My Dad, the Superhero

When I was younger, I use to pretend that I was a cat, and I'm meow all day and then cuddle my dad, who would pet my head and scratch my chin. He was the person I talked to about first kisses and crushes. He was my king, and I, his princess.

We've always had that kind of relationship, and though I no longer pretend to be a kitten, I'm still his princess. There are lines that we don't cross in conversations, certain subjects we don't discuss, secrets we don't acknowledge... because I want to forever be Daddy's little girl.

When I was growing up, I dragged him to shop for prom dresses, and we went to baseball games together. We got pedicures. We went on ski trips. We saw Jewel concerts and Cyrano de Bergerac and movies.

In my head, I viewed him as a superhero. I thought he was forgiving, because he had let go of his own father's mistakes, and forgiven my mom for hers. I'd heard stories of his childhood, and he was always the "good kid:" Senior class president, athlete, private school kid, conscience for all his friends. He made fresh lattes and a hot breakfast almost every morning and listened to Jewel with me. Plus, he loved my mom.

I've since—you know—grown up (though not that much), and I know my dad is plagued by mortality just like the rest of his. His loved ones die, despite his efforts to "save" them. He breaks bones and grinds his teeth and can't touch his toes. Sometimes his smoothies aren't stellar (but I drink them anyway). And I steam my milk for lattes better than he does.

He's no superhero, I have to confess. But that doesn't take away from how spectacular he is, or the incredible bond we're lucky enough to share. He inspires me to pursue things that make me happy, and his moral compass typically points north. He may not be a superhero, but he is my hero. An everyday hero. A cape wouldn't look good on him, anyway.

And the Winner Is...

I mentioned before that I was on the search for my January co-op. As I said before, I applied to numerous positions and have since followed-through and heard back from many, as well. I haven't yet been declined by any companies, but did opt not to interview with some that I thought I might not fit well with. During this co-op round, I opted to only pursue companies that I thought I would genuinely enjoy working at. After some disenchanted experiences at my last co-op, I wanted to make this one a 100% positive experience. I am confident that every single one of the following would have been that for me.

But now for the exciting news...I received offers from (in alphabetical order):

• The Boston Globe
• Farm Aid
• Jill's List
• The San Diego Union-Tribune
• TheStreet.com

And the winner is... (drumroll, please)...

What Lies Within the Lines

Original graphic courtesy/Edwin Morris

My final paper for my ethics course. PLEASE NOTE that my citations didn't transfer into HTML, but I'm more than happy to supply them if needed.

In radio and television, quotes are captured, edited down to a short segment, and interjected into the program between lines of analysis and contextual information. Slang, grammatical imperfections and language quirks are all captured; and in the case of Antoine Dobson, who was interviewed about his sister’s assault, may even be auto-tuned and reproduced in a viral YouTube video. When multiple senses are involved in interpreting an interview, listeners and viewers are better able to immediately understand the content of a quote. Though there may be grammatical errors in much of what the interviewee says, the quote is still decipherable because the viewer or listener is able to take other factors like context, inflection and tone into account.

But in writing, the tools for capturing and communicating quote are not so intricate. Rather than recorded sound bites or video, journalists utilize quotation marks, tiny little squiggles of lines that some call sacred. They are meant to take recorded interviews, cut them down and translate them into organized key points that can be read, interpreted and understood by the common reader. “Wuz” becomes “were;” excessive use of “like” is limited; “Ums,” “uhs” and “you knows” are cut. But at what point does a quote no longer reflect what was uttered by its owner? At what point does a quote become paraphrased? How much tampering can be permitted without eliminating those sacred quotation marks?

“The words we live by are not always the words we see in print,” said Philadelphia Inquirer journalist Doreen Carvaja in a piece she wrote for a journalism ethics newsletter about quotes in the press. But there is a fine line between fixing and altering, as Carvaja acknowledges in her piece. Fixing subject-verb agreement is different than opting for a fancier word, which is different than a completely fabricated quote. “[J]ust how sacred are the sentences between quotation marks?” Carvaja asks.

"The rough draft of history is still history."

Journalist Bob Steele evaluates the issue of fixing quotes from a unique perspective. As a journalist and writer for The Poynter Institute, he’s considered an expert on journalism ethics. Oftentimes he’s the interviewer, but he’s also oftentimes the interviewee. As such, he’s seen his own quotes altered and corrected and even butchered.

Sometimes, he said, there are minor grammatical corrections when he knows he said something incorrectly. And sometimes he’s quoted using words he doesn’t even know. “ The reporter either wasn’t listening well or took bad notes.” But, he said, “Sometimes my ‘quote’ is a composite of several things I said at different times in the interview. The words may be accurate but the reporter is playing loose with the context, perhaps the writer’s way of tidying up my thoughts to tighten up the story.”

Dissonance, or The Numbers of Art

Rothko, No. 2

Speaking of art...I was talking to someone a ways back about art, and we got into a debate about it. I actually started arguing that art is math. And in many ways, it is.

Think of Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, perfect and beautiful because of his proportions. Everything that is beautiful is numbers.

Music is nothing but rules, knowing which chords sound right together, and how they pair well together. And yes, sometimes there are dissonant pairings, or two notes that shouldn't go together and evoke a sense of stress to the music. They stretch a note and make it deeper and tense. But you can't get a dissonant chord without knowing which rules to break (Think Eric Whitacre). Notes are numbers. Solfege is often in numbers. Time signatures are in numbers. Note lengths are in numbers. It's all math, albeit emotional, beautiful math.

And art. So much of drawing and painting is about the geometry of the contents. Modern art would be the exception, but as my boyfriend likes to say, modern art is just one big "F you" to the art industry. It isn't that the rules for aesthetics aren't there; they're just deliberately ignored in order to prompt an emotional response in the viewer.

I was walking through MoMA with my grandmother (who, it's worth mentioning, is very old-school, Catholic and traditional). Nearly everything that I enjoyed—Rothko, Warhol, Klimt, photography—she said was ugly. She didn't even recognize Van Gogh's "Starry Night." It isn't art, she claimed. And she even left the room at one point, while I stood there trying to decipher Rothko's abstract lines and dots. But that kind of response is art, no? Art can and should evoke a response, good or bad. Any artist that is featured in the MoMA knows the rules. They've studied art presumably all their lives. They know the rules, but deliberately break them.

The MoMA is a building of dissonance, echoing off the exhibit walls. But it's still all math.

(By the way, this is one of the most incredible songs ever.)

There's No Place Like Home

And again... I managed to neglect this blog.

Things have been really hard lately. I've never been so challenged as I have the past several months. After my uncle killed himself, my grandmother died. And then her body was looted and all her jewelry (wedding ring included) stolen. My brother's friend overdosed on heroin, and I've never been so desperate to rally around my family as I have this semester.

We're a unique bunch...Never confused for some 1950s model family, but we work well together. We balance each other in an intricate way, and are never lacking in love. Needless to say, I've been homesick; there's something terrible about grieving alone 3,000 miles away from my family. But I'm trying to take care of myself (with the help of a supportive group of friends).

I recently made several calls looking for a therapist, and am meeting with various people to find the right "fit." I also quit my internship at Latitude because I just don't have the time or energy to perform well. I'm sleeping more (and by that I mean all the time. I could sleep for 12 hours straight every night), and drinking more tea. I even went to the gym yesterday.

I'm also seeking art. My boyfriend dragged me into the MFA the other day, but I've been dancing and singing (and heck, even writing) more. There's something about art and beauty and the aesthetics of it all that I'm inevitably drawn to.

I was seriously considering my co-op opportunity in San Diego, because it would provide me my last opportunity to live at home. I could support my father, and pick up groceries, and jacuzzi and tan. I could wear shorts in February. But then I stumbled upon this quote...

‎"A ship in port is safe; but that is not what ships are built for." -Grace Hopper

Going home feels safe, and it's what I (for the most part) want. But I don't know how much I'd grow from the experience. I outgrew San Diego a long time ago, and while I love my family dearly, I wasn't built for being "safe." I was made for exploring.

But still...There's no place like home.