As an Asian guy with an extremely long torso and short legs, I thought this was interesting:
Anthropometric measurements of large populations show that systematic differences exist among blacks, whites and Asians. The published evidence is massive: blacks have longer limbs than whites, and because blacks have longer legs and smaller circumferences (e.g. calves and arms), their center of mass is higher than that in other individuals of the same height. Asians and whites have longer torsos, therefore their centers of mass are lower.
I’m generally suspicious of “inherent genetic advantage” arguments, but at least I know I’m not alone.
The story of the diamond currently living in the engagement ring was pretty long, so I asked my mom to write it down:
The diamond in the ring was originally in a tie-pin and belonged to the uncle of my mother’s father. My grandfather was fond of the pin and his uncle granted it to him in his will. My grandfather died of stomach cancer when I was in the first grade. (The family thought that the cancer might have been a result of all the coal dust he had inhaled when shoveling coal as a fireman on the Milwaukee Road Railroad. He was later promoted to Engineer on the ‘Hiawatha’, the Milwaukee Road train that ran between Milwaukee and LaCross, Wis.)
My mother’s mother had never lived alone, and was afraid to do so as a widow. After my grandfather died, my parents built a duplex on what had been our side yard, so that my grandmother could come to live with us. (You have seen that red brick house, across the street from the little Saveland Park in Milwaukee, near my Aunt Rosemary’s house.)
After my grandfather’s death, my grandmother gave the diamond to my father, and wanted very much for him to wear it, to use it. Since my dad never used tie pins, diamond or not, he figured that setting the stone in a ring was the only way he would ever wear it – before that he only wore his wedding ring. Once the diamond was set in the ring, dad wore the ring on his right hand all the remaining days of his life, out of love and respect for my grandmother. He would never have chosen to wear a diamond ring otherwise, and never used any other jewelry. As you can see, my dad had large ‘workman’s hands’ [You can't see, but the previous ring was almost big enough for me to wear as a bracelet].
Since my sister has no children, the ring came to me when my father died. I have intended ever since to pass it on to you, as I intend to pass on my mother’s platinum & diamond engagement/wedding rings to [my sister]. But like my grandmother before me, I really hope the diamond is used and regularly worn.
I have trouble eloquently expressing emotions that aren’t anger, humor, or [that giddy rush you get from something awesome]. Luckily, Cord Jefferson says it better than I can:
Becoming a man isn’t a question of age, but experience. I imagine many boys become men when their father hits them for the first time. Perhaps all boys become men when they go off to war. Hardship and turmoil, I think, is the turning point for lots of young males, the moment when they say, “Oh, so this is real life.” For me, I’d never felt more like a man than when I would lie in bed with E, her white hair blurring into my pillowcase. I loathed my job, occasionally struggled to pay rent and longed to do something creative with my time. But she made me forget all of that, replacing those considerations–which made me feel so small–with the realization that love from the right person can make you almost certain that you’re the most powerful being on earth. “Fuck everything,” I would think. “Because if this loves me, this immaculate, strong, enlightened, precious, perfect thing, then I am invincible. In fact, I feel sorry for you, because it is one of earth’s true tragedies that there is only one of these people to go around.”
This is also a perfect opportunity to post one of my favorite band’s best tracks:
I didn’t pick my head off the desk but looked at Dawn and yelled, “my roommate only has to pay five dollars a month for health insurance and she has the summer off! Why didn’t I go to school for education?”
She picked her own head up off the desk and looked at me. “Because you wanted to be a poet.”
Underemployment (or unemployment) is a pretty common problem for graduates with esoteric degrees like anthropology, minority/gender studies, art history, etc. (I’d say my English degree and I only avoided that pitfall thanks to my longstanding interest in computers and the Internet), and this is another reminder that, in addition to discovering yourself, it’s really important use your time in college to hone professionally useful skills, especially for those currently graduating into a massive recession.
Out on the bourbon trail this week. Posting will be sporadic to nonexistent. I’ll probably be tweeting the trip, so follow me there for pictures and whatnot.
