| |
When I first read the topic for this week I got stuck on thinking about expressions. Smiles, frowns, grimaces, yawns. All very basic movements of the face to indicate different things. A smile only really means one thing, or does it? A person can smile out of happiness, but the source of that happiness is very often a different place. Success, love or contentment can all produce a smile, but is it success at having finally figured out that difficult problem, or a success at finally seeing someone you intensely dislike take a big fall. But then all of this got me to thinking about something else. Earlier this week, at work, James and I caught an elevator with a woman who works on the floor above. In order to call an elevator in our building you need to press your staff card up to the button, and once it recognises that you work for the government, it calls the elevator. This woman's card was not working properly, but after a few tries it called the elevator. James then joked that "wouldn't it be funny if that was how they fired people. One day your card works, next day it doesn't." The woman smiled and said "You laugh, but my best friend used to live and work in Japan, and one day the fire alarm went. Once everyone had evacuated the building and they had said it was alright to come back in, either your staff card worked or it didn't. If it didn't work, you were fired." In the two days after I heard that story I told it to several people, most of whom said "how disgusting!" or "that's outrageous!" But when I sent it to my mother, she responded "that's brilliant! So clever, and so Japanese! That way, no one loses face and no one has to confront anyone". I have always wondered about the concept of losing face. Entire cultures that find it so difficult to disappoint. My mother used to live in Japan during the 70s, and the story she always tells is about how annoying it was to ask someone if you could borrow a pencil, have them give you a big smile and say yes, and then walk away and never come back. It is fascinating that, as westerners, we cannot quite grasp this concept. We know what it means, to an extent, but if you have not grown up with it or experienced it for a significant amount of time, then you can’t really understand. I don’t understand it, even though I am trying to write a post about it. As an individual you can think about it as the need to be the best, the most efficient, the most honourable, and the least disappointing. You might, therefore, think that it is in your best interest to make others feel inefficient, dishonourable, and the disappointing, but you don’t. It is in everyone’s mutual interest to maintain face. During my research for this topic, one of the first quotes I found was one of the best. “Face is something that is emotionally invested, and that can be lost, maintained, or enhanced, and must be constantly attended to in interaction. In general, people cooperate (and assume each other’s cooperation) in maintaining face in interaction, such cooperation being based on mutual vulnerability of face.” (Brown and Levinson 1978) Why does this not seem to translate to Western culture? We understand the concept in its basic form, but we have no idea what it means to have it be a constant presence. As a culture it does not bother us to deny someone something, or to set someone else up to take the blame, or to give up and surrender. It might distress us for a moment, but that moment will pass and we might be glad we made that decision. The preservation of the self is a very human concept, manifesting itself in such different ways. Face constitutes a preservation of reputation, honour and metaphysical self, whereas much in Western culture is a preservation of the body. On one side there are those who would rather die than lose their honour, and on the other there are those who would rather live to fight another battle. I honestly cannot say which I would prefer. Most likely what I already have, as it is what I am used to, but I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to live in that positive world of honour and respect (though, of course, it will its faults as well, and not everyone will adhere to it). I am far from understanding Japanese culture and language, even in its most basic forms, but it is something I would like to get a firm grasp on.
| | |
|
Every night on television they show advertisements. I say every night, as night-time is the only time I watch television, though I know full-well that advertisements are aired constantly all over the world. Advertisements for everything. Food products, cleaning products, services, goods, lawyers, funeral homes, exercise programmes. Anything and everything you might one day need or desire. Amidst these shouting figureheads of commerce are the people who tell you to buy drugs. Usually old people, friendly people, people who would normally make you feel safe and healthy. They tell you what happened to them, what could happen to you, and why this little pill is the best one to stop that from happening. At the age of 25 I know the names of a multitude of weight loss pills, several laxatives, and any number of anti-histamines.
By the age of ten I knew what cancer was. But more than knowing what cancer was, I knew what cancer did to you, and what to look out for. A book about a young girl named Jill taught me that if you're feeling too hot for too long of a time and that if you bruise easily, you might have leukaemia. A 60 Minutes episode taught me that if you feel as if you're not always completely swallowing your food, you could have a hole in your throat where that food is just sitting in there, causing obstructions. I knew what chemo was, and I didn't want to be bald. Too many sugary drinks and you get diabetes. Talk to strangers and you'll be kidnapped, raped and killed. Accept candy from them, and you'll be poisoned.
Years ago these were stories your parents told you to keep you away from things, and sometimes with good reason. But you might have been able to believe they weren't true. My generation gets shown pictures of the victims. Faces of evil people who could have lived next door to you are put out as warnings to everyone. We are reassured constantly that if we use certain shampoos, or eat certain foods, we'll get that cancer that Jill had.
Older generations often make that joke about how hard times were, and they were hard times. Rationing could not have been easy, nor blackouts. I cannot imagine some of the things my mother describes living through, like sharing a bed with siblings or eating the same meal every night. But they laugh at that now. It is a common bond, and things got better, then they got worse, then better again. This fear that the media instills in everyone at this constant rate, even children who they are so desperate to protect, can't go away. Once you've been told, it is hard to forget. Spending your childhood being told every day of the many ways in which you could die is a different kind of hardship.
It never surprises me to hear the statistics on mental illness, particularly depression and anxiety. I don't blame any specific person or event in time for my own anxiety, I blame the availability of horror stories I came across at too young of an age.
What does surprise me is how parents can be so quick to stop children from reading stories about ghosts, monsters, pirates and ghouls, yet readily willing to let them soak in the pharmaculture that oozes out of their televisions. It is sad enough when a child's imagination dies, but to also tell a child how horribly their body can die is an act of cruelty. | | |
|
At my place of business many people seem to have a problem with keeping discreet, private events discreet and private. Now I'm not talking about things like a date, or a son's circumcision, but more about casual get-togethers or after-work drinks. You know for a fact that they only want to invite a few certain people, but somehow you still know about it. Everybody knows about it. Are people you like going along? Yes. Does it sound fun? Yes. Are you invited? Probably not. How do you know about it? They talk about it, at length, in outdoor voices, whilst sat on either side of you. Sometimes they talk about it with someone in passing, stopping by your desk only to commandeer it in order to write the date down on a post-it note (sometimes one of your post-it notes, if the perpetrator is feeling particularly vicious).
What the intelligent person around the office does in response to these situations is to simply ignore them. Perhaps you wait until the day of the event and pop the unknowing question "so, what are you doing tonight?" and feign astonishment when they answer, saying "oh that sounds like so much fun!" but somehow casually making it known that even if you had known about it (though you really did), you wouldn't have been able to go (because you made plans when you got angry about not being invited) and you hope they take lots of pictures and post them on Facebook (though you really want them to somehow get malaria). Perhaps you don't even ask what they're doing and go on and on at length about what you're doing, even though no one asked you. This works a good 99.9% percent of the time, and while it doesn't improve your popularity, it does help you avoid The Invitation.
Now I have only ever received The Invitation once, and I must have just gotten the balance wrong between scowl and indifferent smile for five seconds, because I certainly didn't ask for it.
A few months ago the girl I work with and one of her other friends were organising a night out to go and see a musical. The moment I first heard them mention it across the room to one another, I thought to myself "that sounds like fun", and knew I was in for it. Over the next few days I endured. Despite the continuous check ups on whether or not one's booked the tickets yet, or the singing of songs from said musical, or even the time one of them mistakenly dialed my extension when hoping to speak to the other about the event, I endured.
And then they broke me.
It was in the third floor kitchen, perhaps around 10am, when we all had gone to the kettle in search of caffeine. Girl 1 was telling Girl 2 that they had succeeded in getting the seats they wanted, and Girl 2 was then singing a tune in a jaunty voice (there may have been a dance as well). I walked in only at the point where both girls were laughing their heads off, and foolishly asked what was so funny.
"Oh." came the reply.
I knew right then and there that I should have just dropped my mug and legged it, or poured boiling water all over myself just to change the subject, but there was no stopping it.
"We were just talking about a musical we're going to see." You could tell Girl 2 was regretting saying it.
A pause.
"Ah."
I think it was the fact that we all sat so close to one another, or that Girl 1 was basically my most direct colleague as we do the same job, but even though the tickets had already been booked, and that it was immense short notice, it happened.
"We're going on Friday night. You can come if you want."
At this point I don't even remember what happened, because I was probably giggling to myself the whole way back to my desk about just how stupid the entire situation was, but needless to say I didn't go, just as they didn't want me to go.
And it goes on, some weeks more than others, but the constant chatter about plans you're not involved in never stops. It makes me wonder if I am the only person in that building who thinks it's rude, or if I am just behind the times. Maybe I'm dead and I just don't know it, but for some reason that day the girls could see me and thought I was real enough to invite along.
I know one thing is for certain, though: I am passed caring.
| | |
|
I didn't think I would, but I am. And it's not just because everyone and their dog is doing it either, but because it seems like a hell of a lot of fun. If you still want to play, you have until 7pm EST on the 14th of October to join in the madness at ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) therealljidol. | | |
|
My name is Katherine, but mostly I go by Kat.
At around this time next month I will be 26. That's not me in the icon.
I was born in California, though I now live in the United Kingdom. I'm not a citizen, and maintaining my visa is one of my biggest challenges at the moment. In 2002 I came to England to study French as I was looking for something exciting to do, and staying in America just didn't seem to cut it (though this was not my first time living outside of America, as I grew up in Belgium). After four glorious years in England, and one in Paris, I moved back to America to spend an agonising year with my mother whilst deciding what to do next. During that time I worked for a charity organisation, lost 10 lbs, cut my hair short, and met a man on the Internet that I thought I was in love with. This man, who lived in the city next to the one I had just lived in in England, was the reason I moved back so soon. Once I found out what a lying, cheating scumbag he was we split up.
Then I didn't do much. I got a job, which I am still in now, and ended up meeting the person I am hopefully going to spend the rest of my life with. You see, if it wasn't for the moving back to soon, or the lying cheating scumbag, or the job that was only advertised for a week, I wouldn't have met my James.
But that's just the big overview of what my life has been so far, and the events that would be classified as milestones to many people.
On a day-to-day basis I am remarkably dull. I like all of the things people normally cite as being obnoxiously middle class when leaving snide comments on articles in the Guardian. I like to cook, and to ride horses, to read books and eat smelly cheeses with nice wines. I am fond of clothes, perhaps overly so, but in my own home I prefer old jeans and oversized jumpers with holes in them and stains in various places. I love languages, though, and French is probably my first love. I can mangle my way through German and make grunting noises in Swedish, but can manage whole conversations in Italian. French is just second-nature to me.
Yet I am tedious, immensely so. One of a million other people who all like doing the same things and end up living the same lives, all whilst thinking they're different because, you know, they're them and so of course they're the most important person in the world. But I have come to the point in my life where I don't think this matters anymore. A year ago, maybe even months ago, I still wanted to be the woman who made everyone back home think "Fuck that bitch, I was prettier than her in high school anyway". Now I just want a job that makes me enough money to spend on the things that make me happy, like dinners out in restaurants and day trips to go walking in the Peak District. I want to get married, I want kids, and I want to spend a great deal of the rest of my life trying to develop new designs for the cookies I make for them all.
Oh, and I'm blonde. | | |
|
Because I am bored and a meme whore.
Reply to this entry anonymously with pictures of people I remind you of. Real or fictional; animal or animated; it's all fair game | | |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}