The joy of working in an old building is, well, there is no joy in that. Living in an old building may net you some charm factor, but old commercial buildings tend to crumble around you and let you watch the entropic dissolution. One thing that happens when your building has high historical significance is that a charitable foundation will step up every now and then to pay for some restoration work. They started a few years ago by patching the roof and upgrading the electric. This summer's project felt like a big, shiny gift, wrapped up in yellow-and-black caution tape and meant just for me. The world's oldest restrooms finally failed to the point that they couldn't pass any public code in any developed country. I have bathroom issues. I must have peace and quiet. I must have cleanliness. I must have functioning toilets. Without access to these things, I cannot tend to my own functions, and things being the way they are with my body, that's courting disaster. Imagine my delight upon walking into the ladies room only to see no stalls, no toilets, no sinks. Paper towel dispensers were still in place. Oddly, they had been replaced first, last winter, but the high-tech, motion-activated units looked woefully out of place among the vintage porcelain and under the light of the bare light bulb meant to illuminate the space. About two weeks ago, the restroom was re-opened (what I did in the meantime is a whole different post). It is bright, it is pristine, it is modern, and it was worth the wait. The room still holds the smell of ivory-colored oil based paint in the air. The new stalls align properly with the doors, and the doors lock. One week ago, I walked into a stall and was horrified to see that someone had boldly and broadly tagged the stall wall with a fat-tip marker. It wasn't even a proper tag, just a three-foot wide scrawled, jagged line. A custodian had tried to remove the marker, but the stall's paint was damaged in the process. I took this affront to decency and respect for property personally. Who would dare to do this? What would make someone come into the building (it is open to the public), use the restroom, and think, "You know, this clean and lovely space really needs to be defiled." I do not understand vandalism. Graffiti is one thing--in some cases, it passes as art. But tagging? Tagging is intended only to mar something for no practical or justifiable reason. Want to make your mark? Get a tattoo. My inner older-person-Republican reared her indignant head about this in the staff meeting room. A colleague--a social worker--said, "Taggers do that to show they're here." I wondered... if they wanted attention, why not dye their hair pink? My colleague, we'll call her Cheyenne, said, "No, it's about identity. It's like, it's like people who have blogs." She had my attention, albeit through narrowed eyes. I didn't like where this was going. I asked her to elaborate. Cheyenne said, "Yeah, people who keep blogs, what's that about? It's about being heard. It's about saying, 'hey, look at me--I exist, even if you don't care.' Bloggers do that because that's their platform for attention." "No, Cheyenne. Here's why it's not like that. I maintain four blogs and although each serves a different purpose, none serves to damage anything. Yes, I blog in a public forum, but nobody is forced to participate in my process. Tagging is a toddler's unfiltered rage channeled through a permanent marker in the hands of a belligerent adolescent. There is no meaningful expression, especially if the scrawl is illegible." Cheyenne looked...surprised. She tried again. "I mean, check it out, check it out, OK? Taggers want to be seen, they want to feel they have an identity. They're trying to establish self-esteem. Bloggers will write about anything they feel when they feel it because they want a reaction. The reaction gives them self-worth." "No, no. It is not a parallel expression. I have kept a journal since I was about 14. Three years ago, I put it online because I thought that sharing my words--or at least making them available--seemed like a way to maybe broaden the conversation going on in my head. It was never important to me to have anyone else read my blog. People do read it, though, and we sometimes have thoughtful discussions about the subject matter. I have to tell you, Cheyenne, I don't think any one of us is establishing our self-esteem or reveling in our identity--especially since we all use fake names. If you want to compare, writing requires thought; tagging does not. Blogging requires commitment; tagging requires a magic marker and a muscle spasm. Blogging may lead to thoughtful or thought-provoking discussion and building of community; tagging? I don't think so. And seriously, how god-awful small does someone need to be to gain self-esteem from destroying property and scrawling an unintelligible streak with a magic marker?" Cheyenne thought about that, and said, "Well, the people who do that are expressing themselves through rebellion." I had to get back to work and I spent the rest of the day still pretty sure that Cheyenne didn't understand my point any more than I had understood hers. I was also pretty sure that blogging didn't make me feel any more or less invisible than I felt before I started doing it. I think; therefore, I get a head full of thoughts. I think many thoughts, therefore I blog. There are not enough magic markers in the world to express everything that is spilling out of my head. When I think, I write. I write a blog. I write a blog and I don't deface anything in the process. Blogging doesn't reassure me of who I am; it helps me understand why I am who I am so I can do better next time. I blog; therefore, I evolve. And I know I'm here, even if nobody ever reads a word I write.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
I blog, therefore I am...what??
The joy of working in an old building is, well, there is no joy in that. Living in an old building may net you some charm factor, but old commercial buildings tend to crumble around you and let you watch the entropic dissolution. One thing that happens when your building has high historical significance is that a charitable foundation will step up every now and then to pay for some restoration work. They started a few years ago by patching the roof and upgrading the electric. This summer's project felt like a big, shiny gift, wrapped up in yellow-and-black caution tape and meant just for me. The world's oldest restrooms finally failed to the point that they couldn't pass any public code in any developed country. I have bathroom issues. I must have peace and quiet. I must have cleanliness. I must have functioning toilets. Without access to these things, I cannot tend to my own functions, and things being the way they are with my body, that's courting disaster. Imagine my delight upon walking into the ladies room only to see no stalls, no toilets, no sinks. Paper towel dispensers were still in place. Oddly, they had been replaced first, last winter, but the high-tech, motion-activated units looked woefully out of place among the vintage porcelain and under the light of the bare light bulb meant to illuminate the space. About two weeks ago, the restroom was re-opened (what I did in the meantime is a whole different post). It is bright, it is pristine, it is modern, and it was worth the wait. The room still holds the smell of ivory-colored oil based paint in the air. The new stalls align properly with the doors, and the doors lock. One week ago, I walked into a stall and was horrified to see that someone had boldly and broadly tagged the stall wall with a fat-tip marker. It wasn't even a proper tag, just a three-foot wide scrawled, jagged line. A custodian had tried to remove the marker, but the stall's paint was damaged in the process. I took this affront to decency and respect for property personally. Who would dare to do this? What would make someone come into the building (it is open to the public), use the restroom, and think, "You know, this clean and lovely space really needs to be defiled." I do not understand vandalism. Graffiti is one thing--in some cases, it passes as art. But tagging? Tagging is intended only to mar something for no practical or justifiable reason. Want to make your mark? Get a tattoo. My inner older-person-Republican reared her indignant head about this in the staff meeting room. A colleague--a social worker--said, "Taggers do that to show they're here." I wondered... if they wanted attention, why not dye their hair pink? My colleague, we'll call her Cheyenne, said, "No, it's about identity. It's like, it's like people who have blogs." She had my attention, albeit through narrowed eyes. I didn't like where this was going. I asked her to elaborate. Cheyenne said, "Yeah, people who keep blogs, what's that about? It's about being heard. It's about saying, 'hey, look at me--I exist, even if you don't care.' Bloggers do that because that's their platform for attention." "No, Cheyenne. Here's why it's not like that. I maintain four blogs and although each serves a different purpose, none serves to damage anything. Yes, I blog in a public forum, but nobody is forced to participate in my process. Tagging is a toddler's unfiltered rage channeled through a permanent marker in the hands of a belligerent adolescent. There is no meaningful expression, especially if the scrawl is illegible." Cheyenne looked...surprised. She tried again. "I mean, check it out, check it out, OK? Taggers want to be seen, they want to feel they have an identity. They're trying to establish self-esteem. Bloggers will write about anything they feel when they feel it because they want a reaction. The reaction gives them self-worth." "No, no. It is not a parallel expression. I have kept a journal since I was about 14. Three years ago, I put it online because I thought that sharing my words--or at least making them available--seemed like a way to maybe broaden the conversation going on in my head. It was never important to me to have anyone else read my blog. People do read it, though, and we sometimes have thoughtful discussions about the subject matter. I have to tell you, Cheyenne, I don't think any one of us is establishing our self-esteem or reveling in our identity--especially since we all use fake names. If you want to compare, writing requires thought; tagging does not. Blogging requires commitment; tagging requires a magic marker and a muscle spasm. Blogging may lead to thoughtful or thought-provoking discussion and building of community; tagging? I don't think so. And seriously, how god-awful small does someone need to be to gain self-esteem from destroying property and scrawling an unintelligible streak with a magic marker?" Cheyenne thought about that, and said, "Well, the people who do that are expressing themselves through rebellion." I had to get back to work and I spent the rest of the day still pretty sure that Cheyenne didn't understand my point any more than I had understood hers. I was also pretty sure that blogging didn't make me feel any more or less invisible than I felt before I started doing it. I think; therefore, I get a head full of thoughts. I think many thoughts, therefore I blog. There are not enough magic markers in the world to express everything that is spilling out of my head. When I think, I write. I write a blog. I write a blog and I don't deface anything in the process. Blogging doesn't reassure me of who I am; it helps me understand why I am who I am so I can do better next time. I blog; therefore, I evolve. And I know I'm here, even if nobody ever reads a word I write.
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1 comment:
I don't think Cheyenne has a clue.
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