from Vampire Princess Miyu and ended up being glomped by an uncomfortable number of girls.

I can also say with perfect confidence that while he was dressed as Larva, (and when we went down to the Inner Harbor), he freaked out/awed a bunch of little kids ("Are you a magician?"), and homeless people did not ask him for money.