Welcome to New York City, where there is a chance your Christmas tree vendor is from Quebec and lives in a van. If you live near the corner of 88^th and Broadway the chances become even higher.

Sebastian, hailing from Lac Saint-Jean in Quebec, is a self-described nomad, but for the past three Christmas seasons Sebastian has called the corner of 88^th and Broadway his home. This year Sebastian arrived on the 21st of November to line the street with nursery grown trees. By Christmas day, Sebastian will have lived in a van for thirty-five days with two fellow vendors: his girlfriend Stephanie, also from Quebec, and Alex from Paris.

While the corner is theirs the sidewalk becomes an extension of their living room and have erected their own Christmas tree—the tallest Douglas fir they had in stock. The tree, propped against some scaffolding, is complete with ornaments and a star; the only thing missing are presents. But that’s okay, because Sebastian does not celebrate Christmas anyway. Instead, he and Stephanie will spend the 25th of December traveling to Honduras, where they hope to learn some Spanish.

Until their departure, however, the corner of 88^th and Broadway is a moveable forest. Sunlight slipped through Douglas and Fraser firs as I spoke to Sebastian about his seasonal occupation and learned of his nomadic lifestyle.

Sebastian at work in his movable forest

What draws you to 88th and Broadway? 

I started selling trees here, and I love it because it is the best spot ever. I like The Duane Reade because it’s open twenty-four hours, the Equinox Gym is right next to us and we can take showers there. And then we go to Hot and Crusty, which is also open twenty-four hours.

How are the customers?

The customers are sometimes grumpy, but most of them, ninety percent of people, are quite friendly. They bring us some soup, things to eat, blankets, gloves, hats, anything they find they think about us and bring it here.

Why do you live in a van?

We stay alive here on the sidewalk! We have to be near and alert if anything happens so we are living in the camper, which has a queen sized bed, no bathroom, but a nice DVD player and a fireplace—electric of course. We have luxury! There are people who have it worse than us.

Where do you use the bathroom and shower?

We go to the Duane Reade, our next door neighbor. It’s very nice. As for the shower, we go to the Equinox qym. For a month they gave us membership so we have sauna and shower, but no free massages!

How much do you pay for membership?

We don’t; we have their friendship because we distribute their business cards when people buy Christmas trees. It’s a nice exchange.

Do you have any exciting stories about sleeping on the street?

There’s nothing exciting about it. You have the garbage truck, the fire truck and the ambulance and the cops coming, so if you like the noise it’s pretty exciting. Just last week we looked out the window and the building in front of us was on fire. We have a lot of things to watch from the window. We can spy on the people who could steal Christmas trees.

How much sleep do you get each night?

Four to six hours. It’s a luxury! I used to sleep on Mondays only.

We carve reindeers and make wreathes from the waste branches and the waste wood. We listen to music, we play cards, we draw—things that most people do, but we do it in front of a thousand people a day.

What do you like best about selling Christmas trees?

What it’s over. Ha ha.

What’s the worst thing about selling Christmas trees?

The weather and the psychology. The first week you tend to enjoy it, you talk about trees with everybody, but after that you get tired of it, and it’s repetitive, but we try to do it with a smile every day for thirty-five days.

What do you do during the rest of the year?

I travel with my camper, and I stop where I like and find work there. I find work as a rafting guide, a climbing guide…I have worked in the Canadian Rockies as a cook. I went to France and worked there for a year as a cook in a hotel in the Alps. And now this is my campground. We bring the trees with us so we can camp!

Left to right: Alex, Stephanie and Sebastian

Some people call it Missouri,

like Mi ZUR ee

Others call it Missourah

like Mi ZER rah

But when you combine the two

It sounds like Misery.

Missouri is Flat

A humble landscape

With no hill or mountain

Reaching ambitiously skyward

Instead it reposes

And waits

For the sky to come to it

Soon enough obese clouds

Drag and scrape

Themselves across the prairie

Sometimes a tornado

Will try its best

To drill a canyon in her soft flesh

It is a miracle that Missouri is still flat

Happy New Years

On the morning of the second day of the second decade of the second millennium, my sister and I found a homeless man at the park across the street from our house.  We were collecting twigs and pinecones for kindling, accompanied by a creaking granny cart and the ghosts of our breath.  In Missouri’s grey winter Beanie’s red shawl and my plum colored coat provided the only colors to be seen for miles.

Beanie dragged the creaking cart behind us as we diligently scanned the tawny sea of dead grass for our bounty.  There was hardly anyone else at the park, though sometimes we were visited by rays of sunlight that broke through the clouds.

I had just finished breaking a dry fallen branch into more sizeable twigs when I noticed that the cart was silent.  Beanie—in the red shawl, cowboy boots and a second hand faux fur coat purchased for six dollars—had stopped, stood erect, and was pointing.  There is a small wading pool at the far end of the park,  operated by Parks and Recreation.  In the summer it is filled with water and toddlers.  On this winter day it was filled with sunlight, dried leaves, and was now the site of a homeless man’s slumber.  The twigs became a non-entity.  I had lived across the street from that park until I was nineteen, and had never seen a homeless person there before.

The night before was twenty-two degrees below freezing.  As he was wearing only jeans and a hoodie we were certain that this wading pool was his final resting place.  It appeared he lad left this world the same way he entered: curled up in fetal position.  Beanie stayed behind me as I crept up to him to see if we truly had to report a dead body.

But his chest rose and fell underneath the thin hoodie and eyebrows fidgeted on a slightly wrinkled forehead.  Shy strands of thinning hair ventured out from beneath the hood and twitched in the cold.  We went across the street back to our house, followed by our breath and the cart.

A fleece blanket (given to us when we adopted two cats from the animal shelter two days after Christmas); the contents of a can of clam chowder from 2008 (that we heated to an edible consistency); a peanut butter sandwich on homemade Irish soda bread; trail mix, pita chips, a white plastic spoon and a bright orange hat that I got when I canvassed for Howard Dean at the Iowa caucuses of 2004 (Howard Dean Iowa Storm it said in humble-sized letters)—all memories of the previous decade—went into a large brown paper bag.  We crept across the street and put the bag a foot away from the still sleeping man and silently stalked away.

An hour later mom, who happened to be looking out the window, reported that the man was awake.  Beanie and I joined her at the window to witness.  The man’s shoulders were now covered by the fleece blanket as he hunched over the canned soup. He had also placed the Howard Dean hat on his head.  And now the only color to be seen for miles was bright orange.

Those present did not know what kind of gesture would appropriately express the happiness shared by so many.  Then, a group of people started crowd surfing.  My friend and I had never crowd surfed before, but decided that Obama’s election was as good a time as any to start.  We were hoisted up and rode the wave euphoria shared by 69,456,897 people.  Hunter S. Thompson wrote of another wave in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas–The Sixties:  “There was a sense that what ever we were doing was right, that we were winning…we were riding the crest of a high, beautiful wave…”  That is what 2008 felt like.

I have not sang the national anthem or crowd surfed since then, and the famed purple hue our country was supposed to take is out of fashion.  Now, in 2010, the map of the United States is as red and blue as ever.  To some it is alarmingly red, to others it is still too stubbornly blue around the edges.

But this is not new.   Our country has a penchant for repeating itself; two years into Clinton’s first term the House of Representantives also went red.  Contrary to 2008 when we thought the country was ideologically headed in a bright new direction, the country has voted to show that nothing has changed at all and the elections of 2008 remain an exception to the rule.

And that is why it was so celebrated.  Together we defied the status quo, making it the most American election in a long  time.  It was, after all, a bunch of upstarts who signed the Declaration of Independence and challenged the status quo and sowed the seeds for this nation.  These founding fathers set a standard: the more we challenge the status quo, the more genuinely American we actually become.  So what does it mean now that America has decided to be staunchly status quo, expressing allegiance to one resounding word: ‘NO’?  It means that we have become less American.

The great wave t hat Hunter S. Thompson spoke of did not last, but it has left its imprint in our collective memory.  He wrote, “…you can go up a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high water mark–that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”

Maybe 2008 is on its way to exist only in the realm of our collective memory.  Maybe our wave is crashing.  Or maybe this dream is not riding on a wave that crashes on its own volition.  Maybe we are in some kind of vehicle, perhaps a red convertible–a Red Shark.   In this vehicle we have agency, we are operating it, and whether it crashes or not depends on how we drive the thing.

This election, like most elections, was tainted by finger pointing and name-calling of the kind that you see amongst third graders in a school yard.  The Red people and Blue people accusing the other of ignorance and stupidity.  If each side is accusing the other of ineptitude then that makes all of us a bunch of idiots, which we are.

The problem with city and coastal dwellers is that they consistently disown the rest of the country.  “What is there anyway?”  Many New Yorkers ask me of the Midwest.  Only once every couple of years does the Blue part of America pay attention to the rest of the country, only to accuse it of supreme ignorance after seeing election results.   It is not strategic for the blue tinted peoples of the coasts to dismiss everyone in the middle as daft and insignificant and then expect them to vote in a manner that pleases them.  When you disrespect someone it means you hold no hope in their ability to change and you already admit defeat.

It is also naive and illogical for the Red tinted middle of the country to think the Pandora’s box of problems that took eight years to unleash can be fixed in two years.  It is even more naive and illogical to think that these problems can be fixed without their help.  It is their country too, and it would be an act of treason to abandon a solution simply because they are not comfortable with it.  The austerity measures of rationing food and oil in the early 1940s were probably not very comfortable, but absolutely necessary to win World War II.  It was not comfortable for George Washington and his  starving and sick to cross the Delaware river in the middle of winter, but by doing so they had a decisive victory.  It was not comfortable for six year old Ruby Bridges to be harassed at school every day, but how long would it have taken for our schools to be desegregated if she hadn’t?  If a child is willing to be uncomfortable for her country, why can’t adults willing to do the same?  Being American isn’t about staying in your comfort zone.  Imagine where the country would be today if the only vision our heroes had for our country was that of a comfortable way of life–if they said ‘NO’ to change.

I believe JFK said “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”  I think some people are confused.  They are waiting to see what the country will do for them.  Perhaps they have forgotten that by living in and taking space in this country they also have to be willing to contribute to it.  The word NO has never done anything for anyone, and neither has finger pointing.

Whatever it is we started riding in 2008 does not have to stop, but the current attitudes do so that together we can continue with a resounding YES.  It is only then that we can start acting like proper Americans again.

I usually hate Times Square.   At its best it is a bunch of light bulbs on steroids, marquees on acid and fluorescence on speed. But no real light penetrates this galaxy as reflected milky ways of neon, garish overpowering signs and streaming advertisements all compete to be the best travesty of the sun.

The strange thing about Times Square is that while light races above you, movement down below is next to impossible. I generally tend to avoid Times Square because once you enter this blinding abyss your chances of escape are encumbered by slow-moving tourists who have lost all inertia. Despite the mercurial light show above, traffic oozes like reluctant sludge.

The best way through Times Square is on a pedicab, best described as a bicycle rickshaw. I had befriended the Pedicabbers thinking I was actually going to write an article about them, posing them as part of the Green Movement. I had met one named Milosh while in Columbus Circle. Milosh was from Bosnia and he and his family were refugees during the war. Milosh took me to meet the other pedicabbers who were all hanging out near Bathesda Fountain in Central Park. They looked at him incredulously for having brought a Stranger into their midst. Milosh explained that I wanted to write an article about pedicabbers. This did not make me any less strange, but they trusted me after I smoked a j with them. I found out that most of them were students from Eastern Europe and Turkey.

Though technically you need a license to operate a pedicab, most of the pedicabbers didn’t have one because all that really mattered was that they had the $200 needed to rent a pedicab each week.  They charged around $70 for a tour of Central Park, and provided taxi services to theater goers near Times Square.  One Russian I met made a thousand dollars a week.  They were their own bosses.  They worked when they wanted, picked up who they wanted, and obeyed traffic laws only if they wanted.  They were the accented cowboys of midtown.

Since that first meeting, whenever I went by Columbus Circle I would encounter the pedicabbers. Eventually they met my friends. One of my friends even started dating a pedicabber. The article never got written as I started feeling less like a journalist and more like a pedicabber groupie, which is probably one of the most random things anyone can be.

One night Milosh decided to take me and my friend Liz on a ride through Times Square. Given the pace of traffic, being on a pedicab makes you feel like you’re on the Millenium Falcon. Milosh weaved through traffic as if he were dodging asteroids. No longer part of the sludge, we were as mercurial as the lights flashing above us.  Liz and I were somewhat at our wit’s end, as an encounter with any fast moving vehicular asteroid would have demolished the rickity pedicab and us.  Milosh made certain that our jaunt was as harrowing as possible, narrowly missing the side-view mirrors of cars and squeezing past halal stands and yellow cabs.

Eventually we had to park the pedicab for the night. Milosh usually parked his pedicab in the stables where they kept the horses that pulled the carriages in Central Park. The stables were closer to the river, and Milosh decided to park in a garage that was a couple blocks away from Times Square.

He pedaled the cab past the entrance while Liz and I were still in it. There were two attendants. One, a large Puerto Rican man, leaned his weight on a booth as he eyed us warily.  “Park it here, up front,” He commanded to Milosh.  Milosh refused, explaining that he always parked at the lowest level and proceeded onward.

“I say you cannot park there!” The vigilante persisted, but Milosh was not about to make this man’s life easy by complying.

“I alvays park at bottom. I don’t know vat the deal is. Every time I park in front my pedicab get a scratch.”

“Um maybe you should just park at the entrance,” Liz and I said.

“I keep telling you, you cannot park there! Park here!”

“No!” Cried Milosh to the man.

Then he turned to us and said, “There’s something I vant to show you!”  With that we lurched onward into the depths of the garage. The attendant’s protests were muffled by our indifference, but I couldn’t help noticing that he he had started chasing after the pedicab.

“Milosh, are we going to get into trouble?” I asked, looking at the pursuant behind us.

“No, its okay.” And I noticed the man had stopped running and was heading back to his booth. Case closed.

“Okay, now dis is vat I vant to show you.”  As we descended on the ramp into the bowels of the garage, the pedicab gathered speed and we started spiraling as gravity took us downward like a corkscrew. Milosh pedaled faster and with each level we descended we made a jolting turn, which got more acute the farther down we went. We were caught in a concrete tornado as we zoomed past parked cars. Liz and I raised our arms as if we were on the Cyclone.  We finally came to a halt and Milosh locked the pedicab. “It’s like roller coaster!  Cool, no?”

It was a clever shenanigan indeed, but the glee wore off as we got out of the pedicab. How were we going to get out of the garage without encountering the attendant? Milosh pointed to a door and explained that there were stairs that led outside. I went up the stairs thinking how lucky we were to thwart the fat man. I felt a little sorry for him. There were three of us, and a pedicab. And now we even had this secret exit. All he had was himself and his barrel gut.

We had gone up a couple flights of stairs, skipping two steps at a time with cruel glee, when a loud metal crash announced that the door had been violently flung open. I was wondering what sketchy personality other than ourselves might need to be taking these stairs. Then I heard the loud stomping and heaving breathing of someone who was carrying a lot of weight really fast, and understood that we had underestimated the fat man.

“STOOOOOP!” Thundered the attendant. What was he, some kind of tell tale heart that was going to follow us around for a simple parking misdemeanor?  Liz, Milosh and I looked at each other. The exclamation points in our eyes read HOLY SHIT. The ensuing dialogue sounded like a scene from a World War II flick.

“You guys go ahead!” Cried Milosh.

“What are you going to do?”

“Just go on without me!”

“But…”

“JUST GO!”

“We can’t leave you!”

It was true, we could not leave Milosh there. Liz and I do socially sanctioned forms of running all the time. Playing soccer. Jogging through Central Park. There was no doubt in my mind that we could outrun the guy. But Milosh was a little soft around the edges and chain smoked like the proper Eastern European he was. The asphalt was a great equalizer, and without the pedicab he was a slow creature. Leaving him to fend for himself would have been like leaving an earthworm on the intersection of Broadway and 42nd.

Our indecision helped the guard close the gap between us. And we saw that we weren’t just being chased by an angry fat man, but an angry fat man wielding a metal golf club.  We all gasped in unison, trying to look at each other and the golf club at the same time. Milosh protectively placed himself in front of us, God bless him. It was too late for us to make a run for it and there was not enough room in the stairwell for us to disperse. The man had the golf club poised over his head like a baseball bat. By the desperate look in his eyes and the quiver in his belly it was clear he had been flirting with the precipice of insanity for a while.  Maybe he had problems at home, or working under the constant glare of fluorescent lights with only a panorama of cement garage walls was affecting his psyche.  This unfortunate encounter and usurpation of his authority might be all he needed to take the plunge. Any wrong word or movement might push him off the edge and someone’s head would be a pinata.

We all wondered who would speak first and what the hell they would say. In the liminal moment between an inhale and an exhale, I allowed myself to stare off into space, to see if my life would flash before my eyes. It didn’t. I took this as a sign that everything was going to be fine.

Then Milosh spoke, waving his arms delicately in front of the guard as if the man were merely a smudge he was trying to wipe off a wine glass. “It’s okay, everything’s okay. We didn’t mean….”

“OUT! COME DOWN! COME WITH ME!” The man bellowed.  Could he really believe that he was waving a metal golf club at three unarmed twenty-somethings?  I didn’t think he actually wanted to hit us, and his eyes were darting around frantically as if looking for a reason not to.

“We’ll come,” I said “But first you lower your golf club.”

He did, and we went down the stairs with him leading the way and flinging open the door.  The man continued his rant. “I TOLD YOU! DO NOT PARK HERE! YOU NOT SUPPOSED TO PARK DOWN HERE!”

But we became emboldened as we left the claustrophobia of the stairwell behind us. Space offered protection from any potential bludgeoning.  “Look sir, maybe you can get away with this in Puerto Rico, but not here,” said Liz.

“BUT I CANNOT LET ANYONE PARK HERE!”

At that point in my life I still hadn’t learned that you can’t really diffuse an irate person by being irate yourself. So I yelled “YEAH, BUT I’M PRETTY SURE IT’S NOT IN YOUR JOB REQUIREMENTS TO CHASE PEOPLE WITH GOLF CLUBS! YOU COULD GET FIRED FOR THIS!”

Trying to do his part, Milosh had been babbling an apology, explaining that he only wanted to show us how fun it is to go down the ramp in a pedicab.  Liz was the most rational. “Sir, we understand why you’re upset but we didn’t mean any harm. You don’t want to be fired for something like this.”  In the man’s anger and our shock, the parked pedicab was ignored.  We had walked right past it.

Eventually the man stopped talking and the golf club remained at ease by his side. It was useless anyway. The entrance to the garage, the booth and the other attendant were all in site. Freedom was literally a shining light at the end of huge tunnel as the glow of Times Square beckoned nearby. All the man could do was shake his head.

It had not been his day. The man’s authority had been brazenly undermined, his impressive sprint down four levels of the garage was in vain, and now he was being told that he could be fired. Even worse, the offending pedicab remained parked at the bottom of the garage. I didn’t dwell on it for too long as we finally reached the gaping exit. As we emerged from the cave of doom with its wild, club bearing inhabitants we all breathed a sigh of relief. I made a mental note to add this incident to the list of things I will never tell my mother. Together we walked slowly, silently and gratefully towards the light of Times Square, wanting it to engulf us.

For me, its timing could not have been more impeccable, as it seemed relevant to my own liminal existence.  I had quit my job as a teacher in the Bronx–a job with health benefits and at least two months paid vacation–too which many said, “Robin, are you crazy?”  Many of my fellow teachers congratulated me.  ”Get out while you can!”  They said.  Since then, I have found myself what-to-do-next land and there does seem to be many of us here, while the flow across the border to the Realm of Adulthood was at an all time low, and that is what the article addressed.

Psychologists traditionally define adulthood as the successful completion of five milestones:  finishing school, moving out of your parents’ house, becoming financially independent, getting married and having kids.  In 1960, 77 percent of women and 65 percent of men had completed these milestones by the age of thirty.  But something seems to be amiss!  The article’s writer, Robin Marantz Henig, a freelance science journalist who frequently contributes to the New York Times, announced: “The traditional cycle seems to have gone off course, as young people remain un­tethered to romantic partners or to permanent homes, going back to school for lack of better options, traveling, avoiding commitments, competing ferociously for unpaid internships or temporary (and often grueling) Teach for America jobs, forestalling the beginning of adult life.”  I knew I was guilty on some accounts–particularly regarding grueling teaching jobs and traveling..

In the article Henig finally addresses something that people of all ages–including those in their twenties–have been wondering about:  “What is it about twenty somethings?”  The main quandary being that we as a generation are collectively tardy in reaching adulthood—a delay that some psychologists feel can be accounted for by a new stage in development called “emerging adulthood” which Henig explains is a liminal state characterized by self-exploration, instability, feeling in transition and optimistic.  Though not accepted by all psychologists as a stage of development on grounds that it is not universally experienced nor considered essential, supporters of the theory supplement their argument for the theory with both nature and nurture.  The science behind it being the fact that one’s brain is not fully developed even at twenty-five–in fact, researchers have yet to discover at what age the brain stops growing.  The social aspect of it being the fact that society is now at a point where it is acceptable to deviate from traditional norms.  As a result, in 2000 the United States Census Bureau found that fewer than half of  women in their thirties and one-third of the men in their thirties had completed all milestones.

After reading the article I was relieved that it wasn’t just me and a few other twenty-somethings I knew who were going through an existentialist crisis, yet I couldn’t help but feel a sense of betrayal that perhaps extended to my entire generation.  The ten page article only had sprinkles of commentary from actual twenty-somthings, and this is what they had to say:  ”It’s somewhat terrifying,” writes a 25-year-old Jennifer in the Twenty-Something Manifesto, an anthology published in Los Angeles.  Adds a 24-year-old from Virginia: “There is pressure to make decisions that will form the foundation for the rest of your life in your 20s. It’s almost as if having a range of limited options would be easier.”  Aside from these few anxiety ridden morsels, we have no say in an article written entirely about us.

Marantz takes these few examples and describes them as “heartfelt” but that they are “the complaints of the privileged,”  She quotes Julie, a 23-year-old New Yorker who she describes as being “coddled her whole life, treated to French horn lessons and summer camp, told she could do anything.”  Young Jules laments that her privilege is a “double-edged sword . . . because on the one hand I am so blessed with my experiences and endless options, but on the other hand, I still feel like a child. I feel like my job isn’t real because I am not where my parents were at my age. Walking home, in the shoes my father bought me, I still feel I have yet to grow up.”

Wait, does this sound like my entire generation?  Summer camp?  French horn lessons?  Endless options?  Privilege is all relative, but  the woeful Julie does not even represent a fraction of my friends and acquaintances. Other than the said shared existentialist crisis, many of us nothing in common with any of the people described in the article and felt that as a generation, are the subjects of much scrutiny, but we have not been fairly represented.  ”Yeah, you guys got a bad rap,” one thirty-something confessed to me.

Henig did a lot of research and spoke to a lot of psychologists….over thirty.  It seems like she did everything but talk to us twenty-somethings and ask us what it is about us.  I am certainly not a psychologist, but I genuine, bonafide twenty-something, so I feel somewhat qualified to comment on twenty-somethings.  So, I took it upon myself to do some questioning.  The questions I asked were largely based on the five milestones, since, for better or worse, adulthood is based on the milestones.   The responses I got came far and wide in terms of geography, demographics, life experience, opinions and reactions to the article.   I did, however, notice a common theme as I listened to my generation speak to me.

We want to be well prepared adults, and we don’t think that checking off a list of milestones is a good way of going about that.  We think adulthood goes beyond that–in fact we know it goes beyond that and we are trying to look over yonder.  So please don’t worry about us.  Everyone knows that the best wines are the ones you wait for, so our tardiness is a sign of good t hings to come.

ON FINISHING SCHOOL:  WHAT DOES THAT MEAN ANYWAY?
This is the first milestone.  In 2000, 84 percent of American adults age 25 and over had completed high school.  Of those, 26 percent continued to earn a bachelor’s degree or higher.  That means that not even one fourth of people in their mid twenties had received a higher education.  If finishing school were indeed a mandatory requirement for becoming an adult, either 84 percent of us have competed it, or less than one fouth has, depending on what one’s definition of “finishing school” is, as it could refer to high school, college, grad school, getting a doctorate or professional training.  So in conclusion, there is actually nothing conclusive about this information if you want to determine how many of us are nearing adulthood.

Then again, how necessary is it for everyone to finish school, granted you are able to determine what it actually means to finish school?  Ever since I finished undergrad in May of 2007, the new faddish words tumbling out of everyone’s mouth were “grad” and “school”.  I still keep hearing those words.  The usually make a cameo in conversations amongst the unemployed, “Yeah, maybe I’ll just go to grad school.”  Or in conversations about how confusing life is.  “I just don’t know what to do with my life,” one party says.  “Have you thought about going for your masters?”  I have a hunch that this is how many of my peers end up in grad school.

Twenty somethings who are “trying to figure things out” are definitely not ready to continue school and become more specialized as they don’t know what they want to be special in.  “I don’t know…so many people don’t think of a B.A. in English as ‘finishing’ anymore. I hear ‘college is the new high school’ and ‘you pretty much have to have a master’s now,’ but I’m just not with it on that,” expressed Elizabeth Braud Huls, 25, of Overland Park, Kansas.  Depending on what you study, grad school could potentially mean that you are going to be spending a lot of money and never getting it back.  In an article titled Graduate School in the Humanities:  Just Don’t Go, Professor William Pennapacker of Hope College in Holland, Michigan explained  “The reality is that less than half of all doctorate holders — after nearly a decade of preparation, on average — will ever find tenure-track positions.”  But in the end higher education is a business, so of course universities still want you!  In fact, they need you!  Pennapacker wasted no time sugar coating his bad news pill. “It’s hard to tell young people that universities recognize that their idealism and energy — and lack of information — are an exploitable resource. For universities, the impact of graduate programs on the lives of those students is an acceptable externality, like dumping toxins into a river.”

The story obviously changes for those who go to grad school, med school or beyond to become something tangible, like a doctor or lawyers.  A recent report, “The Big Payoff: Educational Attainment and Synthetic Estimates of Work-Life Earnings” divulges that over an adult’s working life, high school graduates can expect, on average, to earn $1.2 million.  Those with a bachelor’s degree will get nearly double that at $2.1 million and people with a master’s degree will earn $2.5 million.

I am living evidence, however, that receiving a masters degree can potentially mean next to nothing, as I accidentally got into grad school through a teaching fellowship.  When I applied to the New York City Teaching Fellows the only things I was certain about was the fact that I had done volunteer teaching for nearly four years in college, and thought it was something I could do after college.  After I applied and got accepted, I finally read my mail thoroughly I realized that I was going to be working full time and going to grad school to get a masters in teaching, which was for the most part paid for by the Department of Education.  I couldn’t turn back.  What else was I going to do with my bachelor’s degree in history?  I needed to find work if I was to live in New York City and did not have time to develop a Plan B.  I am proud of the work I did and proud for being able to get my masters, but my experience in the public school system has helped me make up my mind that I do not want to teach for the rest of my life.  As a life experience, getting my masters in teaching was worthwhile, but as far as my aspirations to become a writer, I am not sure it is very meaningful.

There are in fact many successful people in the world to whom a piece of paper with their name and graduation date was not a necessary form of validation.  The world as we know it has been heavily influenced by an inspiring roster of dropouts.  Eight of the 43 presidents never went to college, including Abraham Lincoln.  Other famous political figures who never went to college are Senator Robert Byrd, Winston Churchill, Benjamin Franklin, and current president of Brazil, Luis Inacio Lula da Silva.  Figures who have made great steps for science and mankind include astronaut John Glenn and inventor Thomas Edison.  Amongst the really rich people who never went to college are John Jacob Astor, Bill Gates and William Randolph Hurst–the latter two having dropped out of Harvard (its seems that Harvard’s best are the ones who decide to leave).  Talented artists seem to avoid school like the plague: Woody Allen, Paolo Coelho, Eminem, Annie Liebovitz, Richard Avedon, Lady Gaga.  Leonado Di Caprio, who was home schooled and completed high school never went to college, explaining “Life is my college now.”

Indeed, there is an institution of world renown that has absolutely free tuition–not that you won’t be paying for your experiences.  This institution is none other than the University of Life, in which you learn by doing and living.  Traveling is just one example of how you can learn in the University of Life. “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness” wrote Mark Twain in Innocents Abroad.  Saint Augustine opined “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”  Sometimes learning through a book is the same as living vicariously, because the most important lessons in life–what it means to love, respect and care for the world and those around you and how to love, respect and care for the world and those around you–are ones that we have to learn by participating in life.

ON BECOMING FINANCIALLY INDEPENDENT: DICK CHENEY IS FINANCIALLY INDEPENDENT, BUT IS HE BETTER THAN A SCRUB?
Most myths and legends are wild interpretations of real occurences called natural phenomena and most rumors–if they happen to be slightly accurate–are hyperbolized facts.  So the fact that Henig wrote an article about a generation that has allegedly been perching between adulthood and adolescence for too long can be interpreted as a manifestation of the existence of this problem.  When statistics indicate that nearly forty percent of twenty-somethings have moved back home, we can presume that this is all the evidence anyone needs to point a finger at us and call us slackers.

But living a lazy post-graduate existence a la Benjamin Braddock in is really not something most of us aspire to and we find it hard to condone our friends who aren’t yet weened off parental support.  “While there are many reasons people may find themselves without a job or moving back home…I think it is immature to spend a decade living off their aging and hard-working parents, or their friends, or the government because they just can’t decide on their ‘true calling’ in life,” wrote Catherine, a married 26 year old doctor who works eighty hours a week.  While some are irritated, others are more concerned about the social repercussions of ‘emerging adulthood’.  ”I just worry that it will exacerbate class and race divisions when rich white ‘emerging adults’ are permitted by circumstance to run around finding themselves while everyone else has to plow fields and such,” commented Alex Goldmark, a 30 year old radio producer and journalist in New York City.

But maybe these accusations about us as a generation being far more dependant on our parents than previous generations are all overly dramatized.  ”I think that the emphasis the Times placed on 20-somethings relying on parental financial support is somewhat inaccurate.”  Contests Liz, a 25 year old New Yorker who works paralegal and moved out on her own two years ago.  “Yes, there are a lot of us who rely on our parents for support to try to ‘figure it all out’, but I do think there are also those of us who are supporting ourselves who are also taking their time to figure life out.”

Most of us are really proud to be financially independent, even if it means just making do.  Elizabeth Braud Huls of Overland Park, Kansas, describes herself as “piss poor but financially independent.”  Some of us have even managed to combine adventure with employment, these people still feel at a loss.  Mike, 25 of Massachusetts, is currently living in Rome and teaching English.  ”I feel more like I’m just getting by than getting ahead; I certainly haven’t been able to save much, especially while paying off student loans,” he laments.

Like many of us, Mike has yet to figure out what his true calling is.  ”I thought I wanted to be a lot of things. I thought I wanted to be the captain of the Yankees. I thought I wanted to be a jazz musician. I thought I wanted to be a scholar of Italian studies. I thought I wanted to be an English teacher. I thought I wanted to be an economist. I thought I wanted to be a computer interface designer. Now I kind of think I might want to be a psychologist. If you can think of anything that combines some or all of those let me know!”

Others who attempted to shake off their childhood dreams always found them lurking around the corner, impossible to escape.  Erin, 26, is living in Engelwood, Colorado with her husband.  She is currently working towards her masters in child, family and school psychology.  Her plan after graduating is to become a school psychologist.  She recounted the many diversions she took from what she now considers her calling in life. “Well, I remember setting up a school in the basement of my house when I was little, where I would attempt to teach my siblings. I became very frustrated when they didn’t want to have school over the summer,” she recalls.  “I went off to college and tried nursing, political science and journalism, but ended up where as a child I always thought I’d be.”

In the end a job is something that you should like doing, as you will be stuck doing it for the rest of your life.   At the same time it is true that finding a job, even a job you don’t like, is not easy as it was even five years ago.  As of July of this year, the unemployment rate for people between 18 and 29 was 11.8 percent, while the national average hovered just below 10 percent and 28.4 percent of us are underemployed.  While there are certainly still jobs out there, people are trying not to get attached to a mediocre career for the sake of having a job.  I mean, Dick Cheney was financially independent as  the CEO of Halliburton, but I’m pretty sure that its better for you to aspire to do nothing with your life than to aspire to be the CEO of Halliburton.

In 2005, before the recession, and before he was elected president, Barack Obama was the graduation speaker at Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois.  He told the graduates  ”Focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a certain poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself. Because it’s only when you hitch your wagon to something larger than yourself that you realize your true potential.”  In the speech he mentioned that in his first days as a senator, a reporter asked him “Senator Obama, what’s your place in history?”  Wow!  In retrospect it was a million dollar question, but it could be the million dollar question for anyone.  Obama urged the graduates to ask themselves the same thing.  For many, the answer to this question will hinge on the careers we choose.  For many, it will take time, experimentation and risk to find a career that reconciles our need to make a living with our goal of making a positive mark on the world.  This doesn’t mean to say that we all need to win a Nobel prize, but it is better to be a classroom teacher that leaves a positive impact on thirty people than Dick Cheney who negatively affected millions.  Billions?  Okay, maybe the whole world.

MOVING OUT OF OUR PARENTS’ HOUSE:  WORLD WONDERS WHY YOU WOULD DO THAT
Many psychologists agree that ‘emerging adulthood’ it is a purely North American phenomenon.  Henig explained “It’s rare in the developing world . . .where people have to grow up fast, and it’s often skipped in the industrialized world by the people who marry early, by teenage mothers forced to grow up, by young men or women who go straight from high school to whatever job is available without a chance to dabble until they find the perfect fit.  Indeed, the majority of humankind would seem to not go through it at all.”  However, since ‘emerging adulthood’ seems to be defined by our delay in accomplishing a certain set of socially established milestones, it would seem that ‘emerging adulthood’ would have no other choice but to be an American phenomenon, as the milestones are based on American ideals.

James, a 27 year old New Yorker studying linguistics in Hawaii concurs that the “late 20th century fad of moving out of your parents’ home and living by yourself is an almost exclusively American ideal that I think has been really damaging by creating a projected image of independence.”  He remark derives from his experience of teaching in Japan.  There, he met many thirty-somethings that were still living with their families not just because it was socially accepted, but also expected that one would support their parents in their parents household.  In fact, 56 percent of Japanese adults live with their parents.

This situation in Japan is not an isolated one.  During my semester abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina I lived with an older woman whose thirty year old daughter with a successful career was still living with her and was not expected to move out until she got married.  It is true that many people around the world are compelled to get a job and get married at a young age because of economic conditions but it is these same conditions keep people around the globe living with their families in their twenties and beyond in a mutually supportive situation.

Furthermore, people in their twenties with aspirations to go to grad school often get a job and live at home to save money for grad school knowing that their families can’t pay for them.  For many, this a symbiotic relationship.  Saiful is a 28 year old who came to Brooklyn from Bangladesh during his teens.  He  explains that he is working on his masters “in slow motion” while working full time.   After living on his own for three years after undergrad he moved back with his family.  ”It’s difficult to explain to ‘westerners’ why I am still living with parents when I have a job…I support my family financially as much as I can, but its mutual.  They support me many other ways.  Did I mention, home cooked food?”

ON MARRIAGE:  IT IS THE LEADING CAUSE OF DIVORCE
I recently turned twenty-six.  If it weren’t for facebook, I would have remained ignorant of the fact that many of my peers from my high school in the Midwest are now married.  But things are a little different here in New York City.  The metropolis that was hardest hit by the swine flu remains immune to marriage.  Here, we seem to hold singledom sacred.  To illustrate, one 26 year old female revealed to me: “I’m contemplating three different men at the moment…and not one of them is serious.”  But we New Yorkers are not the only ones bearing the flag.  Census findings show that as of 2009 in San Francisco 82% of adults between 25 and 34 had never been married.  Atlanta, New York and Minneapolis were all among the top 20 U.S. cities where only 15 percent of adults between 25 and 34 were married.

When I visited Europe the situation was the same.  In response to my question about marriage, Pavol, 28 of Slovakia, decided to quote Oscar Wilde: “Marriage is the leading cause of divorce.”  Is this why we aren’t getting married?  After all, in the United States fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, so it seems that most of us who are still unmarried in our mid-twenties are simply trying to avoid future heartbreak.  Statistics indicate that those who marry later are less likely to divorce.  Men who marry between the ages of 20 and 24 have a 38.8% chance of getting divorced later, while 36.6% of women who get married between 20 and 24 will get divorced.  Marriage after thirty appears to be more successful: 8.5% of women who get married between 30 and 34 get divorced and 11.6% of men in the same age bracket get divorced.  So, it seems that as with all things good in life, like wine and cheese (again), the longer you wait for marriage, the better it will be.

The Census Bureau recently released data indicating that for the first time the proportion of people between the ages of 25 and 34 who have never been married exceeded those who were married in 2009—46.3 percent versus 44.9 percent.  However, those who are thinking that delayed adulthood by failure of completing milestones will also have to accept the fact that delayed wedlock is not just a phenomenon of the United States, where for every thousand people, 6.8 are married.  In the European Union, the rate is 5–the lowest being in Slovenia, where 3 in every 1,000 people were married.

While the marriage rate will probably suffer as a result of legislation–gay and lesbian couples cannot get married–the pace at which we get married will most likely not pick up.  People do not seem frantic about getting hitched and take a zen-like approach.  If it happens it happens.  “I’d like to marry but I won’t marry someone just to follow a trajectory or deadline,” responded Alex of NY.  Furthermore, that we have been outpaced in the marriage race, does not mean that our reverence towards love–and all that is encompassed by that one omnipotent emotion–is lagging.

We just feel  that it is only fair that we love ourselves before we expect anyone else to love us.  “I would like to be more self aware before I get into another relationship,” explained Christine a 22 year old acting student in San Luis Obisbo, California.  The ability to love one’s self necessitates one knowing one’s self.  Which is why we are taking time to ‘figure things out’.  In fact, being self aware is probably one of the first things one has to do before achieving any of the milestones, yet it is absent from the list.  Shouldn’t one possess the maturity and wisdom of an adult before they even consider getting married?  Perhaps instead of being considered a milestone in achieving adulthood, marriage should be a privilege once you are already mature enough to be considered an adult.

ON CHILDREN:  LET’S NOT HAVE TOO MANY
In the 1800s, their were seven children in the typical American family.  In our parents’ generation, the average amount of children per family was 3.8.  In 1909 there were 30 births per every 1,000 people.  Last year, there were 13.5 births per every 1,000 people.  Historically families might have wanted to go forth and multiply, keeping Manifest Destiny in mind as they spawned multitudes of little Americans to conquer an entire continent.  The lower birth rate owes itself to two things.  It could not have been possible without advances and availability of contraceptive methods.  Furthermore, in this society, having children is now a choice and not an obligation.  There are many reasons why Phoebe, a 25 year old research coordinator in Atlanta, does not want to have kids.  One of them?  “It is the worst thing a couple could do to the Earth.  Too many people on it already,” she explains.  It might be difficult to hear, but is she wrong?

There are now 6,697,254,040.53 people on Earth, and it has taken less than 160 years to create 5,697,254,040.53 of them.  It was not until 1850 that the world population of humans reached one billion.  Since then, the Earth hasn’t gotten any bigger, but over six times more people are on it.  The World Wide Fund for Nature’s Living Planet Report claims that humans consume 20 percent more natural resources than the earth can produce.  Wow.  It is startling that people are anxious that we’re not having babies soon enough when in fact it they should be more worried if we start spawning at the same marathon pace that previous generations did.  We are doing the world a favor by procrastinating procreation, but we are certainly not receiving any thanks.

While it is true that North America and Europe are only sparsely populated compared to Asia, it is also true that our relatively small populations are causing the most environmental damage.  The population of the United States represents only 4.52 percent of the world’s population, yet contributes 19.91 percent of greenhouse gasses.

Not that all of us will refrain from having kids.  According to the responses I got, most are going to wait until their mid-thirties.  “Ideally I want twins at age 35 so I only have to be pregnant once,” explained Liz of NY.  Others see adoption as equally plausible.  Explained Raad, a 27 year old New Yorker, “If I don’t personally have my own I will adopt.  No need to spread my seeds unless this option does not exist.  Some of us are just weirded out by the idea of having children.  “My own kids sounds like an insane concept,” confessed Saiful.  Indeed it is crazy to want to create new life when you haven’t figured your own out yet, especially in this day and age when the reality of the world’s situation will necessitate that you not only take care of your offspring, but take care that you raise your offspring in a sustainable fashion.  After all, it would be counter intuitive to bring new life to a world that we are simultaneously destroying.

HOW TO BE AN ADULT
When Henig wrote “Kids don’t shuffle along in unison on the road to maturity.  They slouch toward adulthood at an uneven, highly individual pace,”  She got everything right but the slouching part.  No one I heard back from is bumming around their parents’ pool post-college a la Benjamin Braddock.  But what is it that we are even supposed to be slouching toward anyway?  Depending on who you are talking to, these milestones used to define adulthood are either too easy, too hard or not applicable.  ”I hated the article,” said Megan Schroeder, a 25 year old law school graduate from Olathe, Kansas. “I think a lot of twenty somethings did.  It’s offensive that I need kids or a man to be an adult.  I think it is more adult of me to have looked at all the possibilities and make the best decision.”  Still more felt that the milestones were an overly simplistic indicator of adulthood.

“They need to rethink their definition of adult,” Contends James of New York.  ”Their criteria is not hard.  A six-year old can have a stable job and support a family,” he says, obviously referring to the time before child labor laws  “It’s quite easy to be independent starting from age eighteen; the day of your 18th birthday you can head over to the local welfare center and sign right up. Or better yet, you can shack up with some rich guy or girl and be in a ‘committed’ long term relationship and kill two birds with one stone.  An ‘adult’ can only really be defined by spiritual growth.”  Is this what separates people like Dick Cheney from adults that we look up to and admire?

The milestones have stubbornly withstood the test of time, but how?  Society has changed, so shouldn’t its views on adulthood change as well?  Since attaining wisdom is not part of the milestones perhaps that is why there are so many people are able to pose as adults while they wreck havoc to the world.  It is the work of adults that has led us into war, effectively lobotomized our school system, allowed for the rape and pillage of our environment.  When it is our turn to bear the torch, what will we be left with other than a deficit of over 13 trillion dollars?  Definitely not any polar bears.  Yet, after all the carnage, still no one, not a single psychologist has considered to add or alter  the milestones?

As we witness ourselves on the verge of self-inflicted disaster created by those who came before us, it is also those who came before us who granted us the privileged position of the critical spectator.  We would not be up here if it weren’t for a Declaration of Independence, Emancipation Proclamation, Seneca Falls Convention, the Pill, Brown Vs. The Board of Education, the Civil Rights Movement, and on and on.  These steps, carved by the strength of our forebears, have allowed us to reach this lofty vantage point.  As Isaac Newton said, “If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

I decided I could learn a thing or two about adulthood by reaching out to the adults around me.  My Uncle Jim wrote that adulthood comes with the “Realization and acceptance that (1) you are responsible for your actions, (2) you will die someday, and (3) there are other people in the world.”  John, an educator and curriculum developer in New York City, opines that adulthood will manifest itself through your ability to react to life.  “They say the highest form of intelligence is adaptability. I like that. When you no longer freak out about change- planned or otherwise- and are able to adapt, you are an adult.”  Mathematician Japheth explains: “I would say that adulthood is the gaining of focus, individuality and perspective in life.”  Each of their definitions can serve as an addend that once summed, creates a being similar to the adults that I always look up to.

And since there were also adults I look up to, I decided to ask them for advice on how to be and adult.   John recounted his experience of growing up late in life:  “I was Peter Pan until I was over 40. I was an actor, then a songwriter with a recording studio. Those aren’t jobs, they’re lifestyles. I honestly didn’t age between 18 and 42. Then I lost my studio and songwriting partner as the digital age hit. All of a sudden I was working at Tower Records for minimum wage. That’s when I grew up. I took Thoreau’s advice to heart. He said, ‘Why spend the best years of your life working so that you can enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it?’  I’ve had my halcyon days. Now I love to work.”  It is besides the point when exactly is the most valuable part of one’s life is, though it is true that each chapter of our existence is valuable, but for different reasons.  Which leads to the question, what are our twenties valuable for?

“Have fun, try new things, but make sure you establish your independence.  Spend your 20s learning that you get to make your own decisions and that you are responsible for the consequences,” advised my Uncle Jim.  “Keep on wondering!  Always learn.  Challenge yourself to develop skills that can’t be measured by standardized exams.  Do what you enjoy doing and become an expert in that in the company of other enthusiastic and supportive friends,” said Japheth the mathematician.  Jeff, an electrical engineer said, “Don’t be afraid to jump, but be calculating and take the jump when the opportunity arises.”

So in short, enjoy yourself while you’re young, explore, take risks and accept  the consequences.  This is basically what we are doing already. I wonder what advice these adults would be giving if they thought adulthood was a linear and hurried completion of five milestones: choose a good college–or better yet don’t go to one because it will only extend the time it will take you to complete the other milestones!  Keeping your interests and self-respect on the back burner, get any kind of employment as soon as possible and kiss enough ass so you can keep it.  Forget about your dream house or apartment.   Remember this is not about you, this is about becoming an adult as quickly as possible! Lower your expectations about who want to be with for the rest of your life.  Don’t waste time looking for Mr. or Ms. Right, simply settling on someone is okay!  Finally, stop buying those condoms and taking birth control and partake in sexual intercourse as frequently and as soon as possible.

No, I don’t think I heard any of this growing up.  Apparently completing milestones–and treating Adulthood as if it were a game of Candyland–is not actually socially ingrained in most of us.  Since the milestones are irrelevant, at least in defining adulthood, the concept of ‘emerging adulthood’ holds no water.  It is like a boat designed to sail, but alas there is no ocean.  In which case the question What is it about Twenty-Somethings is rather superfluous, which isn’t to say no one is allowed to ask.  But while you dwell on it, we’ll be busy growing up.

I have many people to thank for their contribution to this hefty article…those who informed me of the fluffiness of my writing, those who told me to redirect my anger a bit, those who sent me quotes from the president as well as links to graduation speeches, those who sent me links to articles, and finally to those who responded to the questionnaire.  Some of you I haven’t spoken to in a long time, and I was so thrilled to hear back from you!  Thank you so much to everyone.

I would like to repeat that I am open to suggestions, also if I quoted you and you would like to remain anonymous, let me know.

Love,

Robin

Guys, I’m sooo confused.  I don’t know how to fill out the census.  I am so perplexed that I was going to leave that part blank but my friend called the Census Bureau and they said it’s illegal to leave it blank.  I’m looking at part 6–the part where you mark your race.  There’s not a whole lot of options.  I see White, and then clumped together I see Black, African Am., or Negro….whoa, wait…Negro?  Am I filling out the 1960 census?  It says 2010 on the front, but now I’m not so sure anymore.

At any rate, this is befuddling.  Apparently I can mark all that apply.  I’m thinking of marking the one that says White, because I’ve been called a cracker on the street, but I’m not sure.  Is White a color, or is it a race?  And if it is a race, how do I know I belong to that race?  I recently read a little bit of A History of White People at a bookstore.  Apparently, during the 18th century it was decided that anyone from the geographical place around the Black Sea, called Caucasia–with whom North Africans and Indians were clumped–was considered white.  At other points in time if you were  from England, or a Protestant you were white; the Irish on the other hand were considered too poor and too Catholic to be called white.  I know I’m a bit Irish, and raised Catholic  and as far as I know I’m not from the Caucasia, Northern Africa or India so historically I would not have been white while apparently Ghandi would have.  Besides, I don’t know which census I’m filling out.  Were Irish people considered white by the 1960s?  I really don’t know if I should put a check by the box marked White.

Also perplexing is the Black, African Am., and Negro box.  I need to mark all the boxes that apply, so I feel that I should definitely mark this one and so should everyone else born on this planet, right?  I mean the human species originated in Africa, no?

And wow, the more I look at this form the more I realize it must be so confusing for so many people.  What if I were American Indian, should I also mark at least one of the seven Asian boxes since according to the history books the Native Americans were originally Asians who crossed the Bering Strait?  What if, in section 5 I put a check by the box Mexican, Mexican Am., or Chicano how do I fill out section 6 if I am a mestizo–of Spanish and indigenous origin?  I couldn’t just fill out the box that says white…and though technically the Aztec, Maya, Inca etc are American since they were on the South American continent, they weren’t really tribes, they were whole civilizations so if I wrote down that I were from the ‘Aztec tribe’ it would be kind of inaccurate.

Another thing I’m confused about:  is Asia the largest continent or something?  Because it has seven boxes you can check, and even though the Pacific Islands are not even a continent they have more boxes than real continents.  Like Africa.  I knew there were lots of different kinds of Asians, but I wasn’t aware that there was only one kind of African, or only one kind of White person–whatever that means.  Also I didn’t know that Middle Easterners did not exist as a people.

And though it’s really generous for the Census Bureau to provide a line for you if you are Some other race, but I don’t think it’s enough given the amount of ‘races’ that have already been excluded from section 6.  My friend did not have enough space in the nineteen boxes in the Some other race line, so to be succinct he wrote ”light brown with a hint of cream.”  Should I write ”cream with a tiny hint of really light brown”?  Oh wait that’s too many spaces.  Wow this is so complicated.

To avoid error should I just put down that I am from the tribe of Man?  Or that I am Human?  Or an Earthling?  None of that would be inaccurate.  But I’m not sure that’s specific enough for the Census Bureau.  So should I put down Viking because my ancestors were Vikings?  What if I fill it out wrong?  Will I go to jail?  CAN SOMEONE FROM THE CENSUS BUREAU PLEASE HELP ME?????

New York really excels at glorifying some of its heroes–namely firefighters and baseball players. And if you are a hero with superpowers Hollywood will make a movie about you. But the fact remains that many heroes remain unsung.

But not Axel Ander. Today is his day–the day he will be a sung hero. He works as an EMS here in New York City, so there is much to sing about. It is a song with many versus–each far more meaningful than any lyrics that could be devoted to A-Rod. If Axel weren’t so humble, the tone of the song is much like Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony–dark at times, but overall triumphant.

Verse 1: Uses for Baseball Bats in Brooklyn

A nice way to describe the neighborhoods in Brooklyn where Axel and his EMS crew work is that they have been hardly affected by gentrification. He spends most of his working hours in neighborhoods like Brownsville, Coney Island and East New York–neighborhoods which I have heard being described with adjectives like ‘sketchy’, ‘bad’ and ‘mad ghetto’.

However, I was surprised when Axel explained to me that many of his calls are related to minor medical problems. “Someone will call 911 and we’ll ask ‘Hi, what’s your problem?’ And they’ll say ‘I have a headache.’” This does not mean that Axel does not have his fair share of more serious calls. “We get a lot of pedestrians hit by cars and a lot of violent crime–shootings, stabbings…people beating each other with baseball bats…”

Verse 2: Why Cincinnati Might be Important to You

A good portion of calls is related to drug overdoses and strokes. To identify a stroke, EMS uses the Cincinnati stroke scale, which is threefold process. “Many people suffering from a stroke will have facial droop on one side of their face. To see if someone is having a stroke, you ask him or her to smile. If they are having a stroke, only one side of their face will be able to smile. Another indicator is slurred speech, so you have a patient try to repeat something back to you.” If the patient is unintelligible when they try to repeat you, they most likely are suffering from a stroke. “The phrase they teach you in EMS training is ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks’.” Apparently someone in Cincinnati has a really sick sense of humor. However, slurred speech in itself is not indicative of a stroke, as many times a patient might overdose on medication or drugs, which will also lead to slurred speech. The third component of the Cincinnati stroke scale checks for arm drift. “You have the patient hold their arms straight in front of them like Superman as their eyes are closed,” explains Axel. If they cannot raise one of their arms, it is usually indicative of a stroke. If someone around you is having a stroke, Axel recommends that you prevent them from doing any physical activity that would necessitate excess oxygen use. Many stroke patients are asphyxiated by their own tongues because they have lost control of their muscles, so do not let someone who is having a stroke eat or drink anything.

Verse 3: Vomit and Denial

It is far more unsavory to deal with a patient who is overdosing on drugs than it is to treat a patient who is having a stroke. Reviving someone from an overdose is much more complicated than Pulp Fiction would have it seem. “First you have to identify that the person has overdosed on an opiate such as Heroin or Morphine. They usually will have an irregular breathing pattern, and are usually unconscious. They will have constricted pupils. As you provide life support you administer NARCAN–an antidote for a heroin overdoes, which you inject into their veins. That brings them out of their overdose almost immediately. Then you have to be careful because they have a tendency to projectile vomit.”

Then you might think that the person who was just rescued from the brink of death might thank Axel and his team profusely. But Axel set me straight. “They can be violent because you stole their high.” I asked Axel what a common post-overdose reaction is. “It varies. My personal favorite is when we wake them up and then they ask what we are doing. We tell them that they overdosed and then they say ‘Well, I don’t do drugs–while they have a syringe still in their arm. Other times they don’t say much, they just try to hit you.”

If someone you know is overdosing, obviously the best thing to do is the call 911. Axel explained that a common cause of death when someone is overdosing is that people choke on their own vomit. While you are waiting for EMS to arrive it is recommended that you lay the person on their side so their vomit can exit out.

Verse 4: So Many Obstacles

Other than violent reactions from druggies, other problems that can arise for EMS personnel is that people are uncooperative and they don’t understand their condition. “If you are dealing with a kid, sometimes their parents will get in the way. If there was an incident on the street, like a shooting or a stabbing, crowd control can be a problem.” The conditions that people live in can be an obstacle. “Sometimes someone will live in a basement full of clutter and cockroaches and it is difficult to bring the patient out.”

Many of the more dangerous cases involve EDP–Emotionally Disturbed People. “They are generally the scariest because they’re unpredictable. Usually it is someone who has not taken their meds.” Axel explains that sometimes it’s the medications themselves that can attribute to the problem. “A lot of times when people get on meds they become worse. The meds don’t do anything to help their mind–many of them just function as tranquilizers. Many people take Haldol. It makes them feel dizzy, which they don’t like so they stop taking it.” Luckily for Axel, the EMS teams work in conjunction with the police, who are obviously also supposed to arrive on the scene in the event of an emergency.

In a city where 170 different languages are spoken, there is often a language barrier between Axel and the people he is trying to help. To minimize this obstacle, EMS personnel carry around picture cards displaying images pertaining to various medical situations. One picture shows a man grasping an aching head, another shows a drug deal. As one can imagine, the cards’ usefulness is limited, and sometimes Axel has to play medical charades. “One time, a woman was found wondering in a park. She had a giant welt on her forehead but we didn’t know what language she was speaking. We showed the cards to her, but she indicated that she didn’t have her glasses.” She was taken to the nearest hospital where a Chinese translator recognized the language she was speaking as Toisanese. A dialect of Cantonese, Toisanese has no official status anywhere but was the lingua franca of overseas Chinese…in the 1800s.

Verse 4: Resurrection by Way of Freezing

Despite the New York City specific difficulties that Axel faces on the job, he says that it is the best place to work as an EMS. One of the reasons for this is that New York is usually a pioneer in medical technology. One such new technology would be induced freezing. Yes indeed ladies and gentlemen, science fiction is arriving on the scene to help save lives!

It seemed contradictory to me. Freezing to save lives? People can only freeze to death, right? Noting my skepticism, Axel began a carefully worded explanation. Someone whose heart has stopped beating–someone who is clinically dead–can still technically be revived by EMS by means of shock treatment and CPR. However, by the time they have been “revived” most of their brain and organs have been damaged by lack of oxygen, and will therefore die within twenty-four hours anyway. However, a new method will be tried on the technically dead. “We are going to be trying a new treatment in which we run ice cold fluid into their veins, so they can drop their body temperature to increase their chances of a successful recovery,” Axel explained. The science behind this is that one’s organ functions will slow down and decrease the consumption of oxygen, allowing more of it to go to the brain. I was still slightly incredulous until Axel explained to me that there are many incidents in which people who drown in cold water have been resuscitated after forty-five minutes with minimal brain damage while normally, someone can only survive without breathing for only a few minutes. Though the method has only had limited use in hospitals, Axel is keen to get started. “I’m pretty excited. Let’s see if it actually works.”

Verse 6: Death

And if it doesn’t, Axel will try not to let it get to him. When asked if it is difficult to deal with death regularly, Axel replied, “It is disturbing how not difficult its been to cope with death. We do a really good job of distancing ourselves.” To illustrate this point, Axel gave me an anecdote. “On St. Patty’s day, when I worked from 7 am to 11 pm, I started my day out with a breakfast sandwich–I was halfway through when we get a call for an unconscious elderly woman who had passed in the night. All her Irish family was there for the holiday–sons, daughters, grandchildren…we had to explain to them that this lady had passed away. We had to sit there in their kitchen for thirty minutes waiting for the police to take over. When they came I left and proceeded to finish the rest of my sandwich. I went on with my day without thinking twice about it.

Verse 7: I’m No Superman

I should have asked Axel if it would be the same if he had gotten an opportunity to rescue this woman. Would he have returned to consuming his half-eaten sandwich without thinking twice about it? Would Superman think twice about having saved someone’s life? Would he give himself a pat on the back? I don’t know if Axel would. I asked him if he thought of himself as a hero. “No, absolutely not,” he said stoically–probably as stoically has Superman would have said it.

The first time I heard about 2012 was in 2007.  Apparently there was some special about Nostradamus on the History Channel and he predicted that the world would end in 2012.  I found out the day before a test for grad school.  I was diligently googling all the names, laws and theories that I had failed to pay attention to in class.  I’m  not sure how or why my roomie brought it up, but I do know that upon becoming enlightened I found my way to the nearest bodega to get some beer.   No siree this girl was not going to let any precious moment go to waste on a test.  Every moment had to be relished!

At the bodega a funny thing happened.  The sliding doors guarding the beer looked normal.  The handle felt normal when I gripped it hard with all the weight of my new knowledge, but as I opened the thing, instead of sliding obligingly to the right it started keeling over right on top of me!

I was about to think that I would be one of the lucky ones to die before shit hit the fan.  For some reason I think having a glass door fall on top of you as its shards slice through your body would be a far more pleasant way of kicking the can than being engulfed by flames, smashed by falling buildings or crushed to a pulp by a seismic thrust.  At least  there would still be people around to mourn my passing.

The door  fell on me,  knocking me against a shelf.  Then bounced off me as if I was made of plush before tossing itself to the floor and smashing into a thousand pieces.  None of which touched me.  I was comforted by this near death incident took it as a sign that I shouldn’t so readily believe in the worst. I did not take it as a sign that I should continue to study for my test.

Fast forward three years, many tests later.  I am in my classroom proctoring a state mandated practice test.  These tests are supposed to predict how the students will perform on the real tests, and the results indicate what strategies the students need to practice in a certain content area.  It is a nice idea, but the results will probably come in two months when it will already be time for the real test.  We had to take practice tests all week.  This particular one was about reading comprehension.

Children are incredibly interesting and inquisitive people and many times their thoughts and worries are far deeper than our own.  It is sad that they have to take these tests that don’t even display their best qualities.   Kids also have awesome timing.  Five minutes after I had distributed the test booklets, Frankin* turned to me and said, “Ms. Kilmer, maybe 2012 will happen.”

Whoa.  It was not unlikely that my students equate all of these tests with the death of a certain part of their soul, and that my student was using a clever metaphor to talk about his feelings regarding all of this testing.  But I wasn’t sure.

“Why do you say that?”  I asked inquisitively.

“Well, first there was an earthquake in Haiti, then there was an earthquake in Chile, and this morning there was an earthquake in some place called……Turkey?”

Franklin loves watching the news and telling me about it.  I was not surprised as he told me about this earthquake that I did not even know about.  He was one of the first students to know about the earthquake in Haiti, and one of the first to vocalize his urge to help.

The test he is taking will not measure any of this.  It will determine how well Franklin can find the main idea of a passage.  Or how well he can determine which details in the passage are important or unimportant.  However, the Department of Education doesn’t understand is t hat he already knows the important details of life–being aware of the world around us, and caring about it.  Yet increasingly throughout the school year, Franklin and so many other students have to focus on tests–a supremely unimportant detail in the scheme of things.

I told Franklin that many scientists say that 2012 is not going to happen.  This is indeed the only thing that one can say to assuage fears about 2012.  It was the least I could do. After all, I know how hard it is to take a test while the end of the world is gnawing on your conscience.

As he turned his attention back to the test, I wonder if he questioned its importance in the whole scheme of things.  If he still believed that the end is near, I wonder if he thought of five thousand and one better things he could be doing with his limited time than taking this test.

*name has been changed

Throughout life we encounter strangers who boggle our mind.  And now, thanks to Facebook, our minds can be boggled sans encounter.  As of late I have had a non-encounter encounter with a certain Ippolita Abete.  And, if you went to Bard College, you have too.

Strangers are not a novelty on Facebook.  I am ignoring several friend requests from people I have just not ever met in my entire life.  Since the verb reject is almost as strong as the verb hate I tend not to use it, thus handicapping me from outright rejecting friend requests.  One of these people who I have sitting in limbo is Ippolita Abete.  When I first saw the request, and that her network was Bard I was moderately confused.  It did not help that she does not have a face on her profile.

Bard is a small school.  When I attended,  there were about 1,500 or so students.  Only on a rare occasion will I hear or see a Bard face or name that just does not ring a bell.  So Ippolita was headed straight towards Facebook limbo when not only did I not recognize her name, but when she did not even provide a face.  I was further confounded when I noticed that she was born in 1990, but she graduated in 2006, making her sixteen years old when she graduated.  And everyone who attended Bard knows that only Woody Allen and Mia Farrow’s son has accomplished that feat.

However, I noticed that 66 of my Bard friends on Facebook either did not notice this detail, or did not care.  I started questioning myself.  Why could I not open my heart to this mysterious person?  Maybe it’s not her,  it’s me.  It’s not that she’s fishy, it’s that I am a cold and aloof and she is innocent and friendly.  A Moliere to her Dorothy from Kansas.

But in life I have learned that it’s really okay not to trust everyone.  In fact, sometimes  it’s better for you.  The dates and the name Ippolita Abete could not create a believable face.  Why would someone lie about their identity?  I asked myself.  In a cyberspace full more criminals than Jabba the Hutt’s palace one can not be too cautious.  I began to fear for my friends’ cyber well-being and was moved to write a status update regarding the case.   It was posed as a question:  “Guys….who is Ippolita Abete and how could she have possibly graduated from Bard in 2006 if she was born in 1990?”  A completely open-ended question, devoid of any bias on my part.  I was just hoping the Socratic method would dissaude my fellow Bardians from throwing caution to the wind.

The un-success of my suggestive questioning can be clearly demonstrated by the fact that this faceless person now has friended approximately 742 Bardians.  And we are the only people on her friends list.  Which leads me to question myself again.  Maybe she did go to Bard and due to my own shortcomings failed to notice the consistent presence of a tween on campus–she would would have been 13 when I started, and 12 when she was a freshman.  If this is an oversight on my part please, Ippolita, forgive me for doubting your existence.  But can you please tell me who you are?

However, I do not feel alone.  Francesca Carendi 08, was less tender than I was in suggesting that she is an imposter.  “Who the f*** is Ippolita Abete?  And why is she friending all Bardians?”  she wanted to know.  Ippolita Abete has been greeted with skepticism by many a respectable Bardian and is now associated with a number of theories.  “Sounds like a spam,” suggested Ramy Nagy, 05.

“Probably an email harvesting bot or something,” hypothesized another Bardian.

Hmmmm.  Indeed.  Who is she?  A perilous virus disguised as a friendly Bard kid?  A spam?  A robot?  I suggested the latter to my friend Hadgi.  I gently questioned his sanity.  “Hadgi i’m ashamed of you for befriending a robot.  did you even look at her profile?  She graduated from bard in 2006 and she was born in 1999?  i didn’t know you were so credulous,” I wrote on his wall.

I began thinking about why someone would go to such great lengths to befriend everyone ever associated with Bard.  Is this the act of a wannabe?  Or a loner?  Why would she target one network of people?  I began to think about Bard students.  We are pretty nice people.  We are also really awkward, which makes it hard for some of us to gracefully reject imposters posing as other nice and awkward Bard students.  What if we hurt their feelings?

I continued warning my friends about Ippolita Abete.  Some people seemed strangely optimistic about the robot theory.  “Awesome.  I like robots.”  Said one friend.  “I dunno,” said Hadgi.  “But secretly I wish it was the female terminator from Rise of the Machines.”

Ippolita Abete’s identity aside, I realize now that it is a moot point to question why anyone–be it an anonymous loner, an imposter, scam artist, hacker or robot–would target the Bard community.  Due to the population that is being examined, the question answers itself.  We are nice, we are awkward, and lord help us, we have a robot fetish.

Since boys were illegal in my high school, on Valentine’s Day they would send flowers in their stead.  Throughout the day a steady flow of boquets would make their way into the main office until there was a biblical flood of flora.  I always wondered why they had to send flowers to school instead of giving them to their sweethearts in person, but now I know that it was just a conspiracy against the have-nots.

The flowers were a key component in this conspiracy, but it relied heavily on the cooperation of the administration.  At the end of the day, the principal would make an announcement that went something like this “Greetings everyone.  As we approach the end of the school day I have some really important announcements to make.”  The way I remember it, her voice would have been gushing with second-hand mushiness acquired from living vicariously through her students.  “Some of our lovely students have some Valentines flowers they need to pick up from the main office!”  And then she would list the names of all the lovely, worthy girls who received flowers from their worthy boyfriends so that everyone knew who all these lovely, desireable girls were.  It was clearly part of a wider conspiracy–the Valentines Conspiracy–to attempt to dampen the spirits of the weirdos, late bloomers, intellectuals, outcasts, wall flowers and awkward people for not fitting into parameters that someone else made.

But now I’m in New York City–where all these rejects seem to have created a haven for  themselves– and can report that there are no signs of any conspiracy here. And though once again I found myself without a significant other on the fourteenth day of February in the two thousand and tenth Year of our Lord, I  do not consider myself a have not.  In fact, I can say that I have much more than many haves and have thus been moved to write a love letter to New York:

Dear New York,

Thank you for such a wonderful Valentines Day.  Your underwhelming response to a sinister holiday has warmed my heart completely.  I am grateful for the lack of sacrificial flowers gracing the streets and subways. On the same note, I am also grateful for the lack of petroleum that has been wasted on pink balloons that waft stupidly overhead.   As I was walking on St. Marks on my way to a free yoga class–which I am also thankful for–the only balloons I  saw were the ones in the windows of the sex shops that shamelessly grace many Lower East Side streets.  I am also grateful for seeing nothing above the normal amount of couples making out on subway platforms and street corners.  For it appears that any day of the year is as good the fourteenth of February to touch and feel one another here.

Indeed, even for people who do have a significant other this holiday doesn’t seem to ring any bells.  I was making plans to go to yoga with my friend on Sunday and remembered that it was Valentine’s day, and that she probably already had plans with her boyfriend.

“Oh wait, you’re probably not available this Sunday…”

“Why not?  What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s Valentine’s Day.  I thought you and–”

“What?  Are you kidding?  We don’t celebrate that!”  was her response.  As if Valentines Day was a religion that she didn’t prescribe to.  So we had dinner together, after the free yoga that I’m so grateful for.  We went to a Japanese place that usually has a dollar menu for Japanese hors d’ouvres.  However, on this occasion, the menu was absent.  When asked what happened to it, the waitress explained that they took it away for Valentines Day.  My friend philosophized that the only point of Valentines Day is so they can take the dollar menu away.  Far from eschewing romance, my friend explained that she didn’t celebrate Valentines Day because it wasn’t her choice to celebrate love on February 14 so why should she feel obligated to?  She celebrates love whenever she wants to.

New York, you are so full of love–not just the exclusive kind that involved the exchange of flowers between two people.  I saw this uncelebrated, more democratic kind of love on the subway.  A man with a stroller held the door open for a woman with a stroller–despite the conductor’s best efforts to take off his arm as he tried to slam the doors shut.  The grateful woman said, “Thanks!  You didn’t have to do that!”  To which the man replied, “Well, I didn’t want you to have to wait for another D train.”  That, my friends, is love.

Though some might call you a Tough city with Mean streets, I know that deep down you are keenly sensitive to your inhabitants–your tired, your hungry, and your single.  You do not shun us or try to make us feel inadequate.  In fact our spirit is born out of the same spirit that makes you so great.  We share a strive-for-the-best, be-true-to-yourself spirit that would make settling for any-old-body a betrayal of our dreams.  That there is a disproportionate amount of single people you have taken under your wing is not a sign of romantic failure, but rather a sign that your never-settle-for-less-than-your-best spirit lives on and lives strong.

Your love is generous and omnipresent to those whose hearts are open enough to receive it.  Indeed you are expensive, but you give back tenfold with your boundless energy, your free museums, free concerts in Central Park–and this three feet by three feet framed Keith Haring print  that I found on the street:

I am gazing at this mass of radiant babies and boogie-ing people, each with their own individual blossoming hearts, all gathered into one communal heart.  It is a manifestation of the love that I feel here.  It is a big love that is all-inclusive, all the time, without sacrificing the individual.  Thank you.

Love,

Robin Elisabeth Kilmer