I woke up on the 25th of July and I didn't know yet. As usual, I turned on my computer (old habits die hard) and checked the Guardian and El País. It was the first news item in both of them: more than 60 people dead in a train accident close to Santiago de Compostela.
The train was coming from Madrid, and was traveling at 190 km per hour when it derailed. The news was a shock. I keep reading about it. Going back to the papers and reading about it. I didn't dare write back home, I was scared someone I knew had been on the train.
Hours went by. I didn't get any news from my parents, so I assumed everyone in the family was fine. The Galician friends I have posted on Facebook or Tuenti, they were OK, no one they knew had been on the train. Slowly I came to the conclusion that the people I knew were fine. I kept reading about the accident.
Most people have an obsession with the morbid to some degree. Violence, tragedy, catastrophe, is fascinating. Stories of survivors started leaking out. I've read a lot of them. The stories and faces of the dead were soon made public too. I read as many as I could of those. I don't know why. Where does the fascination lie? But I read them all the same. They were all normal people. Just people who were going from Madrid to Santiago de Compostela. The only reason their stories have made it to the front page of newspapers is because they died. There is something terrible and horrifying in that. Yet, I can't help but read their stories and feel for their families. Big tragedies, big catastrophes, bring great mourning. Spain declared three days of mourning. The festivities of Santiago turned to mourning. I think most Spanish people have spared a thought for the dead and their families, and for those surviving, and been sad these past few days. And yet, part of me can't help asking why. People die every day after all, people as anonymous as the ones that died on those trains, and we don't mourn them.
The accident in Santiago, along with a smaller bus accident close to my city earlier this year, feeds my fears. I live too far from home. If something happened to someone I know, to someone I love, I wouldn't be able to be there for them, not in good time anyway. Living far away has meant that I haven't been there for my family when I should have been. Living far away means that when a family member is ill I can't go see them as much as I like. Living far away means that sometimes I worry that I'm not being told something important to spare me the worry. It's happened more than once. Living far away means that I get told things late, and that I am not present when I should be. It also means that often I have to cry on my own.
I know now that I made the right choice moving here. But it doesn't take away that it sucks. It sucks that I can't be home to give a hug or get a hug when something goes wrong. It sucks that things are kept from me so that I don't worry. It sucks that I'm not there to take my dog for walks, or to play with him, or to take him to the vet. It sucks that I only get to see my parents a few times a year.
A lot has been said for young people leaving Spain, and how it's terrible. How Spain is losing talent. How it's horrible that these people won't be able to settle down in Spain. How these people pack their bags and are "wrenched" from their home. All this is kind of bullshit. Young people leave because they want to, and because they can. If they say they don't want to leave, they're lying. It might not be their ideal choice, but they have a choice, and they choose to leave rather than stay. Leaving is not a tragedy. Living in a new country is not a tragedy. Making new friends, finding a new home isn't a tragedy. Missing the people you left behind is not a tragedy. But it sucks. And it does not wear off.
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
Monday, 29 July 2013
What do you think about lads mags?
Recently a lot has been said about lads magazines. The Co-op is threatening to stop selling some of them, and a few campaigns are going on to diminish their presence (No More Page 3 and Lose the Lads Mags probably being the two most visible ones).
I have been asked my opinion on it by a couple of people. I have thought about it. And here's the thing: I don't know what to think. I have no clue what my opinion is on the subject.
On the one hand, I don't feel very affected by these magazines. The supermarket where I do my shopping has the magazine stand in a part of the shop that I can easily avoid, but even when I've gone over to look at the magazines (I am a sucker for gossip and fashion even though it's been years since I bought a magazine) lads mags haven't jumped out at me. Maybe because I'm so used to seeing women expose themselves, but most probably because I'm quite simply not very interested. It's the same thing with porn: some people are turned on, some people are grossed out, I get bored after the first ten minutes or so. The way lad mags depict women, the way (mainstream) porn depicts women, bores me. I don't find it attractive, in the sense that I don't feel the need to look at it at all. On this side of the argument, when someone tells me that they think lads mags should be banned, my answer is to shrug and reply "You don't have to read them, why do you care if anyone else does?".
On the other hand, there's the attitudes these magazines promote, and the ideas they put into people's heads about what is normal and what isn't. I'll explain myself: there are people (women and men) who fantasize about rape. That's fine with me. There's people who will make movies or write stories about rape, and there's people who will watch these movies and read these stories, and enjoy them. That's also OK with me. Until one of these people start regarding rape as the norm, and they decide that raping someone is just another way to have sex. Then I start questioning whether making movies where rape is depicted as a normal way to have sex is OK. But then, what's the solution? Making it illegal to watch or distribute these movies? That's what has been done with child pornography, but in child pornography a child is being abused: a child is being used in a sexual way when they haven't yet fully realised their sexuality. In the case of rape depictions the story changes. Films containing rape and stories containing rape are usually made by consenting adults (in the case of stories, it is quite usual to indicate at the beginning of the story that all characters in the story are over 18 and consenting adults), and they are meant to be consumed by consenting adults. Illegalising them would be censure in my opinion. And here's where I am at loss: I don't think making something illegal, censoring something, is a solution. But I don't know what would be.
A good sex education, and more than that, a good consent education is important. It is important to teach children, and teenagers, and adults, that you can't do things to another person without having their consent, their approval. Also, that noone should do anything to them without their consent and their approval. A good education in consent would probably solve some of the problems posed by porn and lads mags. A good sex education would help in making people (especially teenagers and young adults) realise what is realistic when it comes to sex and what is hyped up by porn or lads magazines, and it would help normalise attitudes towards sex and sex partners.
But all this avoids the real question when it comes to lads mags or porn: are they sexist? Because in the end, this is the real issue. The answer is fairly straightforward: yes. They are sexist. They are magazines made by men for men, and there is very little equivalent available for women. In any case, even if an equivalent for women existed, there is the problem that these types of magazines reduce women (and men, where the counterparts exist) to their bodies, and even to parts of their bodies. Sometimes I wonder whether this is really a problem. Who cares? We are reductionist by nature, we tend to see only little parts of a whole, we don't know things completely, we are human. But then... It's not wrong to reduce once in a while. The problem comes in when we start reducing every time. We all make judgements, and we all make judgements based on appearance, after all, it's the first thing we can see about someone. But this is a whole sex/gender/whatever you want to call it (I guess gender would be most appropriate in this case) reduced to their appearances a lot more than the other. And that is by definition sexist.
Now, let me tell you a secret: I pity the guys who read lad mags and actually believe that that's what women should be like (I also pity girls who read Cosmo and believe that any of what's in it reflects reality). See, here's the thing: "hot" isn't the same as attractive. Many of the "hot" guys I know are... dull? Not exactly. Simply, they aren't very engaging. Many of the attractive guys I know, on the other hand, may not be hot (a few of them are downright ugly when it comes down to it), but hey, they can keep up a conversation, they have a sexy smile, there's something about them that makes me want to keep listening. (Then there's the rare thing, the hot and attractive guy, and then I'm afraid I'm lost for words, and I just nod like an idiot while staring). My point is, I think there is a lot more to attractiveness than the physical, and I can't help but suspect that people who reduce a person to their physical attributes are just missing out. But I can't stop them.
I have been asked my opinion on it by a couple of people. I have thought about it. And here's the thing: I don't know what to think. I have no clue what my opinion is on the subject.
On the one hand, I don't feel very affected by these magazines. The supermarket where I do my shopping has the magazine stand in a part of the shop that I can easily avoid, but even when I've gone over to look at the magazines (I am a sucker for gossip and fashion even though it's been years since I bought a magazine) lads mags haven't jumped out at me. Maybe because I'm so used to seeing women expose themselves, but most probably because I'm quite simply not very interested. It's the same thing with porn: some people are turned on, some people are grossed out, I get bored after the first ten minutes or so. The way lad mags depict women, the way (mainstream) porn depicts women, bores me. I don't find it attractive, in the sense that I don't feel the need to look at it at all. On this side of the argument, when someone tells me that they think lads mags should be banned, my answer is to shrug and reply "You don't have to read them, why do you care if anyone else does?".
On the other hand, there's the attitudes these magazines promote, and the ideas they put into people's heads about what is normal and what isn't. I'll explain myself: there are people (women and men) who fantasize about rape. That's fine with me. There's people who will make movies or write stories about rape, and there's people who will watch these movies and read these stories, and enjoy them. That's also OK with me. Until one of these people start regarding rape as the norm, and they decide that raping someone is just another way to have sex. Then I start questioning whether making movies where rape is depicted as a normal way to have sex is OK. But then, what's the solution? Making it illegal to watch or distribute these movies? That's what has been done with child pornography, but in child pornography a child is being abused: a child is being used in a sexual way when they haven't yet fully realised their sexuality. In the case of rape depictions the story changes. Films containing rape and stories containing rape are usually made by consenting adults (in the case of stories, it is quite usual to indicate at the beginning of the story that all characters in the story are over 18 and consenting adults), and they are meant to be consumed by consenting adults. Illegalising them would be censure in my opinion. And here's where I am at loss: I don't think making something illegal, censoring something, is a solution. But I don't know what would be.
A good sex education, and more than that, a good consent education is important. It is important to teach children, and teenagers, and adults, that you can't do things to another person without having their consent, their approval. Also, that noone should do anything to them without their consent and their approval. A good education in consent would probably solve some of the problems posed by porn and lads mags. A good sex education would help in making people (especially teenagers and young adults) realise what is realistic when it comes to sex and what is hyped up by porn or lads magazines, and it would help normalise attitudes towards sex and sex partners.
But all this avoids the real question when it comes to lads mags or porn: are they sexist? Because in the end, this is the real issue. The answer is fairly straightforward: yes. They are sexist. They are magazines made by men for men, and there is very little equivalent available for women. In any case, even if an equivalent for women existed, there is the problem that these types of magazines reduce women (and men, where the counterparts exist) to their bodies, and even to parts of their bodies. Sometimes I wonder whether this is really a problem. Who cares? We are reductionist by nature, we tend to see only little parts of a whole, we don't know things completely, we are human. But then... It's not wrong to reduce once in a while. The problem comes in when we start reducing every time. We all make judgements, and we all make judgements based on appearance, after all, it's the first thing we can see about someone. But this is a whole sex/gender/whatever you want to call it (I guess gender would be most appropriate in this case) reduced to their appearances a lot more than the other. And that is by definition sexist.
Now, let me tell you a secret: I pity the guys who read lad mags and actually believe that that's what women should be like (I also pity girls who read Cosmo and believe that any of what's in it reflects reality). See, here's the thing: "hot" isn't the same as attractive. Many of the "hot" guys I know are... dull? Not exactly. Simply, they aren't very engaging. Many of the attractive guys I know, on the other hand, may not be hot (a few of them are downright ugly when it comes down to it), but hey, they can keep up a conversation, they have a sexy smile, there's something about them that makes me want to keep listening. (Then there's the rare thing, the hot and attractive guy, and then I'm afraid I'm lost for words, and I just nod like an idiot while staring). My point is, I think there is a lot more to attractiveness than the physical, and I can't help but suspect that people who reduce a person to their physical attributes are just missing out. But I can't stop them.
Thursday, 25 July 2013
Curses
La Paz, Bolivia. August 2001.
The city extends from a hole, the centre at the bottom, the buildings climbing up the walls of the hole in the middle of the plain. It was the end of a long week. The capital meant civilization, soroche and showers.
I can't remember the hotel we stayed in well. I seem to think we were on the fourth or fifth floor, the bathroom was high, and if my memory doesn't fail me, I fell down stomach first on the side of the tub, and for the first time in my life I knew what it was like to have the breath knocked out of me.
After we'd cleaned up, and rested, we decided to go get some food. The streets of La Paz are busy during the day, and colourful. Like any other city, it has its markets and its plazas, its museums and its boulevards. By night, it's quieter, and it can seem imposing, but after long days around the Titicaca we welcomed the rudeness of a city. We made our way to Plaza Murillo. Even then there were pigeons in the square, but I remember thinking it was peaceful. Compared to what I had seen in Lima, this was close to paradise.
We found a small restaurant open a couple of streets away from our hotel, and sat down to have dinner. We were made to feel welcome, in a way that only happens when you visit a country where you can speak the language. As we were about to leave, the waiter mentioned that if we continued down the street, we would come to an alley where the hechiceros often sold their wares at night.
We followed his directions, but found nothing. We had given up, and were trying to get back to the hotel, when we stumbled upon a narrow street, with worse lighting than the others. There must have been more people other than us there, but as I remember it, the street was empty except for us and three or four women selling amulets that they were exhibiting on wooden stalls. The women were all dark and thickset, and we could tell when we spoke to them that Spanish was their second language. These were true hechiceras. I started inspecting what they were selling immediately: I may not believe in luck, but I believe in magic. Soon, I found that they all had the same amulets, but far from being disappointed, I made it my job to find out which of them would give me a better deal. The third time I asked the oldest woman there for the price, my father held me back.
-Be careful, -he said. -They're hechiceras, they could be cursing you, you shouldn't haggle.
I left the night market having bought many amulets. For health, for traveling, for love, for good fortune...
Two days later, as we were on the bus back to Peru, I got sick. Coke didn't help, and stopping didn't help, and it wasn't until we reached the other side of Lake Titicaca that I started to feel any better. I was sure one of the hechiceras had indeed cursed me, but not too badly because I was a child. The trip continued, and soon I forgot all about it.
We arrived in Spain at the end of August. It was still hot, and unpacking the bags after one month of traveling took time. The amulets had all disappeared. I asked my parents, and they didn't remember buying them, or the street, or my haggling. Soon I forgot about them, and the trip to La Paz became a bit smaller in my mind.
Ávila, Spain. December 2009.
It was late on a Sunday. I didn't want to go back to Salamanca, the 9AM algebra class didn't seem worth it. My dad was laughing at the proof I had come up with, showing it to my mum. I asked what was wrong with it, and they both laughed and said it was essentially correct. I took it from them frowning and went through it again. It seemed fine to me. No matter.
I went to my room and opened my wardrobe. Me and my friends were going camping the weekend after and I needed to get my backpack. I hadn't used it since the summer before, and I had made sure I'd emptied it, but when I opened the small pocket on the right to put in my usual first aid kit I felt something lumpy. It was a small packet, brown paper wrapped around something. I took it out, and opened it. 7 amulets were inside. A frog, for good fortune, a bird, for safe trips, a lion, for courage, and others that I couldn't remember the meaning of. I took them downstairs to show to my parents. The second they saw them, they smiled and my father reminded me how he had warned me about the witches' curses. I frowned, but didn't say anything. I looked at my mother and asked if she would keep them safe for me.
-You don't want them? -she asked.
-I think they're unlucky. -I said earnestly.
-So you're giving them to me? -she accused, half laughing.
I nodded, confused. I was sure they wouldn't harm her.
Before I came to London, I looked for the amulets again. They seem to have disappeared once more. Every time I'm about to take a trip, I keep expecting to find them, they haunt me. I suspect that they won't make an appearance again, until I've forgotten them, and they come to remind me that there may not be such a thing as bad luck, but curses exist.
The city extends from a hole, the centre at the bottom, the buildings climbing up the walls of the hole in the middle of the plain. It was the end of a long week. The capital meant civilization, soroche and showers.
I can't remember the hotel we stayed in well. I seem to think we were on the fourth or fifth floor, the bathroom was high, and if my memory doesn't fail me, I fell down stomach first on the side of the tub, and for the first time in my life I knew what it was like to have the breath knocked out of me.
After we'd cleaned up, and rested, we decided to go get some food. The streets of La Paz are busy during the day, and colourful. Like any other city, it has its markets and its plazas, its museums and its boulevards. By night, it's quieter, and it can seem imposing, but after long days around the Titicaca we welcomed the rudeness of a city. We made our way to Plaza Murillo. Even then there were pigeons in the square, but I remember thinking it was peaceful. Compared to what I had seen in Lima, this was close to paradise.
We found a small restaurant open a couple of streets away from our hotel, and sat down to have dinner. We were made to feel welcome, in a way that only happens when you visit a country where you can speak the language. As we were about to leave, the waiter mentioned that if we continued down the street, we would come to an alley where the hechiceros often sold their wares at night.
We followed his directions, but found nothing. We had given up, and were trying to get back to the hotel, when we stumbled upon a narrow street, with worse lighting than the others. There must have been more people other than us there, but as I remember it, the street was empty except for us and three or four women selling amulets that they were exhibiting on wooden stalls. The women were all dark and thickset, and we could tell when we spoke to them that Spanish was their second language. These were true hechiceras. I started inspecting what they were selling immediately: I may not believe in luck, but I believe in magic. Soon, I found that they all had the same amulets, but far from being disappointed, I made it my job to find out which of them would give me a better deal. The third time I asked the oldest woman there for the price, my father held me back.
-Be careful, -he said. -They're hechiceras, they could be cursing you, you shouldn't haggle.
I left the night market having bought many amulets. For health, for traveling, for love, for good fortune...
Two days later, as we were on the bus back to Peru, I got sick. Coke didn't help, and stopping didn't help, and it wasn't until we reached the other side of Lake Titicaca that I started to feel any better. I was sure one of the hechiceras had indeed cursed me, but not too badly because I was a child. The trip continued, and soon I forgot all about it.
We arrived in Spain at the end of August. It was still hot, and unpacking the bags after one month of traveling took time. The amulets had all disappeared. I asked my parents, and they didn't remember buying them, or the street, or my haggling. Soon I forgot about them, and the trip to La Paz became a bit smaller in my mind.
Ávila, Spain. December 2009.
It was late on a Sunday. I didn't want to go back to Salamanca, the 9AM algebra class didn't seem worth it. My dad was laughing at the proof I had come up with, showing it to my mum. I asked what was wrong with it, and they both laughed and said it was essentially correct. I took it from them frowning and went through it again. It seemed fine to me. No matter.
I went to my room and opened my wardrobe. Me and my friends were going camping the weekend after and I needed to get my backpack. I hadn't used it since the summer before, and I had made sure I'd emptied it, but when I opened the small pocket on the right to put in my usual first aid kit I felt something lumpy. It was a small packet, brown paper wrapped around something. I took it out, and opened it. 7 amulets were inside. A frog, for good fortune, a bird, for safe trips, a lion, for courage, and others that I couldn't remember the meaning of. I took them downstairs to show to my parents. The second they saw them, they smiled and my father reminded me how he had warned me about the witches' curses. I frowned, but didn't say anything. I looked at my mother and asked if she would keep them safe for me.
-You don't want them? -she asked.
-I think they're unlucky. -I said earnestly.
-So you're giving them to me? -she accused, half laughing.
I nodded, confused. I was sure they wouldn't harm her.
Before I came to London, I looked for the amulets again. They seem to have disappeared once more. Every time I'm about to take a trip, I keep expecting to find them, they haunt me. I suspect that they won't make an appearance again, until I've forgotten them, and they come to remind me that there may not be such a thing as bad luck, but curses exist.
Dark and darker
Today I am in a bad mood. Nothing to worry about, it's bad with a good background, these past three or four weeks I've been feeling happier than I had since December.
The combination of a terrible headache, my data not being happy and a small argument have led to me being listless. I'm sitting around the office, trying to stop myself from going downstairs to buy multiple Kit Kats and eating them all in one go.
I've been doing some reading, but I fear I find no inspiration on the web today. I tried to turn to music, but it seems I'm not in the mood, songs that usually make me smile are pissing me off with their lyrics.
I'm in a sort of nowhere land at the moment. I'm almost done with experiments, but not quite writing yet. I'm almost ready to leave for the US, but it's not quite time yet. I'm trying to find a new place, but haven't quite got one. I'm starting my last year of Uni, but that won't happen for a couple of months yet. Alas, it seems that summer is still a time of transition, even when I have a job that requires me to stay in one place.
London has been gorgeous for the past couple of weeks. The parks are a favourite haunt of mine now, and I'm visiting as many as I can. Primrose Hill I find particularly beautiful and soothing, and I can see all of the city from there.
Central London is full of tourists, like Camden, Portobello and all the known places. Mill Hill is deserted on the other hand, school has finished and not nearly as many children can be seen in the morning. It feels strange, and almost haunted, but at the same time the view from my office window has never been more beautiful. The hills and the trees and the cows, and now the sun, and the blue skies make me feel like I'm in some idyllic setting.
The Thames Path is also at its best. I especially like it in the evenings, when the pubs are full, and dogs are walked, and children are playing around, but also in the mornings, when it's full of runners and commuters, and cyclers.
The good weather changes London, and it brings out the best in Londoners. They want to be outside and enjoy the sun, I've never lived in a place where the sun was so worshipped.
Yes, the last few weeks have been good to London, and good to me. I'm starting to suspect that for my own good I should move back south. Sometimes I wish I could go back home. Then I think about it and conclude that it's unrealistic.
I'm feeling restless. There's something I want to do, but I don't know exactly what. It involves staying up late at night talking close to a fire, and it involves meeting new people, and traveling. It involves books, and discussions, and arguments. I think maybe it's time for me to leave here. But how can it be time for anyone to leave London?
I distract myself with my day to day chores: washing clothes, making food, shopping... All those things that distract me from doing what I need to do, what I want to do, what makes me happy. I used to know what it was, now it seems more and more that happiness is within my grasp, but completely out of my control.
I fear that I don't even know what I want anymore. But then again, who does? Does it matter? I tend to be wary of people who have a very clear idea of what they want.
The combination of a terrible headache, my data not being happy and a small argument have led to me being listless. I'm sitting around the office, trying to stop myself from going downstairs to buy multiple Kit Kats and eating them all in one go.
I've been doing some reading, but I fear I find no inspiration on the web today. I tried to turn to music, but it seems I'm not in the mood, songs that usually make me smile are pissing me off with their lyrics.
I'm in a sort of nowhere land at the moment. I'm almost done with experiments, but not quite writing yet. I'm almost ready to leave for the US, but it's not quite time yet. I'm trying to find a new place, but haven't quite got one. I'm starting my last year of Uni, but that won't happen for a couple of months yet. Alas, it seems that summer is still a time of transition, even when I have a job that requires me to stay in one place.
London has been gorgeous for the past couple of weeks. The parks are a favourite haunt of mine now, and I'm visiting as many as I can. Primrose Hill I find particularly beautiful and soothing, and I can see all of the city from there.
Central London is full of tourists, like Camden, Portobello and all the known places. Mill Hill is deserted on the other hand, school has finished and not nearly as many children can be seen in the morning. It feels strange, and almost haunted, but at the same time the view from my office window has never been more beautiful. The hills and the trees and the cows, and now the sun, and the blue skies make me feel like I'm in some idyllic setting.
The Thames Path is also at its best. I especially like it in the evenings, when the pubs are full, and dogs are walked, and children are playing around, but also in the mornings, when it's full of runners and commuters, and cyclers.
The good weather changes London, and it brings out the best in Londoners. They want to be outside and enjoy the sun, I've never lived in a place where the sun was so worshipped.
Yes, the last few weeks have been good to London, and good to me. I'm starting to suspect that for my own good I should move back south. Sometimes I wish I could go back home. Then I think about it and conclude that it's unrealistic.
I'm feeling restless. There's something I want to do, but I don't know exactly what. It involves staying up late at night talking close to a fire, and it involves meeting new people, and traveling. It involves books, and discussions, and arguments. I think maybe it's time for me to leave here. But how can it be time for anyone to leave London?
I distract myself with my day to day chores: washing clothes, making food, shopping... All those things that distract me from doing what I need to do, what I want to do, what makes me happy. I used to know what it was, now it seems more and more that happiness is within my grasp, but completely out of my control.
I fear that I don't even know what I want anymore. But then again, who does? Does it matter? I tend to be wary of people who have a very clear idea of what they want.
Monday, 22 July 2013
Reproductive Rights
Recently, the Spanish ministry for health announced that there will be a change in who is eligible for assisted reproductive technology.
Firstly, a recap:
Spain has a national health system, that provides free healthcare for every Spanish national (plus a few people who don't have Spanish nationality, mainly citizens of the European Union). There are treatments and interventions that are not covered by this "universal" system, and there are also treatments and interventions that are only partially covered.
"Women's health" or "reproductive health" is a controversial subject in Spain. Until recently (2010) our abortion law only contemplated "cases": a woman could have an abortion if she was in grave physical or mental health, if she had been raped, or if the foetus had grave physical or mental malformations. Currently, abortion is not penalised before the 14th week of gestation, and after that, a woman can still have an abortion in certain cases. Contraceptives are not provided for free.
Secondly, the issue at hand:
Assisted reproductive technology has helped many women and couples have children. The wording of the law in Spain up to now went something like this: women could benefit from government financed ART when there was a diagnosis of sterility or an "established clinical indication". This allowed some leeway for single women and women in relationships with other women (someone has mentioned that saying "single women and lesbians" is discriminatory, for lesbians are still women, however I disagree with this: lesbians are still women, but they are not single women, saying "women in a couple" would include heterosexual women. I think I've used the best wording possible here, but please, suggestions would be welcome) to receive finance, since clearly they could not have children without ART even if medically they were not sterile. Now, the ministry for health has made a proposal to change what is covered by the public health. According to the amendments, only couples formed by a man under 55 and a woman under 40, who have no previous healthy progeny and who have been trying to have a child by having sexual relationships with vaginal intercourse for at least 12 months with no success will be eligible for treatment.
According to this new wording, only heterosexual couples will be eligible to have children using ART. And only one child per couple, assuming the child is healthy.
Clearly, this breaches the Spanish Assisted Reproduction law, which states that all women above the age of 18 have the same right to assisted reproduction. But let's forget this for a second. Let's forget the obvious controversy of the suggestion and dig a bit deeper.
First of all, as ever with ART, there is a more fundamental question. If we accept universal free healthcare, we have to accept that it's going to cost taxpayer money. Knowing this, we must accept that there are certain treatments that can be paid for, and certain treatments that will be too expensive for the healthcare system to provide. So if there is going to be universal healthcare, there must be some basic services provided, services that are indispensable, and others that aren't provided because people don't need them. So the question here is: is having biological children necessary? Is it a right?
As much as it pains me to say it, because I am one of those single women who would happily have children via ART, I don't think having biological children is a right. But I do think everyone should be equal. What I'm saying is, I think ART should only be provided to people (men or women, independently of their sexual orientation or relationship status) who are clinically sterile. Everyone else can pay. This may sound insensitive to lesbians, or to women who want to have children on their own, but it truly isn't. Adoption is still an option, and they can still pay for the treatment if they truly want a biological child.
That said, I still feel like there's something not quite right with that: if a girl is unlucky enough not to find a guy she likes, or lucky enough to just a girl she likes, why can't she have children? When the question is put to me this way, I am disarmed. It's true. Why do they have less right than a woman who is sterile but has had the luck to find the right guy? So I come to the following conclusion: no ART for anyone. At least, no ART paid for by the government. I still don't think having biological children is a right.
Secondly, there is the question of men. The discussion has centred exclusively on women because they are the ones affected by the proposal, but the fact remains that if a single heterosexual male or two men in a relationship with each other want to have a child they can't be helped. Surrogate mothers are illegal in Spain (clearly, there are ways to get around this, but in my opinion it shouldn't be something that needs getting around of), so any ART that these males could use is automatically negated unless they happen to have a good friend who will happily carry their child for them. All in all, they are in the same situation as single women or women in relationships with other women, except they're not just not getting financed, but they can't even pay for the treatment.
So, what would I propose? Ideally, in a country where resources are unlimited, I would propose that everyone is eligible for fertility treatments, whoever they are. I would legalise the use of surrogate mothers (though I might regulate it). Less ideally, in a country where resources are limited, and choices have to be made as to treatments, I would legalise the use of surrogate mothers and allow anyone who wanted a child and wasn't able to conceive one to go through the adoption without having to pay fees, but I would not make fertility treatments part of what the national health system provided. They would still be legal, but anyone wanting one would have to pay for it.
In any case, I think the change in the rules in Spain is unfortunate. It is unfair and it provokes more inequality than the previous regulations. And there is the subtext of course: the current governing party in Spain is openly opposed to gay marriage and to abortion, they side with the Catholic Church and have "traditionalist" ideas. Knowing this, it becomes less a question of equality and more a question of the governing party trying to impose their morals on the people they are governing. Of course, this is politics. But it is also discrimination. The Spanish Constitution states that "Spaniards are equal before the law and may not in any way be discriminated against on account of birth, race, sex, religion, opinion or any other personal or social condition or circumstance." The regulations I am speaking about are not strictly "law", but they endanger the equality that the 1978 Constitution awarded the Spanish people. This cannot be allowed to happen.
Thursday, 18 July 2013
"Typical"
Yesterday someone called me typical. At the time I agreed with them (or rather, I didn't argue, probably because saying something along the lines of "what do you mean, typical, I'm not typical" would make me sound like an idiot) but now I'm rebelling. Even if I don't think the person who called me typical reads this, I'm going to argue my case.
I was called typical because I said I want to have four children and live to eighty to see my grandchildren grow up. It is a fairly traditional thing to want, I guess, I'm definitely not the girl who scoffs at the idea of having a family, or the kind of person to die young and leave a beautiful corpse. But there's reasons for this. It's not like I "knew" from the start that this is what I wanted. I've considered it for years, and I still wonder about it sometimes. In any case, I just want to explain where I'm coming from when I say that I want to grow old and have a big family, before anyone calls me typical.
1. Fear of Death
She must have been five years old the first time it happened She was safe in her bed, looking at the shadows created by her night light. Sometimes they scared her more than the dark itself: a witch, in outline, could set her heart racing and inspire vividly beautiful nightmares.
That night her father hadn't been around to put her to bed, and tell her one of the Isidoro stories, so it had been her mum who had tucked her in and kissed her good night, turned off the lights and left the door ajar. She felt her heart pounding, and heard the blood going through the veins in her ears, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. She could hear the blood moving, as though it were separate from her, an entity inside her. She wondered why. Suddenly, time froze, an eternal second between two heartbeats and she knew with a certainty beyond belief, that one day her heart would stop. She felt cold suddenly. She listened, felt her heart, wondering whether that beat, or that, or that, or that, would be the last. She held her knees, trying to think about something else, but there was a realisation drawing her, something waiting to click in her mind. She was cold with fear. She was afraid of herself, of her body, of the fact that it was alive now, and that it would therefore die. She tried to breathe.
She grew older. She was a happy child, a slightly awkward teenager, a confused young woman completely sure of what she wanted. She had fun. She watched movies, she studied, she read, she went out with friends, she drank, she listened to music. And some nights, she still needed to hold herself. The fear was beyond her heart stopping now. It had to do with consciousness, with being herself, with being alive, and it didn't go away. What might have led others to religion, led her to more fear. The knowledge that one day her mind, her thoughts, her feelings would stop existing. That she would not be herself anymore. That it would all be wiped away, in an instant. For some time she yearned for Alzheimer's. She couldn't know for sure, but she suspected that towards the end her grandmother had had no knowledge of her own mortality. Bliss.
Fear of death never went away. She could stop thinking about it, but it was lying beneath the surface. She looked for it sometimes, craved it, because it made her feel alive.
At some point she thought she had beat it. Did it matter if she died, if her children or her grandchildren kept her alive in their memories? She remembered the forgotten millions. Maybe if she built something, if she discovered something? Created something worth remembering? The voice in her head, what she knew to be her truth, was quick to answer: it won't matter. You are going to die, and after you do, it's done. No matter how much or how little you do in this life, no matter if you're happy or miserable, you will die. And once you're dead, you won't know. You can't run.
2. Suicide
There's part of me that once or twice a year wonders if she should just go to the pharmacy, buy sleeping pills and just keep taking them. Help them go down with a swallow or two of tequila (or rum, depending on my mood). Yes, that would be my method of choice. I don't think I could jump of a bridge or slit my wrists, or shoot myself (OK, maybe shoot myself, but getting a gun seems more difficult than getting sleeping pills). I am a coward, after all. But sleeping pills? Combined with painkillers? I could do that I think.
Rationally, I can't see why not. Whatever I do with my life, whatever I achieve, whatever I discover, however happy I am, or miserable, it doesn't matter in the long run. By the end of it I will be dead. We're all going to die, and I have no reason to believe that there's anything after death. Ageing doesn't look that appealing either, and it's not like we're going to have a cure for it any time soon. I might as well get on with it and die now. But then again, I'm human. I am freaked out of dying.
And if I'm not going to have the guts to kill myself, I might as well live, right?
3. The Children
"Sad. I know I'm sad when I don't want to have children anymore, because they will die some day."
It's 8:45. I'm sitting at the bus stop outside Mill Hill East Station. I'm going to have a fairly busy day, and I'm thinking about it. I'm also going over a few more things in my head: plans, people, ideas, characters, the blog post I'm going to be writing later... In any case, I'm far from thinking about sitting at the bus stop, waiting for the 240. Which is why, when it arrives, I have to wait until everyone gets on so I have the time to get my Oyster out.
The bus is crowded: a few kids going to school, some of my colleagues going up Bittacy Hill, and two mothers with strollers. And babies. I stand opposite where they are, close to the bus doors. I look at the one facing me. He's not smiling. I try to catch his eye, but he's looking at his mum telling his sisters off. I know them, I've seen them a few times before, the three identical little girls, about two years apart. They are the cutest thing. I smile at the youngest and she smiles back, joyfully. I turn back to her brother and when he finally looks at me, I open my eyes wide and smile. He starts smiling. I make a funny face and wave at him again, and he starts laughing, and it's glorious to hear.
That's all it takes. I'm not thinking about anything else, I just want to make the baby happy. Because that makes me happy.
This may not sound like a good enough reason to want a kid, but it's the one I have. Completely selfish. I want a kid because children bring me joy, they make me happier than anything else.
I won't lie. I'm not good with kids. I'm alright with babies (in fact, I'm quite good with them, they seem to like me for some reason), but kids don't like me. They get annoyed with me fairly easily, and when they don't (if I'm telling them a story or we're playing some game) they don't respect me. It doesn't matter. I still think they're the best thing. They're curious and innocent and brilliant.
4. Growing Old
A man sits outside the house. He has been sitting there for hours, since before sunrise, looking at the sky. Every time someone walks by, he smiles, says good morning and asks about the husband, the children, the dogs. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him, but he doesn't seem to want company. He's serious, but he seems content to sit and look at the sky.
A little girl, no older than four, walks out of the house. She's wearing a yellow dress and her hair is in pigtails.
-Good morning Angela- the man says, and he doesn't look at the sky anymore.
The little girl turns to look at him, and her face breaks into a smile.
-Good morning Grandpa.
She goes to sit next to him. He still looks at her for a couple of minutes, before resolutely looking back at the sky. She imitates him.
For a few minutes, Angela and her grandfather sit next to each other outside the house, Angela's legs dangling over the edge of the bench, her grandfather's feet firmly on the ground, both of them looking at the sky. Soon, Angela gets restless and starts swinging her legs. She gets up, jumping off the bench.
-What are you doing?- she asks, stepping in front of her grandfather.
He looks down at her, and smiles, the sweetest smile he has given anyone that morning.
-I'm looking at the sky.
-Why? Dad never looks at the sky. -she says suspiciously.
Her grandfather chuckles.
-No, your father doesn't have the time yet, to sit on a bench for a whole morning and wonder at the beauty of this sky.
The girl looks at him a second longer, and then runs inside. He smiles to himself, and then stands up. He stretches his long limbs, and cracks his neck, looking up and down the street as he does so. Then he sits back down and goes back to his sky gazing.
I was called typical because I said I want to have four children and live to eighty to see my grandchildren grow up. It is a fairly traditional thing to want, I guess, I'm definitely not the girl who scoffs at the idea of having a family, or the kind of person to die young and leave a beautiful corpse. But there's reasons for this. It's not like I "knew" from the start that this is what I wanted. I've considered it for years, and I still wonder about it sometimes. In any case, I just want to explain where I'm coming from when I say that I want to grow old and have a big family, before anyone calls me typical.
1. Fear of Death
She must have been five years old the first time it happened She was safe in her bed, looking at the shadows created by her night light. Sometimes they scared her more than the dark itself: a witch, in outline, could set her heart racing and inspire vividly beautiful nightmares.
That night her father hadn't been around to put her to bed, and tell her one of the Isidoro stories, so it had been her mum who had tucked her in and kissed her good night, turned off the lights and left the door ajar. She felt her heart pounding, and heard the blood going through the veins in her ears, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. She could hear the blood moving, as though it were separate from her, an entity inside her. She wondered why. Suddenly, time froze, an eternal second between two heartbeats and she knew with a certainty beyond belief, that one day her heart would stop. She felt cold suddenly. She listened, felt her heart, wondering whether that beat, or that, or that, or that, would be the last. She held her knees, trying to think about something else, but there was a realisation drawing her, something waiting to click in her mind. She was cold with fear. She was afraid of herself, of her body, of the fact that it was alive now, and that it would therefore die. She tried to breathe.
She grew older. She was a happy child, a slightly awkward teenager, a confused young woman completely sure of what she wanted. She had fun. She watched movies, she studied, she read, she went out with friends, she drank, she listened to music. And some nights, she still needed to hold herself. The fear was beyond her heart stopping now. It had to do with consciousness, with being herself, with being alive, and it didn't go away. What might have led others to religion, led her to more fear. The knowledge that one day her mind, her thoughts, her feelings would stop existing. That she would not be herself anymore. That it would all be wiped away, in an instant. For some time she yearned for Alzheimer's. She couldn't know for sure, but she suspected that towards the end her grandmother had had no knowledge of her own mortality. Bliss.
Fear of death never went away. She could stop thinking about it, but it was lying beneath the surface. She looked for it sometimes, craved it, because it made her feel alive.
At some point she thought she had beat it. Did it matter if she died, if her children or her grandchildren kept her alive in their memories? She remembered the forgotten millions. Maybe if she built something, if she discovered something? Created something worth remembering? The voice in her head, what she knew to be her truth, was quick to answer: it won't matter. You are going to die, and after you do, it's done. No matter how much or how little you do in this life, no matter if you're happy or miserable, you will die. And once you're dead, you won't know. You can't run.
2. Suicide
There's part of me that once or twice a year wonders if she should just go to the pharmacy, buy sleeping pills and just keep taking them. Help them go down with a swallow or two of tequila (or rum, depending on my mood). Yes, that would be my method of choice. I don't think I could jump of a bridge or slit my wrists, or shoot myself (OK, maybe shoot myself, but getting a gun seems more difficult than getting sleeping pills). I am a coward, after all. But sleeping pills? Combined with painkillers? I could do that I think.
Rationally, I can't see why not. Whatever I do with my life, whatever I achieve, whatever I discover, however happy I am, or miserable, it doesn't matter in the long run. By the end of it I will be dead. We're all going to die, and I have no reason to believe that there's anything after death. Ageing doesn't look that appealing either, and it's not like we're going to have a cure for it any time soon. I might as well get on with it and die now. But then again, I'm human. I am freaked out of dying.
And if I'm not going to have the guts to kill myself, I might as well live, right?
3. The Children
"Sad. I know I'm sad when I don't want to have children anymore, because they will die some day."
It's 8:45. I'm sitting at the bus stop outside Mill Hill East Station. I'm going to have a fairly busy day, and I'm thinking about it. I'm also going over a few more things in my head: plans, people, ideas, characters, the blog post I'm going to be writing later... In any case, I'm far from thinking about sitting at the bus stop, waiting for the 240. Which is why, when it arrives, I have to wait until everyone gets on so I have the time to get my Oyster out.
The bus is crowded: a few kids going to school, some of my colleagues going up Bittacy Hill, and two mothers with strollers. And babies. I stand opposite where they are, close to the bus doors. I look at the one facing me. He's not smiling. I try to catch his eye, but he's looking at his mum telling his sisters off. I know them, I've seen them a few times before, the three identical little girls, about two years apart. They are the cutest thing. I smile at the youngest and she smiles back, joyfully. I turn back to her brother and when he finally looks at me, I open my eyes wide and smile. He starts smiling. I make a funny face and wave at him again, and he starts laughing, and it's glorious to hear.
That's all it takes. I'm not thinking about anything else, I just want to make the baby happy. Because that makes me happy.
This may not sound like a good enough reason to want a kid, but it's the one I have. Completely selfish. I want a kid because children bring me joy, they make me happier than anything else.
I won't lie. I'm not good with kids. I'm alright with babies (in fact, I'm quite good with them, they seem to like me for some reason), but kids don't like me. They get annoyed with me fairly easily, and when they don't (if I'm telling them a story or we're playing some game) they don't respect me. It doesn't matter. I still think they're the best thing. They're curious and innocent and brilliant.
4. Growing Old
A man sits outside the house. He has been sitting there for hours, since before sunrise, looking at the sky. Every time someone walks by, he smiles, says good morning and asks about the husband, the children, the dogs. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him, but he doesn't seem to want company. He's serious, but he seems content to sit and look at the sky.
A little girl, no older than four, walks out of the house. She's wearing a yellow dress and her hair is in pigtails.
-Good morning Angela- the man says, and he doesn't look at the sky anymore.
The little girl turns to look at him, and her face breaks into a smile.
-Good morning Grandpa.
She goes to sit next to him. He still looks at her for a couple of minutes, before resolutely looking back at the sky. She imitates him.
For a few minutes, Angela and her grandfather sit next to each other outside the house, Angela's legs dangling over the edge of the bench, her grandfather's feet firmly on the ground, both of them looking at the sky. Soon, Angela gets restless and starts swinging her legs. She gets up, jumping off the bench.
-What are you doing?- she asks, stepping in front of her grandfather.
He looks down at her, and smiles, the sweetest smile he has given anyone that morning.
-I'm looking at the sky.
-Why? Dad never looks at the sky. -she says suspiciously.
Her grandfather chuckles.
-No, your father doesn't have the time yet, to sit on a bench for a whole morning and wonder at the beauty of this sky.
The girl looks at him a second longer, and then runs inside. He smiles to himself, and then stands up. He stretches his long limbs, and cracks his neck, looking up and down the street as he does so. Then he sits back down and goes back to his sky gazing.
Sunday, 14 July 2013
Blogging
I've had this blog for a while now.
At first, I thought it would be more than anything a literary blog, where I would publish short stories, or a science blog, where I would publish about either what I was working on or cool things in the field of evo-devo or just in plain biology (or biochemistry). I'm not cut out for that. As I've said millions of times before, writing takes effort and time. Writing about a specific subject also takes research, a lot of rereading and checking of facts and commitment to the story. Things I am happy to do, but only once every few weeks, not enough to keep a blog going. So this slowly turned into a blog where I write about my ideas, what goes on in my head, my plans, my dreams... Basically, it's like a drawing board now, I sit to write the blog and things come together in my head, become clear.
The blog has not done wonders for my writing. I can sort out a blog entry in around twenty minutes (I try not to, but sometimes it's just so easy to sit down and spew a few hundred words without giving much thought to it), and I don't really take much time into rereading or correcting. This is terrible for technique, but I admit it's a good exercise in clarity. I'm not going to claim I am a clear writer. I never have been: I have to make an effort to get my ideas across and to not get muddled up in the process. However, I think writing the blog has made me a bit better. It has also taught me that I don't always know what's bothering me about a certain topic until I start writing about it. I've learnt that I like talking about myself a lot more than I like, and that I care a lot more about some things than I thought I did.
In writing this blog I've also learnt to consider other people's writing a lot better. Since a lot of these posts are put together fast, on the spurt of the moment, when I've had an idea or read something that shocked me, I've learnt to detect when other people do the same, and when people have actually put a lot of work into a post. I think this is important when reading (and even more so when analyzing) a piece: in a hurry, someone might make a factual mistake, or a rash judgement, posts that have been thought through are usually more thoughtful, more insightful and more dangerous, in the sense that if the ideas have been thought about thoroughly they are usually strongly believed.
Last of all, I suspect one thing this blog has taught me is that I enjoy writing. I knew this, but I always thought it was all about fiction, I thought essays were rather dull, that comment pieces were OK, but ultimately pointless. Now I get it. I like writing for the sake of writing itself, yes, for the beauty of the written word (wow, that sounds very cheesy), but a lot of the time I like writing because I want to say what I think, and I want other people to know what I think. Yes, I write this blog for attention, yes I thrive on it (the attention, not the blog). I like being told that someone reads it, and more than that, I love being told that someone enjoys it (and especially, I like people who disagree with what I'm saying, they make my day). Yes, I write for me, and if no one read this blog, that wouldn't stop me from writing it, but let's admit it, I quite enjoy the attention.
So I guess this was a sort of "sum up", a check of what this blog has turned into in a few short months. To any readers I might have out there: thanks for reading. Please comment (if only to make me feel read).
H
At first, I thought it would be more than anything a literary blog, where I would publish short stories, or a science blog, where I would publish about either what I was working on or cool things in the field of evo-devo or just in plain biology (or biochemistry). I'm not cut out for that. As I've said millions of times before, writing takes effort and time. Writing about a specific subject also takes research, a lot of rereading and checking of facts and commitment to the story. Things I am happy to do, but only once every few weeks, not enough to keep a blog going. So this slowly turned into a blog where I write about my ideas, what goes on in my head, my plans, my dreams... Basically, it's like a drawing board now, I sit to write the blog and things come together in my head, become clear.
The blog has not done wonders for my writing. I can sort out a blog entry in around twenty minutes (I try not to, but sometimes it's just so easy to sit down and spew a few hundred words without giving much thought to it), and I don't really take much time into rereading or correcting. This is terrible for technique, but I admit it's a good exercise in clarity. I'm not going to claim I am a clear writer. I never have been: I have to make an effort to get my ideas across and to not get muddled up in the process. However, I think writing the blog has made me a bit better. It has also taught me that I don't always know what's bothering me about a certain topic until I start writing about it. I've learnt that I like talking about myself a lot more than I like, and that I care a lot more about some things than I thought I did.
In writing this blog I've also learnt to consider other people's writing a lot better. Since a lot of these posts are put together fast, on the spurt of the moment, when I've had an idea or read something that shocked me, I've learnt to detect when other people do the same, and when people have actually put a lot of work into a post. I think this is important when reading (and even more so when analyzing) a piece: in a hurry, someone might make a factual mistake, or a rash judgement, posts that have been thought through are usually more thoughtful, more insightful and more dangerous, in the sense that if the ideas have been thought about thoroughly they are usually strongly believed.
Last of all, I suspect one thing this blog has taught me is that I enjoy writing. I knew this, but I always thought it was all about fiction, I thought essays were rather dull, that comment pieces were OK, but ultimately pointless. Now I get it. I like writing for the sake of writing itself, yes, for the beauty of the written word (wow, that sounds very cheesy), but a lot of the time I like writing because I want to say what I think, and I want other people to know what I think. Yes, I write this blog for attention, yes I thrive on it (the attention, not the blog). I like being told that someone reads it, and more than that, I love being told that someone enjoys it (and especially, I like people who disagree with what I'm saying, they make my day). Yes, I write for me, and if no one read this blog, that wouldn't stop me from writing it, but let's admit it, I quite enjoy the attention.
So I guess this was a sort of "sum up", a check of what this blog has turned into in a few short months. To any readers I might have out there: thanks for reading. Please comment (if only to make me feel read).
H
Friday, 12 July 2013
Narratives
Lately, I've had the chance to read a few articles about manic pixie dream girl, and I've had the time to think a lot about narrative.
I am a writer. The first story I ever wrote my dad had to type because I didn't know how yet, I must have been about four. I never stopped. I write short stories, to me, they are perfection, a lot more so than a novel. I also think they require more work than a novel, and that they require a lot more patience to be digested than many novels do. This isn't a criticism to novels (not by far, I love the genre almost as much as I love short stories), it's simply a reflection of my love for short stories. I think of short stories as small, incredibly detailed and beautiful works of art. Somewhere, bound between two yellow covers, is a volume containing the short stories I had completed from the ages of 10 to 15. They are fairly disparate, some written in the first person, others in the third, some more realistic, some less (though I tend to go with realistic fiction), some with happy endings (though most not), some autobiographical, some not. With four notable exceptions, the main characters in all of them are girls or women. The four notable exceptions are as follows: a man who kills another man for playing Telemann's Viola Concerto in G Major, a boy whose aunt has died, my dog (this is probably my favourite of all my short stories, and I am the other main character in it), and a pawn and a doll who live in an attic and remember all battles (both of them female, yes, but not women). The four exceptions are notable because they are my most honest and possibly most violent story, my most magically ordinary story, my favourite story, and the story I first one a writing competition with. However, the reason for mentioning them here has little to do with that.
I identify with my main characters. They are all me, to a greater or lesser extent. Some of them are me as I was, some are me as I wish to be. Others have small parts of me details, but they're based on someone else. Still others, are me how I might have thought it would be cool to be, but I could never be. But they are all me, I identify with all of them, and humanly, I can understand all of them, their actions, their desires, their anger. They are (I hope) human, people, with their virtues and their defects, but fundamentally unique. And I hope that they are not a trope, a cast, a type.
It pains me when I read about narratives and I am told that characters in movies (or in books) are a "type" that does this and that and the other thing. I happen to think that this isn't true. A character is a person. Narratives are something else. Narratives are the expectations we create of people in our heads, the way we think our friends will react when we tell them what last happened to us, how we think our boss will praise us for our latest success or how they will punish us for our latest failure. They are something we create in order to cope with the world, because understanding and discerning as we may be, we cannot truly know another person. So we create a character, a character that is a lot like the person we know, but has a little bit of us, so we can understand the reactions and the actions. It's called empathy, yes, putting ourselves in the place of others, but it's also narrative.
It's important to understand that narratives aren't intrinsically bad. Some are more common than others, yes, and some seem to be applied to so many people they become annoying. But narratives in themselves aren't bad. They help us deal with the world. The problem comes when we believe the world to be our narrative. It's one thing for me to expect someone to react in a certain fashion, it's an entirely different thing for me to be angry because they didn't. I can be angry because of something done to me, but I shouldn't be angry because my expectations weren't met. After all, my expectations are in my head, they are part of me, not part of others.
It is often said that disappointment, and not anger, is the worst thing you can show a child. This is because we put so much stock into our narratives for others. We expect them to act in a certain way, and when they don't they usually disappoint us. We are not happy with how they have acted and we show it as their failure. As adults, we should learn it is not their failure, but our own. Our failure to see other people as they are, and our failure to accept them when they show themselves as diverging from our narrative. Of course, some people may surprise us. Some people will fit into a narrative in our heads and insist in jumping out of it, and creating a new character, a new narrative, something a bit more unexpected and a bit less predictable. These people, or rather, their effects on how we understand the world, are magical. They make us see that we are all different, that there is no general case, but more than anything, that as much as we might like narratives (I love them, I have one for each and every single person I know) we have to understand that they are not reality.
Narratives are fiction. Detailed, beautiful, complex fiction. They are how we know people, and (by a simple extension) they are also how we know the world. But beware: it takes a single experiment to disprove a theory, the world is real, independent of our perceptions and our narratives. We should never forget that.
I am a writer. The first story I ever wrote my dad had to type because I didn't know how yet, I must have been about four. I never stopped. I write short stories, to me, they are perfection, a lot more so than a novel. I also think they require more work than a novel, and that they require a lot more patience to be digested than many novels do. This isn't a criticism to novels (not by far, I love the genre almost as much as I love short stories), it's simply a reflection of my love for short stories. I think of short stories as small, incredibly detailed and beautiful works of art. Somewhere, bound between two yellow covers, is a volume containing the short stories I had completed from the ages of 10 to 15. They are fairly disparate, some written in the first person, others in the third, some more realistic, some less (though I tend to go with realistic fiction), some with happy endings (though most not), some autobiographical, some not. With four notable exceptions, the main characters in all of them are girls or women. The four notable exceptions are as follows: a man who kills another man for playing Telemann's Viola Concerto in G Major, a boy whose aunt has died, my dog (this is probably my favourite of all my short stories, and I am the other main character in it), and a pawn and a doll who live in an attic and remember all battles (both of them female, yes, but not women). The four exceptions are notable because they are my most honest and possibly most violent story, my most magically ordinary story, my favourite story, and the story I first one a writing competition with. However, the reason for mentioning them here has little to do with that.
I identify with my main characters. They are all me, to a greater or lesser extent. Some of them are me as I was, some are me as I wish to be. Others have small parts of me details, but they're based on someone else. Still others, are me how I might have thought it would be cool to be, but I could never be. But they are all me, I identify with all of them, and humanly, I can understand all of them, their actions, their desires, their anger. They are (I hope) human, people, with their virtues and their defects, but fundamentally unique. And I hope that they are not a trope, a cast, a type.
It pains me when I read about narratives and I am told that characters in movies (or in books) are a "type" that does this and that and the other thing. I happen to think that this isn't true. A character is a person. Narratives are something else. Narratives are the expectations we create of people in our heads, the way we think our friends will react when we tell them what last happened to us, how we think our boss will praise us for our latest success or how they will punish us for our latest failure. They are something we create in order to cope with the world, because understanding and discerning as we may be, we cannot truly know another person. So we create a character, a character that is a lot like the person we know, but has a little bit of us, so we can understand the reactions and the actions. It's called empathy, yes, putting ourselves in the place of others, but it's also narrative.
It's important to understand that narratives aren't intrinsically bad. Some are more common than others, yes, and some seem to be applied to so many people they become annoying. But narratives in themselves aren't bad. They help us deal with the world. The problem comes when we believe the world to be our narrative. It's one thing for me to expect someone to react in a certain fashion, it's an entirely different thing for me to be angry because they didn't. I can be angry because of something done to me, but I shouldn't be angry because my expectations weren't met. After all, my expectations are in my head, they are part of me, not part of others.
It is often said that disappointment, and not anger, is the worst thing you can show a child. This is because we put so much stock into our narratives for others. We expect them to act in a certain way, and when they don't they usually disappoint us. We are not happy with how they have acted and we show it as their failure. As adults, we should learn it is not their failure, but our own. Our failure to see other people as they are, and our failure to accept them when they show themselves as diverging from our narrative. Of course, some people may surprise us. Some people will fit into a narrative in our heads and insist in jumping out of it, and creating a new character, a new narrative, something a bit more unexpected and a bit less predictable. These people, or rather, their effects on how we understand the world, are magical. They make us see that we are all different, that there is no general case, but more than anything, that as much as we might like narratives (I love them, I have one for each and every single person I know) we have to understand that they are not reality.
Narratives are fiction. Detailed, beautiful, complex fiction. They are how we know people, and (by a simple extension) they are also how we know the world. But beware: it takes a single experiment to disprove a theory, the world is real, independent of our perceptions and our narratives. We should never forget that.
San Fermín
I hadn't noticed until this year, but apparently it's a typical aspect of the "sanfermines" that women get drunk and flash their breasts in crowds.
This action leads to men (and perhaps women, but in the pictures I've mainly seen men) trying to grab those breasts exposed to the public. A blog post in El País (I'm afraid is in Spanish) says very simply that this is unacceptable behaviour, that just because a woman (being drunk or not) decides to show her breasts doesn't mean anyone has the right to grab her or touch her. I thought this was common sense. And then I went down to the comments section.
The internet has made it so that we can comment on anything, freely, without having to take responsibility for our words (see here for my thoughts on this). This means that a lot of the comments under the post were openly sexist: "if she shows her breasts off, she's clearly offering", "what did she expect if she does that?", etc. But what bothered me weren't these comments (well, they did, but it wasn't what most worried me), it was a few comments of the type "there are war and famine in the world, and we have to worry about this?". This type of comment chills me. It produces terror.
I believe that all great inequalities arise from a small act of ignorance (not ignorance as stupidity, but ignorance as the act of ignoring). We ignore problems for many reasons, usually because we don't recognise them as problems, but in many cases, we ignore problems because we deem them to be too small to tackle. This is ridiculous. When we are trying to solve a practical problem, we tend to divide it into its component parts, and solve those one by one. We tend to reduce the problem if we can, and tackle it by parts. The idea that solving small problems isn't worth it because "there are bigger problems out there" leads to small problems becoming big problems.
As an individual, I may not be able to do much more about a war than publicise that it is happening and perhaps (if I have the skills and the possibility) go to the area and try to help people get out or help people survive. In any case, as an individual I have little chance of stopping a war. Same thing with famine: I can contribute to charities, I can try to help, but as an individual without a support network there is little I can do. However, there is quite a bit I can do about sexism. I can start by writing about it, and saying that it is wrong. I can follow up by calling people up on it, especially if they don't realise that they are being sexist. I can continue by confronting those who will touch a woman without her consent because she decides to bear her breasts, especially if she is drunk.
This is a problem that is within our reach as individuals. It won't be solved unless many individuals try to solve it, but it doesn't require a previous infrastructure to be solved. There's nothing special needed (the agreement of governments, ridiculous money) to stop casual sexism like this. Especially because a lot of this casual sexism is simply unnoticed.
One more thing: I don't know what would have happened if instead of a few women showing their breasts, it had been a few men showing their penises. I don't think women would have gone for the grab, but I don't know. I suspect it is a statement on the sexism of society, that men don't feel the need to get naked to attract anyone else or to call attention to themselves, whereas some women do.
This action leads to men (and perhaps women, but in the pictures I've mainly seen men) trying to grab those breasts exposed to the public. A blog post in El País (I'm afraid is in Spanish) says very simply that this is unacceptable behaviour, that just because a woman (being drunk or not) decides to show her breasts doesn't mean anyone has the right to grab her or touch her. I thought this was common sense. And then I went down to the comments section.
The internet has made it so that we can comment on anything, freely, without having to take responsibility for our words (see here for my thoughts on this). This means that a lot of the comments under the post were openly sexist: "if she shows her breasts off, she's clearly offering", "what did she expect if she does that?", etc. But what bothered me weren't these comments (well, they did, but it wasn't what most worried me), it was a few comments of the type "there are war and famine in the world, and we have to worry about this?". This type of comment chills me. It produces terror.
I believe that all great inequalities arise from a small act of ignorance (not ignorance as stupidity, but ignorance as the act of ignoring). We ignore problems for many reasons, usually because we don't recognise them as problems, but in many cases, we ignore problems because we deem them to be too small to tackle. This is ridiculous. When we are trying to solve a practical problem, we tend to divide it into its component parts, and solve those one by one. We tend to reduce the problem if we can, and tackle it by parts. The idea that solving small problems isn't worth it because "there are bigger problems out there" leads to small problems becoming big problems.
As an individual, I may not be able to do much more about a war than publicise that it is happening and perhaps (if I have the skills and the possibility) go to the area and try to help people get out or help people survive. In any case, as an individual I have little chance of stopping a war. Same thing with famine: I can contribute to charities, I can try to help, but as an individual without a support network there is little I can do. However, there is quite a bit I can do about sexism. I can start by writing about it, and saying that it is wrong. I can follow up by calling people up on it, especially if they don't realise that they are being sexist. I can continue by confronting those who will touch a woman without her consent because she decides to bear her breasts, especially if she is drunk.
This is a problem that is within our reach as individuals. It won't be solved unless many individuals try to solve it, but it doesn't require a previous infrastructure to be solved. There's nothing special needed (the agreement of governments, ridiculous money) to stop casual sexism like this. Especially because a lot of this casual sexism is simply unnoticed.
One more thing: I don't know what would have happened if instead of a few women showing their breasts, it had been a few men showing their penises. I don't think women would have gone for the grab, but I don't know. I suspect it is a statement on the sexism of society, that men don't feel the need to get naked to attract anyone else or to call attention to themselves, whereas some women do.
Wednesday, 10 July 2013
"Life means Life"
Note: this article deals with my personal moral ideas about life sentences in prison. It doesn't go into whether or not the European court of human rights has any right to involve itself in Great Britain's legal affairs.
Yesterday, the European court of human rights ruled that life imprisonment without any prospect of release is inhuman and degrading treatment of prisoners. And I was glad they did.
I have never agreed with the death penalty. Firstly, I don't want to be part of a society that makes me responsible for the death of anyone, and if I am part of a society that condones the death penalty, I am by extension responsible for the death of anyone to whom it is applied. Secondly, a worrying amount of innocent people have died due to the death penalty. This second argument, unlike the first, is less ideological than purely practical: if someone is to be punished, they should be punished in a reversible way, after all, there's always a sliver of chance they may not be guilty. However, for a long time, I agreed with life sentences in prison.
Yesterday, however, I realized my views had changed. I heard what the European court of human rights' ruling had been, and I couldn't help but be happy. Because deep down I am an idealist, and I believe in second chances. But that's not the only reason.
This morning, I was listening to the news, and they were discussing the ruling. Someone said "what about the rights of the victims?". I may be wrong about this, but usually, life sentences in prison are reserved for killers. The victims are dead. They don't care about their rights. Some may argue that the dead people's families are the "real" victims, or at least, the suffering victims. While I may agree with this view, the crime committed isn't causing a family pain, it is killing. No, the victims of murder are dead. They don't know about their rights. Others will say, "but what about their rights when they were alive?" and they would be right. Their rights were violated. But nothing we do after they are dead will fix that, nothing we can do will bring them back, or make up for the fact that they are dead. That is the first reason why I don't believe in life in prison.
The other reasons are more idealistic: I believe that the prison system exists to isolate dangerous people, "retrain" them, and reinsert them into society. I believe the main aim of having a judicial system is not punishment, but reinsertion. In short, as I've said before, I believe in second chances. Why? There are many reasons. One could be the fact that even psychopaths can lead happy and productive lives without killing anyone (famously, James Fallon, a neuroscientist in the University of California, Irvine, found out he was a psychopath when trying to ensure that no one in his family had inherited the traits from his father's side of the family), even though this could be of course due to different degrees of psychopathy. Another is that if I don't believe in restitution for killers, why should I believe in it for anyone else? I am not saying all killers are psychopaths, but I suspect that psychopaths are the most likely to kill again. My last reason is this: if full prison sentences are served they are usually long enough to have taken away a huge chunk of someone's life. This means that by the time they leave prison, people's lives are at a restart, and I believe that this gives them the chance to start anew.
So, I don't believe in life sentences. What I do believe in is in people spending their lives in jail. This may sound contradictory, but it isn't. I grew up in a country that was terrorized by the group ETA. When I was a child I was occasionally scared of going to the capital, or leaving my own (small) city, where I felt safe, it felt unlikely anything would happen there (and yet, there was an explosion in a café I visit relatively frequently). When members of ETA were caught, they were sentenced to thousands of years in prison, however they couldn't serve more than 40 years, because in Spain prison sentences are served simultaneously. I found this degrading, scary and horrible. Some of these people had killed tens of people. They didn't feel remorse. If asked, a lot of them would say they would do it again. They would threaten politicians, they would blackmail businessmen, they would kidnap and kill people, and they would blow up bombs. A thousand years in jail should be a thousand years in jail.
The point mentioned above regards terrorism or genocides however. Acts of violence that involve many deaths, that try to push an idea as more important than lives. And I still don't think a single prison sentences should be a life sentence.
Last of all, the European court ruling has a caveat (or I like to think of it that way). It says "life imprisonment without any prospect of release". I think that if there is a life sentence (and I believe there shouldn't be), there should be at least a chance to be heard. To have a hearing every few years when criminals could say "I was wrong, I have changed, I won't do it again, let me out". They don't need to be released (necessarily), but there should be a chance of release, some hope.
Yesterday, the European court of human rights ruled that life imprisonment without any prospect of release is inhuman and degrading treatment of prisoners. And I was glad they did.
I have never agreed with the death penalty. Firstly, I don't want to be part of a society that makes me responsible for the death of anyone, and if I am part of a society that condones the death penalty, I am by extension responsible for the death of anyone to whom it is applied. Secondly, a worrying amount of innocent people have died due to the death penalty. This second argument, unlike the first, is less ideological than purely practical: if someone is to be punished, they should be punished in a reversible way, after all, there's always a sliver of chance they may not be guilty. However, for a long time, I agreed with life sentences in prison.
Yesterday, however, I realized my views had changed. I heard what the European court of human rights' ruling had been, and I couldn't help but be happy. Because deep down I am an idealist, and I believe in second chances. But that's not the only reason.
This morning, I was listening to the news, and they were discussing the ruling. Someone said "what about the rights of the victims?". I may be wrong about this, but usually, life sentences in prison are reserved for killers. The victims are dead. They don't care about their rights. Some may argue that the dead people's families are the "real" victims, or at least, the suffering victims. While I may agree with this view, the crime committed isn't causing a family pain, it is killing. No, the victims of murder are dead. They don't know about their rights. Others will say, "but what about their rights when they were alive?" and they would be right. Their rights were violated. But nothing we do after they are dead will fix that, nothing we can do will bring them back, or make up for the fact that they are dead. That is the first reason why I don't believe in life in prison.
The other reasons are more idealistic: I believe that the prison system exists to isolate dangerous people, "retrain" them, and reinsert them into society. I believe the main aim of having a judicial system is not punishment, but reinsertion. In short, as I've said before, I believe in second chances. Why? There are many reasons. One could be the fact that even psychopaths can lead happy and productive lives without killing anyone (famously, James Fallon, a neuroscientist in the University of California, Irvine, found out he was a psychopath when trying to ensure that no one in his family had inherited the traits from his father's side of the family), even though this could be of course due to different degrees of psychopathy. Another is that if I don't believe in restitution for killers, why should I believe in it for anyone else? I am not saying all killers are psychopaths, but I suspect that psychopaths are the most likely to kill again. My last reason is this: if full prison sentences are served they are usually long enough to have taken away a huge chunk of someone's life. This means that by the time they leave prison, people's lives are at a restart, and I believe that this gives them the chance to start anew.
So, I don't believe in life sentences. What I do believe in is in people spending their lives in jail. This may sound contradictory, but it isn't. I grew up in a country that was terrorized by the group ETA. When I was a child I was occasionally scared of going to the capital, or leaving my own (small) city, where I felt safe, it felt unlikely anything would happen there (and yet, there was an explosion in a café I visit relatively frequently). When members of ETA were caught, they were sentenced to thousands of years in prison, however they couldn't serve more than 40 years, because in Spain prison sentences are served simultaneously. I found this degrading, scary and horrible. Some of these people had killed tens of people. They didn't feel remorse. If asked, a lot of them would say they would do it again. They would threaten politicians, they would blackmail businessmen, they would kidnap and kill people, and they would blow up bombs. A thousand years in jail should be a thousand years in jail.
The point mentioned above regards terrorism or genocides however. Acts of violence that involve many deaths, that try to push an idea as more important than lives. And I still don't think a single prison sentences should be a life sentence.
Last of all, the European court ruling has a caveat (or I like to think of it that way). It says "life imprisonment without any prospect of release". I think that if there is a life sentence (and I believe there shouldn't be), there should be at least a chance to be heard. To have a hearing every few years when criminals could say "I was wrong, I have changed, I won't do it again, let me out". They don't need to be released (necessarily), but there should be a chance of release, some hope.
Monday, 8 July 2013
Idealism
I find myself having the same argument over and over again, with slightly different people. It goes something like this: they'll say something that I find perfect, but unrealistic. Or they'll say something that I find horrible, but realistic. And I'm forced to admit I take sides with the realistic group.
I'm only 22 and I sometimes feel like I'm jaded. I don't think about utopias because I know they can never exist, and I find myself agreeing with people whose ideas I would by nature reject.
A few years ago I spent a night sitting in bed with a really close friend. We spoke until dawn about how the world could be made better. We were full of ideas about what we wanted to do with our lives, how we would make a difference, how we could change the world for the better. Back then, I truly believed it could be done. Sometimes I think I've lost it. I am too cynical for it, I don't have ideals anymore, I don't believe the world can be made better, or at least not by me. And I miss that girl that I used to be, who used to dream with ending world hunger, and protecting the Amazon. It was naïve, but hey, I'm young, it's what I should be fighting for.
Now I've realised that that part of me isn't gone. Not really. It's still there, happily nestled somewhere close to my heart, but it doesn't come out often. It hides. A lot of other parts of me hide it a lot of the time, parts of me that I have to deal with day to day. But it's still there.
All I need is someone to draw it out. Someone who will sit with me for hours discussing South American literature, or Middle Eastern politics, or how to save the world from global warming. Someone who also thinks they've lost this part of themselves, and who would be happy to get it back, if just for a few hours, to remember that the world is worth living in, and worth saving.
If anyone feels up for the job, get in touch. I'd love to have a chat.
I'm only 22 and I sometimes feel like I'm jaded. I don't think about utopias because I know they can never exist, and I find myself agreeing with people whose ideas I would by nature reject.
A few years ago I spent a night sitting in bed with a really close friend. We spoke until dawn about how the world could be made better. We were full of ideas about what we wanted to do with our lives, how we would make a difference, how we could change the world for the better. Back then, I truly believed it could be done. Sometimes I think I've lost it. I am too cynical for it, I don't have ideals anymore, I don't believe the world can be made better, or at least not by me. And I miss that girl that I used to be, who used to dream with ending world hunger, and protecting the Amazon. It was naïve, but hey, I'm young, it's what I should be fighting for.
Now I've realised that that part of me isn't gone. Not really. It's still there, happily nestled somewhere close to my heart, but it doesn't come out often. It hides. A lot of other parts of me hide it a lot of the time, parts of me that I have to deal with day to day. But it's still there.
All I need is someone to draw it out. Someone who will sit with me for hours discussing South American literature, or Middle Eastern politics, or how to save the world from global warming. Someone who also thinks they've lost this part of themselves, and who would be happy to get it back, if just for a few hours, to remember that the world is worth living in, and worth saving.
If anyone feels up for the job, get in touch. I'd love to have a chat.
Thursday, 4 July 2013
PhD interview questions
This year I was lucky enough to be working in a lab, more than that, I was lucky enough to be working in a lab that was looking for a new PhD student to start their doctorate in September. The reasons I say I was lucky are mainly two: working in a lab has made me realise what I want and don't want from a job in research, and the fact that my lab was looking for a new PhD student meant I was part of the interview process, which allowed me to see the process before I go through it (if I go through it) and from the other side.
One of the things that I noticed when doing interviews (well, I wasn't exactly interviewing, just chatting to the candidates for a while, getting an idea of what they were like, what they had done and what they were expecting from the lab) is that very few of our interviewees asked questions, and much less the right questions. There's two types of questions you want to ask when you have an interview in a lab: the ones you ask the lab leader, and the ones you don't. Lately I've been making a short list for each of them, so here it is.
Questions to ask the lab leader
1. What are your expectations from people working in the lab? (In other words, what are you looking for in the person you hire?)
This is a dangerous question to ask (because it might be taken to mean "I'm lazy, what do you want from me exactly?), but it can give you a hint as to the sort of qualities you might need to get a PhD, and more than that, it can give you a hint as to how the lab works. Is your lab leader looking for people who will collaborate? People who will be independent?
2. What are lab dynamics like?
This is an important question, but probably needs a bit more specificity. When you ask a lab leader this what you mean is how does the lab work. Are stocks shared? Is there a single person in charge of ordering everything every week and each person tells them or is each person in charge of their own stuff? Are there any shared facilities with other labs? How is the relationship with these other labs? Is everyone working on slightly different areas of a bigger collaborative project, or is each person doing completely different projects that fall within the same spectrum of the lab's main aim?
3. What are the resources like?
Here it starts getting a bit tricky, because few lab leaders will like to say that they have no resources, but it's important to know whether you'll be working in a place where you can spend money freely, or in a place where you have to count your pipettes.
Those are the questions I would ask of the lab leader, plus perhaps some academic questions.
Questions to ask anyone else (but the lab leader)
1. What is the lab leader like?
No one is going to say bad things about their boss, but you can glean out a lot by how this question is answered. Usually, people who are happy with their lab leader will answer immediately that it's great to work for them, and then they might mention one or two flaws. People who are unhappy with their lab leader will think for a few seconds and then find some sort of praise, that doesn't really sound that great.
2. Do people in the lab get along? What are lab dynamics like? Do you go for a beer once in a while?
This might sound like a stupid question but you don't want to be working in a place where the environment is tense and people don't get along. Just like in the case above, the answer to this question can tell you a lot about the lab and how people work there. It's also interesting to ask several people in the lab: it will become immediately obvious if there are antagonistic groups within the lab.
3. What are the hours like?
This question is slightly ridiculous in science: you work as much as you need to in order to get your results. But it's important to ask this question because it's very different to work as much as you need to and to work as much as you need to plus as much as your boss and other people in the lab want you to. You want to know if there are certain hours everyone keeps, if everyone comes in on weekends, etc. Some labs have a quite free policy about time, whereas in other labs people keep tabs on each other's hours.
4. What are lab dynamics like?
Although you've already asked this of the lab leader, you also want to ask it of people actually working in the lab. After all, the lab leader is the organiser, but generally they don't do a lot of lab work themselves. It's the postdocs and students that know if things are organised and work properly, and how well shared facilities are managed. They also know a lot more about how collaborative or individualistic people are with their projects, and how willing people are to share materials.
5. What kind of person fits in this lab?
This is a mixture of "what is expected of me" and "who would you like to come in". Answers can come in all sorts of different forms: from purely scientific and "jobby" attributes (hard workers, extremely intelligent, good at x, y or z) to personality traits that would be welcome (quiet, loud, friendly, reserved, assertive) to age (some labs prefer a younger population, others are happier with older people) to gender. It will give you an idea of what the people in the lab want the new "acquisition" to be, and whether you'll be happy to fit into that role, at least partially.
So those are my questions. Any suggestion? Things you wouldn't ask? Things you would?
One of the things that I noticed when doing interviews (well, I wasn't exactly interviewing, just chatting to the candidates for a while, getting an idea of what they were like, what they had done and what they were expecting from the lab) is that very few of our interviewees asked questions, and much less the right questions. There's two types of questions you want to ask when you have an interview in a lab: the ones you ask the lab leader, and the ones you don't. Lately I've been making a short list for each of them, so here it is.
Questions to ask the lab leader
1. What are your expectations from people working in the lab? (In other words, what are you looking for in the person you hire?)
This is a dangerous question to ask (because it might be taken to mean "I'm lazy, what do you want from me exactly?), but it can give you a hint as to the sort of qualities you might need to get a PhD, and more than that, it can give you a hint as to how the lab works. Is your lab leader looking for people who will collaborate? People who will be independent?
2. What are lab dynamics like?
This is an important question, but probably needs a bit more specificity. When you ask a lab leader this what you mean is how does the lab work. Are stocks shared? Is there a single person in charge of ordering everything every week and each person tells them or is each person in charge of their own stuff? Are there any shared facilities with other labs? How is the relationship with these other labs? Is everyone working on slightly different areas of a bigger collaborative project, or is each person doing completely different projects that fall within the same spectrum of the lab's main aim?
3. What are the resources like?
Here it starts getting a bit tricky, because few lab leaders will like to say that they have no resources, but it's important to know whether you'll be working in a place where you can spend money freely, or in a place where you have to count your pipettes.
Those are the questions I would ask of the lab leader, plus perhaps some academic questions.
Questions to ask anyone else (but the lab leader)
1. What is the lab leader like?
No one is going to say bad things about their boss, but you can glean out a lot by how this question is answered. Usually, people who are happy with their lab leader will answer immediately that it's great to work for them, and then they might mention one or two flaws. People who are unhappy with their lab leader will think for a few seconds and then find some sort of praise, that doesn't really sound that great.
2. Do people in the lab get along? What are lab dynamics like? Do you go for a beer once in a while?
This might sound like a stupid question but you don't want to be working in a place where the environment is tense and people don't get along. Just like in the case above, the answer to this question can tell you a lot about the lab and how people work there. It's also interesting to ask several people in the lab: it will become immediately obvious if there are antagonistic groups within the lab.
3. What are the hours like?
This question is slightly ridiculous in science: you work as much as you need to in order to get your results. But it's important to ask this question because it's very different to work as much as you need to and to work as much as you need to plus as much as your boss and other people in the lab want you to. You want to know if there are certain hours everyone keeps, if everyone comes in on weekends, etc. Some labs have a quite free policy about time, whereas in other labs people keep tabs on each other's hours.
4. What are lab dynamics like?
Although you've already asked this of the lab leader, you also want to ask it of people actually working in the lab. After all, the lab leader is the organiser, but generally they don't do a lot of lab work themselves. It's the postdocs and students that know if things are organised and work properly, and how well shared facilities are managed. They also know a lot more about how collaborative or individualistic people are with their projects, and how willing people are to share materials.
5. What kind of person fits in this lab?
This is a mixture of "what is expected of me" and "who would you like to come in". Answers can come in all sorts of different forms: from purely scientific and "jobby" attributes (hard workers, extremely intelligent, good at x, y or z) to personality traits that would be welcome (quiet, loud, friendly, reserved, assertive) to age (some labs prefer a younger population, others are happier with older people) to gender. It will give you an idea of what the people in the lab want the new "acquisition" to be, and whether you'll be happy to fit into that role, at least partially.
So those are my questions. Any suggestion? Things you wouldn't ask? Things you would?
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
Summer
I first moved to the UK three years ago. The reasons for moving then were several, but the main one was I'd gotten a place to study at a UK university and I thought I'd do well to at least try it out.
Since then, I've fallen in love with London (quite literally, I didn't like the city when I first moved here, and now I hate to think that I might have to leave), I've enjoyed my university, met lots of great people and generally enjoyed myself thoroughly. There are always things to complain about however, and coming from "sunny Spain" I soon became one of the throng dissing British weather.
It's actually just one thing that really gets to me: the lack of light. It depresses me, and I have a low point every year just before January exams: darkness affects me more than I like to admit. When I go home for Christmas I am instantly happy, even though it's colder back home, just because I get sunlight for nine or ten straight hours (8AM to 6PM, even in December!). So even though I complain about the weather, it's not really the weather I have an issue with.
In fact, I have to say I love the London summer. I may complain that it's rainy, and that it's not real summer. I may say that I wish I were back home kicking back and enjoying 30ºC temperatures. The truth is this: I hate hot summers. I hate being in the sun for too long. I hate being hot. I quite like going to the pool, and the beach (well, depending), but other than that, the hot Spanish summer for me means being extremely uncomfortable. My skin is extremely sensitive to heat, and sweat combined with heat makes my atopic dermatitis flare up. I never feel clean, and heat makes me want to cut my hair short (even more than usual). In short, I'm more of a spring-autumn kind of girl, even a winter kind of girl. Definitely not a summer person. At least not in Spain.
London, with its cool temperatures, it's occasional rain and it's occasional excellent sunny days is just perfect for me. It gives me exactly what I need from summer. Although, British people still amuse me: they will wear shorts and short-sleeve T-shirts when it's clearly too cold for it, and they will have headlines in their papers such as "working in the 25ºC heat". Look, 25ºC isn't heat. It's mild weather. Not even warm enough to spend the day lounging outside the pool.
There's another advantage to British summers, and this is work (and especially study) wise. If you've ever taken a four and a half hour Thermodynamics and Kinetics exam in 30ºC heat you would understand. Doing any sort of work in properly hot weather is exhausting, dehydrating, makes you feel horrible when you're done. The only way to survive Spanish summers is to do as little as possible, with any luck close to a source of cold water that you can immerse yourself in periodically. Summers in London are a lot more productive.
Last but not least, there's the fact that I think London is at its most beautiful on sunny spring-weathery days, when white houses brighten up, there's flowers everywhere and people take to the streets (and pubs) to enjoy the weather. It makes me happy to live in this city.
I guess what I'm saying is that for me, the London summer makes up for the London winter. And I would certainly not change it for the Spanish summer (well, maybe for a two or three weeks).
Since then, I've fallen in love with London (quite literally, I didn't like the city when I first moved here, and now I hate to think that I might have to leave), I've enjoyed my university, met lots of great people and generally enjoyed myself thoroughly. There are always things to complain about however, and coming from "sunny Spain" I soon became one of the throng dissing British weather.
It's actually just one thing that really gets to me: the lack of light. It depresses me, and I have a low point every year just before January exams: darkness affects me more than I like to admit. When I go home for Christmas I am instantly happy, even though it's colder back home, just because I get sunlight for nine or ten straight hours (8AM to 6PM, even in December!). So even though I complain about the weather, it's not really the weather I have an issue with.
In fact, I have to say I love the London summer. I may complain that it's rainy, and that it's not real summer. I may say that I wish I were back home kicking back and enjoying 30ºC temperatures. The truth is this: I hate hot summers. I hate being in the sun for too long. I hate being hot. I quite like going to the pool, and the beach (well, depending), but other than that, the hot Spanish summer for me means being extremely uncomfortable. My skin is extremely sensitive to heat, and sweat combined with heat makes my atopic dermatitis flare up. I never feel clean, and heat makes me want to cut my hair short (even more than usual). In short, I'm more of a spring-autumn kind of girl, even a winter kind of girl. Definitely not a summer person. At least not in Spain.
London, with its cool temperatures, it's occasional rain and it's occasional excellent sunny days is just perfect for me. It gives me exactly what I need from summer. Although, British people still amuse me: they will wear shorts and short-sleeve T-shirts when it's clearly too cold for it, and they will have headlines in their papers such as "working in the 25ºC heat". Look, 25ºC isn't heat. It's mild weather. Not even warm enough to spend the day lounging outside the pool.
There's another advantage to British summers, and this is work (and especially study) wise. If you've ever taken a four and a half hour Thermodynamics and Kinetics exam in 30ºC heat you would understand. Doing any sort of work in properly hot weather is exhausting, dehydrating, makes you feel horrible when you're done. The only way to survive Spanish summers is to do as little as possible, with any luck close to a source of cold water that you can immerse yourself in periodically. Summers in London are a lot more productive.
Last but not least, there's the fact that I think London is at its most beautiful on sunny spring-weathery days, when white houses brighten up, there's flowers everywhere and people take to the streets (and pubs) to enjoy the weather. It makes me happy to live in this city.
I guess what I'm saying is that for me, the London summer makes up for the London winter. And I would certainly not change it for the Spanish summer (well, maybe for a two or three weeks).
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Equal opportunities
Equality is a sore topic with me. It's one I don't like discussing because I often get told to check my privilege, and rightly so. I was born in Spain in the 90s, to teacher parents, who weren't rich, but had enough to live on. I am a single child, and so I've been spoilt rotten my whole life. I look white (even though racially I cannot be described as Caucasian). I am a girl, but as I've discussed before, I don't really feel like I've been discriminated against for this yet. I am not the prettiest girl around, but I'm not the ugliest either. And I may not be the smartest person around, but I think I can say that I am not stupid. All this adds up to me being extremely privileged. All my life I've been told I could do whatever I wanted, and it's true. I've never felt there was anything I couldn't achieve if I tried hard enough. All this has led me to have a problem when I discuss equality. Specifically, when I discuss equal rights as pertaining to education.
I believe in equal opportunities. Problem is, equal opportunities aren't the same as equality. Equal opportunities mean that two people born with the exact same mental and physical characteristics should have the same chance of doing anything regardless of their socioeconomic background. I agree with this. I don't think who your parents are (other than the fact that you'll inherit traits from them), or where you are born, or your gender, or your sexual orientation, or your race, or your social class should affect what you can achieve, especially in an education background. But I don't believe in equality.
Recently, the Spanish minister for education confirmed that in order to be granted a bursary for studying at University, students would need to have an average grade of 6.5 over 10 and have passed 90% of their credits on the previous year. This is a change from the previous rules, according to which students only needed an average of a 5 over 10 (that is the pass grade in Spain) and to have passed 85% of their credits. The rules are somewhat more lenient for engineering degrees because they are considered more difficult (statistically, less people finish engineering degrees in the programmed time than any other qualification in Spain). A lot of people have complained that these measures ensure that education will only be for the rich or for the excellent. And the only thing I can think of is: why not?
Education has always been for the rich: whatever happens bursary-wise won't really affect them because there will always be private universities willing to take students whose parents can pay the fee. The excellent (if you can call someone with an average grade of 6.5 over 10 "excellent": please remember that I'm speaking of the Spanish education system, a 6.5 in Spain is not equivalent to a 65% in the UK, not because the system is worse, let me make this clear, but simply because the system is different) have not always had access to education, although it was easier for them to access education than it was for someone who happened to be both poor and "non-excellent". In the past century, perhaps in the past two centuries, education has been made more and more accessible for the excellent, but in fact, it has been made more accessible to everyone, and this is a good thing and something that should be kept up. The creation of a public (state) education system is a great advance and a step forward in the path to equal opportunities.
Now, why do I say that why not education only for the rich and excellent? Well, here's the thing: I think everyone has the right to a quality, free primary school education. In fact, I will go further than that. I think everyone has the right to a quality, free primary school education and a quality free secondary school education. In my opinion, the cut-off age for secondary school should be 15 years old, but currently in Spain it's 16. I'm not going to go into this matter now. In any case, I believe every person born into a modern state should have the right to a quality education until a certain age. After a certain age things change. If we accept equal opportunities, we should accept that in a country with a free quality education until the time people are (for example) 16, all people who are 16 have had access to an education, they have had equal opportunity to take advantage of this education.
After this, equal opportunity loses a bit of meaning to me. If they've had access to approximately the same resources (and this is what a quality education should ensure), two people with the same qualities should be able to gain approximately the same grades on the same standardised national exam. And if this is true, then rules saying that you can only get a bursary if you get a certain grade aren't discriminatory against social background, they are discriminatory against intelligence and hard work.
And here I admit my own experience comes in. I was a straight-A student for pretty much all of my secondary school years. The subjects I was bad at were (quite typically for a nerd) art and physical education. You needed talent for these. Everything else I was pretty good at.
I never understood why I couldn't go to the Olympic Games (based on the fact that I wasn't good enough at sport) but someone who wasn't good enough at studying could go to University anyway. And get paid to go. Now hear me out: I'm not against loans. If the system in Spain was loan-based, the way it is in the UK, I'd be OK with. And I'm not even against bursaries, as long as they are achievement based. What I am against is the whole idea that "we are all equal so we all deserve to go to University" culture. And what I am most definitely against is the whole idea that "oh, but I work really hard, I made a huge effort, shouldn't I get a bursary too?" No. You shouldn't. I can work my ass off running, it won't make me an Olympic champion. You can work your ass off doing maths, if you can't understand the Bolzano theorem, you're never going to understand derivability theory, and I'm sorry, but you shouldn't be studying maths (or probably any other science, now that I come to think of it) at University.
It's important to emphasise one thing when speaking about this sort of matter: it's not about being better or worse. It's about qualities, about what you are good at. And if someone says to me "what about if that's what I want to do, the only thing I ever dreamed of doing?", what I'll answer is, hard luck. And I don't believe you. I've met very, very few students who really like their subject and were bad at it. In fact, I can say I've met none. People tend to excel at what they're good at. So if you're not good at studying, find something else. Something that you find interesting, fascinating, important, and do it. You'll probably be happier than pursuing a University degree that you will have a hard time finishing and an even harder time enjoying.
I believe in equal opportunities. Problem is, equal opportunities aren't the same as equality. Equal opportunities mean that two people born with the exact same mental and physical characteristics should have the same chance of doing anything regardless of their socioeconomic background. I agree with this. I don't think who your parents are (other than the fact that you'll inherit traits from them), or where you are born, or your gender, or your sexual orientation, or your race, or your social class should affect what you can achieve, especially in an education background. But I don't believe in equality.
Recently, the Spanish minister for education confirmed that in order to be granted a bursary for studying at University, students would need to have an average grade of 6.5 over 10 and have passed 90% of their credits on the previous year. This is a change from the previous rules, according to which students only needed an average of a 5 over 10 (that is the pass grade in Spain) and to have passed 85% of their credits. The rules are somewhat more lenient for engineering degrees because they are considered more difficult (statistically, less people finish engineering degrees in the programmed time than any other qualification in Spain). A lot of people have complained that these measures ensure that education will only be for the rich or for the excellent. And the only thing I can think of is: why not?
Education has always been for the rich: whatever happens bursary-wise won't really affect them because there will always be private universities willing to take students whose parents can pay the fee. The excellent (if you can call someone with an average grade of 6.5 over 10 "excellent": please remember that I'm speaking of the Spanish education system, a 6.5 in Spain is not equivalent to a 65% in the UK, not because the system is worse, let me make this clear, but simply because the system is different) have not always had access to education, although it was easier for them to access education than it was for someone who happened to be both poor and "non-excellent". In the past century, perhaps in the past two centuries, education has been made more and more accessible for the excellent, but in fact, it has been made more accessible to everyone, and this is a good thing and something that should be kept up. The creation of a public (state) education system is a great advance and a step forward in the path to equal opportunities.
Now, why do I say that why not education only for the rich and excellent? Well, here's the thing: I think everyone has the right to a quality, free primary school education. In fact, I will go further than that. I think everyone has the right to a quality, free primary school education and a quality free secondary school education. In my opinion, the cut-off age for secondary school should be 15 years old, but currently in Spain it's 16. I'm not going to go into this matter now. In any case, I believe every person born into a modern state should have the right to a quality education until a certain age. After a certain age things change. If we accept equal opportunities, we should accept that in a country with a free quality education until the time people are (for example) 16, all people who are 16 have had access to an education, they have had equal opportunity to take advantage of this education.
After this, equal opportunity loses a bit of meaning to me. If they've had access to approximately the same resources (and this is what a quality education should ensure), two people with the same qualities should be able to gain approximately the same grades on the same standardised national exam. And if this is true, then rules saying that you can only get a bursary if you get a certain grade aren't discriminatory against social background, they are discriminatory against intelligence and hard work.
And here I admit my own experience comes in. I was a straight-A student for pretty much all of my secondary school years. The subjects I was bad at were (quite typically for a nerd) art and physical education. You needed talent for these. Everything else I was pretty good at.
I never understood why I couldn't go to the Olympic Games (based on the fact that I wasn't good enough at sport) but someone who wasn't good enough at studying could go to University anyway. And get paid to go. Now hear me out: I'm not against loans. If the system in Spain was loan-based, the way it is in the UK, I'd be OK with. And I'm not even against bursaries, as long as they are achievement based. What I am against is the whole idea that "we are all equal so we all deserve to go to University" culture. And what I am most definitely against is the whole idea that "oh, but I work really hard, I made a huge effort, shouldn't I get a bursary too?" No. You shouldn't. I can work my ass off running, it won't make me an Olympic champion. You can work your ass off doing maths, if you can't understand the Bolzano theorem, you're never going to understand derivability theory, and I'm sorry, but you shouldn't be studying maths (or probably any other science, now that I come to think of it) at University.
It's important to emphasise one thing when speaking about this sort of matter: it's not about being better or worse. It's about qualities, about what you are good at. And if someone says to me "what about if that's what I want to do, the only thing I ever dreamed of doing?", what I'll answer is, hard luck. And I don't believe you. I've met very, very few students who really like their subject and were bad at it. In fact, I can say I've met none. People tend to excel at what they're good at. So if you're not good at studying, find something else. Something that you find interesting, fascinating, important, and do it. You'll probably be happier than pursuing a University degree that you will have a hard time finishing and an even harder time enjoying.
I know I will regret this post...
Yesterday I had a tough conversation. It made me realize (amongst other things) that I don't like myself very much a lot of the time. That I'm sort of scared of what people think of me, and that I don't like being told my flaws. I guess this is true for everyone? I certainly hope I'm not the only one.
I often promise myself change. This is, I tell myself that I will change something in my behaviour, in my life, whatever. It never (almost never) works. Maybe it's a lack of will, actually, probably it's a lack of will. I am scared of describing myself now. Who am I really? I know this much: I am 22 years old, I am Spanish, I am a girl. I study Biochemistry at Imperial College London. I currently have a job working at the NIMR, in James Briscoe's lab. I can tell you the name of my parents, and I can tell you the names of the people I consider to be my friends. I can tell you when my birthday is, that I like reading and writing, that I am (and I say this reluctantly, see previous posts) a project of a feminist. I can say I enjoy (no, I love) traveling. And that's it. Because when it comes to the actual "who am I" question, dealing with my personality, my capabilities, who I am, my opinion of myself changes every day.
I'm someone who doesn't like to be told their flaws (I think I've said this before). I'm someone who is selfish, and small minded, and not very tolerant. I am someone who really likes to argue. I am someone who lives in mortal fear that my friends don't want to be my friends: in other words, I don't really get why people ever want to hang out with me, and most of the time I feel like they're doing me a favour. I'm a bad person. I am annoying, and bitchy, and childish.
That last paragraph is how I feel today. It's how I feel about 50% of the time. At other times I feel like I'm a good person, like I'm generous, like I help out. Not today. Today I don't really understand why people bother with me, and I feel like burning bridges with most people because I feel like a burden.
I've said before that I write because it's therapeutic. I can't explain to what level this is true. It seems to clear my mind. When I'm angry or sad, writing about it calms me down, it relaxes me, I get distanced from the feelings. It helps me see that I'm freaking out, that I'm being stupid, that I'm not being reasonable. Not that this is always good. Sometimes being emotional has its pros as well, I guess.
For a long time I thought I was strong. I'm not. I need people a lot more than they need me, and this makes me feel guilty, and it makes me feel bad.
Suffice it to say, I'm not in a very good mood today. I keep going over certain things, and it's freaking me out. So the only thing left to say is: sorry. If you're reading this, and I'm bringing you down, I'm sorry. I needed to vent. You don't deserve being brought down. Hopefully next time you visit I'll be in a better mood, ready to write my thoughts about a real issue, about something a little more important and less self-centered. But for now, for today, this is what I needed. Thanks for reading.
H.
I often promise myself change. This is, I tell myself that I will change something in my behaviour, in my life, whatever. It never (almost never) works. Maybe it's a lack of will, actually, probably it's a lack of will. I am scared of describing myself now. Who am I really? I know this much: I am 22 years old, I am Spanish, I am a girl. I study Biochemistry at Imperial College London. I currently have a job working at the NIMR, in James Briscoe's lab. I can tell you the name of my parents, and I can tell you the names of the people I consider to be my friends. I can tell you when my birthday is, that I like reading and writing, that I am (and I say this reluctantly, see previous posts) a project of a feminist. I can say I enjoy (no, I love) traveling. And that's it. Because when it comes to the actual "who am I" question, dealing with my personality, my capabilities, who I am, my opinion of myself changes every day.
I'm someone who doesn't like to be told their flaws (I think I've said this before). I'm someone who is selfish, and small minded, and not very tolerant. I am someone who really likes to argue. I am someone who lives in mortal fear that my friends don't want to be my friends: in other words, I don't really get why people ever want to hang out with me, and most of the time I feel like they're doing me a favour. I'm a bad person. I am annoying, and bitchy, and childish.
That last paragraph is how I feel today. It's how I feel about 50% of the time. At other times I feel like I'm a good person, like I'm generous, like I help out. Not today. Today I don't really understand why people bother with me, and I feel like burning bridges with most people because I feel like a burden.
I've said before that I write because it's therapeutic. I can't explain to what level this is true. It seems to clear my mind. When I'm angry or sad, writing about it calms me down, it relaxes me, I get distanced from the feelings. It helps me see that I'm freaking out, that I'm being stupid, that I'm not being reasonable. Not that this is always good. Sometimes being emotional has its pros as well, I guess.
For a long time I thought I was strong. I'm not. I need people a lot more than they need me, and this makes me feel guilty, and it makes me feel bad.
Suffice it to say, I'm not in a very good mood today. I keep going over certain things, and it's freaking me out. So the only thing left to say is: sorry. If you're reading this, and I'm bringing you down, I'm sorry. I needed to vent. You don't deserve being brought down. Hopefully next time you visit I'll be in a better mood, ready to write my thoughts about a real issue, about something a little more important and less self-centered. But for now, for today, this is what I needed. Thanks for reading.
H.
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