my environmental ethics class is the bane of my existence

so i stupidly thought it would be a good idea to take, first of all, a philosophy class at smith college...i might add that this philosophy class is 'environmental ethics'. while i identify myself as a fairly liberal democrat, this class makes me want to turn into a far-right, conservative republican. it also makes me want to cry or throw my coffee mug at someone's head.

the thing is, it's not a bad class. the readings are great, the work isn't too bad, and the professor is amusing, incredibly intelligent, and clearly knows his shit. the problem is that 90 percent of the smith population that i hate is in the class.

we've got all sorts of trust-fund hippies who, in the end, have probably never worked a day in their miserable little lives. they spout out liberal buzzwords like 'sustainability' and often remind us to 'diversify our alternative energy sources'. while they want to (and believe they can) 'subvert the dominant paradigm', they can't cross the street without getting hit by a car.

i should start over.
ok.
so, i took this class because i felt that environmental law would be a great career path for me. maybe it is, but certainly not if being an environmental lawyer is even VAGUELY reminiscent of this class. which, now that i think of it, it probably isn't. why? because these poor souls in this class have no real world solutions or realistic suggestions. 'smash the patriarchy' probably doesn't mesh well with policy jargon.

the class, as it is billed, is simply a study of how ethics can be applied to environmental policy and decision making. if i had known that class discussion (stupidly fostered by the professor--this is his only fault) would center around some jackass's preachy tirade about how the government should legally enforce a vegetarian diet on all american citizens, i would not have signed up. not in a million years. we rarely discuss policy, once in a while we'll look at a case study, but the class mainly seems to be a soapbox for smithies who, as usual, just want to affirm their own fucking views. once again, smith proves itself intolerant as i am SERIOUSLY afraid to speak out against any of them.

the thing is, none of them seem to understand very much about, well, very much. for instance, today we were discussing some bullshit-- i don't even remember what because we only focused on the actual reading for 3 minutes before the floor was opened up to these deliciously uninformed rants on shifting the power structure etc. anyway, we were supposed to be picking the most ECONOMICALLY and SOCIALLY feasible way to solve a problem: there is a river in the Northwest that is dammed in various places. It produces a ton of hydroelectric power. It has, with the lakes it has created, provided a great habitat for lots of waterfowl. Tons of barges go up and down this river-- crops like timber, grain, and potatoes are shipped inexpensively. This type of transportation is also less polluting than, say, shipping things on roads in flatbed trucks. The only thing is, the salmon population is slipping. THE FUCKING SALMON POPULATION. Ok, so that's bad. But one of the inexpensive options is to produce a fish lift like we have in Holyoke. It's the cheapest option. It would not shut down the dams. Economic and social factors dependent on the dam and what it produces would continue unchanged. From antecedent probability, we see that the lift would indeed be functional.

Possibly the best option, right? WRONG. Not to Smith College! According to my class, we need to, first of all, completely shut down the dams. The level of the lakes would return to the shallowness appropriate for salmon breeding. Spend the 500 million to tear down the dam. Let the fish run free. Give little or no attention to the fact that the habitat (albeit one that we have created) is now home to lots of other species. NO. WE ONLY CARE ABOUT THE EFFING SALMON.

This is only the beginning. Lots of agriculture is completely dependent on irrigation that comes from damming the river. There is apparently a huge aluminum smelting industry depending on cheap hydroelectric power. And, as I mentioned, barge transportation of good depends on the dams.

One girl asked about the aluminum smelting industry: "what is that, anyway? do we really need it?"
While, perhaps, recycling is a more viable option for aluminum cans, this girl failed to realize that 1) aluminum goes into other things and 2) THIS INDUSTRY CREATES JOBS. This girls parents are clearly not employed by the aluminum smelting industry. So why should she care? Just get rid of it. Who gives a shit. The salmon. It's all about the salmon (which we aren't allowed to eat, but more on that later).

Clearly the agriculture dependent on irrigation is not important either. One girl suggested that "we should all live in self-sustaining communities". LISTEN. I'm glad to hear that whatever planet your'e from has a mediterranean climate and infinitely fertile soil, plus the time and means to grow and produce whatever you fucking feel like, but here in the lovely state of Massachusetts, we have something called WINTER during which time we do not grow things and must import them. I have a feeling, too, that if these idiots were forced to live on a farm for more than a week they'd shit their pants. They glorify and idealize organic farming, but seem to FAIL to realize that organic farming means pulling weeds by hand, dealing with pests directly; it's altogether much more time consuming. So yes, Smith College, go buy yourself an organic farm. Eat your grass and continue being miserable. Sure, go ahead and assume farmers are stupid because they don't have a degree from some fancypants institution. I wanted to suggest that these girls and the farmers strip themselves of all of their belongings-- all the money in the world says that the farmers will be able to live off the land MUCH longer than these intolerant brats who don't even know how to do their own laundry, much less raise a fucking field of corn. How's that for Social Darwinism/ survival of the fittest?

So yes. Let's get rid of agriculture. Oh, and one girl said there should be no interstate commerce-- i.e. Idaho should live off its own damn potatoes. Once again, there is failure to realize that these girls' precious little soybeans come from some plantation somewhere. I can not emphasize how mad these people make me. Oh, and also the government should enforce a countrywide vegetarian diet. We should stop eating meat. And the grain that is grown? We'll just eat that instead. Because it's a complete protein, right? Or maybe because we live in America where people are free to choose what they eat? Oh yeah, that. The Bill of Rights says nothing about that, so we're free to penalize people who EAT FUCKING MEAT.

Also, arent' there bigger, more important things going on in this country that we should be worrying about? No? Ok. Salmon population it is! We shouldn't worry about the economy. Or worry about destroying, for that matter, the jobs dependent on these dams which might be some of the only fucking jobs left in this country. Fuck you, Smith College.

Let me reiterate: trust-fund hippies with NO experiential knowledge run this campus. They think they know, but they don't. I'm not saying I know any better, but hey, at least listen to what the professor is saying. Your parents are paying for your lazy ass to be here for a reason.

Yet another reason I need OUT of here.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

written a few days after my grandmother's death last fall for a satire seminar. i'm going to hell for this.
anyway, i'm re-posting this now. took it down for awhile (out of fear that family would be reading the blog-- family who might not have taken it as lightheartedly as it is intended).

almost exactly one year later, here it is-- the obituary to end all obituaries.

Sister of FAMOUS GOLFING LEGEND DIES.
Victoria M. Algustoski Fisher passed away late Sunday evening, surrounded by her impatient family, who had waited ninety-one years to pilfer her belongings. Vicky remained in nearly perfect health (much to the chagrin of her family, who thought that she might actually be immortal) up until a hip fracture--the cause of which is still highly debatable-- that occurred a month before at her home in Florence, Massachusetts.
Vicky was born on January 22, 1916, and raised in Haydenville, Massachusetts, in a home much too small for her ever-expanding family. Her mother, Mary, died while delivering her twelfth child (can you blame her?) leaving Vicky to raise the other children: Bobby, Tommy, Benny, Lottie, Dottie, Kenny, Stasia, and Jack. Her father, Walenty, attempted to help as best he could by getting drunk, gambling, and running a barbershop out of their basement—usually in that order.
She is outlived by three of her twelve siblings. Bobby Toski, of Some Expensive House on Some Famous Golf Course in Boca Raton, Florida, promises to honor her memory by sipping 12-year-old Scotch and mentioning her name in passing the next time he appears on the Golf Channel. Unfortunately, Bobby will not be around for any of the memorial services—he’s much too consumed by his harrowing job as a golf instructor—so all of you planning to attend the wake or funeral for the chance of a few free golf tips, don’t bother-- send flowers instead. Tommy Toski, best known as The Marginally Talented Brother of the Famous Bobby Toski, will not, like his brother, attend either the wake or the funeral. In fact, Tommy is admittedly slightly irked at Vicky’s untimely passing. Plane tickets bought on such short notice are, of course, expensive, though Tommy did reconsider attending when he was told about the free meal after the funeral ceremony. Victoria’s only surviving sister, Dottie “Sticky Fingers” Kneeland, mourns the passing of her older sister and eagerly anticipates the inheritance of a few coveted family heirlooms. For instance, a fitted brown dress that Vicky wore on her honeymoon—worth only eight dollars in 1942—is now going for twenty-five dollars plus shipping on eBay. Dottie encourages those who would like to remember her sister to visit her eBay page for a 20% Bereavement Discount on any single item owned by Vicky (this limited time offer can not be combined with any other offers).
Vicky will be buried with her beloved husband, Harrison A. Fisher, in Saint Mary’s Cemetery in Haydenville. Harrison, a World War II veteran, declined in health in 1992 and passed away after an altercation at a large-scale family reunion that resulted in the relinquishing of all door prizes by Dottie “Sticky Fingers” Kneeland. It is rumored that Harrison suffered several heart attacks at this event, where he witnessed the use of an ostentatious gold serving dish as a weapon and heard a drunken, unintelligible rendition of “Melody of Love” by Bobby Vinton.
For reasons unbeknownst to her family, Victoria chose to bear four children, all of which survive her. Her eldest daughter, Marianne Donahue, Register of Deeds of Hampshire County, will serve as executrix of the estate. In an attempt to uphold her reputation with the public, she will use this opportunity as a tool for social networking and delegation: her mother’s wake will serve as the pinnacle of her campaign for reelection. Hours before Victoria passed away, she had already planned the majority of the funeral services. As family streamed in to visit Vicky, Marianne confronted them, requesting that some begin working on the obituary while others start cleaning the homestead. She was even able to find six pallbearers with alternates in case of emergency. Vicky, though unconscious and struggling through her last breaths, must have felt very reassured when she heard that her wake would be held only a few days hence.
Victoria also leaves behind her second daughter, registered nurse Cynthia Clark of Easthampton. Cynthia attended to her mother’s health, not only as a nurse, but as a constant provider of Schweppes (and only Schweppes) ginger ale and plain chocolate M&M’s. Victoria’s funeral plans, enumerated in an appendix to her will, provide for the inclusion of a bottle of Schweppes and a party-sized bag of M&M’s in her casket. Victoria’s last wishes also included and emphasized a closed-casket wake. In her dying breaths, she asked angrily whether she was dead yet, and upon realizing that she was still alive, promised to haunt all of her children if they dared to open the casket. She summoned up every ounce of strength in her body to shake her fist in concurrence with this emphatic statement.
Lieutenant Colonel James R. Fisher of Washington D.C., the third child of Victoria and Harrison, spent time alternately comforting his dying mother and attentively watching the final Red Sox game of the American League Championship Series. Luckily, Victoria held on long enough to find out that the Red Sox were going to the World Series. She passed away only ten minutes after the game was won—just long enough to hear the resounding choruses of “Tessie” and “Dirty Water.” Although her family urged her to simply “let go” and “relax”, Vicky held out until the Sox won the pennant— what a diehard fan!
The baby of the family, William “Billy” Fisher remained somewhat elusive and aloof during his mother’s last hours. He reconciled her illness and dealt with her death in the same manner he dealt with all other problems: by chain smoking and betting on horse races. Billy was born on Christmas in 1956 and was often seen by the family as their equivalent of Jesus. God’s gift did spend time with his ailing mother when his doting sisters weren’t constantly there to rib him. Billy had not been on good terms with Marianne since the age of seven, when Marianne dressed him up as a bride and forced him to “marry” his own brother Jim. Billy did, however, exact some vengeance for this when, during his “wedding reception”, he chased Marianne around the house with a nine-iron. With one perfectly aimed swing, he broke the arm off a dining room chair. He and Jim spent the entire evening gluing the chair back together; however, Billy forgot to remove his gown. Only when it was wrinkled and splattered with glue and mahogany-tinted wood stain did Billy and Jim decide to put their mother’s wedding dress through the wash. Though the dress ended up in tatters, Billy and Jim created a story that put Marianne at fault for the ruined gown. They never disclosed the secret about the broken but convincingly repaired dining room chair: until her dying day, Vicky never found out exactly what happened the night she and her husband left their younger children with Marianne as the babysitter.
Victoria will also be remembered and missed by her six loving grandchildren: Amy, Jennifer, Beth, Laura, and Mary Fisher, and Jonas Clark. Beth, the eldest daughter of Jim and his wife, Kathy, hoped to inherit the previously aforementioned dining room set. Beth and her husband Rick had recently purchased a home in North Carolina and, needing a place to entertain, they hoped to commemorate Bapcia by having the set as a fixture in their home. Billy and Jim were forced to disclose, at long last, the secret of the dining room chair. Marianne hoped that this story would sway Beth to decide against taking the dining room set that she herself had wanted; however, Beth thought the well-hidden cracks, scald and burn marks, and rough edges added a character very reminiscent of the Fisher family holidays.
Jennifer (the second daughter of Jim and Kathy) traveled North from Virginia to attend bapcia’s memorial services. When asked by Marianne if there were any items in the house she’d like to inherit, Jennifer declined; however, she did closely examine all family photo albums, extracting all pictures from her younger years in which she sported a well-groomed mullet. Everyone deals with death and grief in their own way—apparently Jennifer was comforted by the abolition of any proof of such a horrific haircut.
Amy Fisher, the youngest daughter of Jim and Kathy, and Laura Fisher, the eldest daughter of Billy and his wife Karen, remembered bapcia in death the same way they celebrated her in life: by requesting the crass “She’s Too Fat for Me” polka on the local Sunday morning Polish radio show. Amy and Laura, both the same age, requested the same song every year at the annual family reunion. For as long as they could remember, bapcia always acted surprised and horrified when the polka band dedicated it to her before they counted down the bouncing beat. Marianne would not, however, honor their request that the “She’s Too Fat for Me” polka be played as the recessional during the funeral, though the girls were sure bapcia would have loved it.
Jonas Clark, the sole grandson of Vicky and only child of Cynthia Clark and her ex-husband George Clark, drove to his bapcia’s house immediately after her death and, with a roll of masking tape in one hand and a Sharpie in the other, labeled everything from the washer and drier to the kitchen table as his. He already missed his grandmother so very much that he hauled her collections of antique crystal expensive watercolors to his apartment hours before she even died. Unfortunately, Jonas will not be attending the funeral: though Marianne was sure that Vicky would have loved Jonas to be a pallbearer, he couldn’t, due to an annual dentist appointment that was scheduled for the same time.
Mary Fisher, the sister of Laura Fisher and the youngest grandchild and namesake of Vicky’s mother, asked that she simply have one of her bapcia’s sets of rosary beads. Vicky, religious until the very end, owned several and prayed with them on a daily basis. Marianne assured Mary that none of Vicky’s rosary beads was worth any amount of money and remained in a state of perpetual shock after Mary admitted that monetary worth was not superior to sentimental value.
Victoria, surprisingly, dealt with her unruly, loud, and confrontational family until the very end. She raised all of her nine brothers and sisters, had four children of her own, and played a large role in the upbringing of her six grandchildren. Though they may not exhibit their sorrows in any usual manner, her family will miss her greatly and remember her fondly when they sip Schweppes and nosh on M&M’s, listen to Vicky’s favorite polkas, and especially when they hear anyone exclaim in a fit of frustration, “BILLY- JIMMY- BOBBY- TOMMY-BOBBY--Oh, YOU KIDS!” Goodbye to the central pin in the fabric of all of our lives—may she rest in peace and quiet.

waugh, and what i need to remove from my life.

'and i, who by every precept should have put heart into them-- how could i help them, who could so little help myself?...here my last love died. there was nothing remarkable in the manner of its death. as i lay in the dark hour, i was aghast to realize that something within me, long sickening, had quietly died; no hope of setting things right, no self-reproach for the disaster...i had played every scene in the domestic tragedy, had found the early tiffs become more frequent, the tears less affecting, the reconciliations less sweet, till they engendered a mood of cool criticism and aloofness...i caught the false notes in her voice and learned to listen for them apprehensively; i recognized the blank, resentful stare of incomprehension in her eyes, and the selfish, hard set of the corners of her mouth...i learned her slatternly ways, the routine and mechanism of her charm, her jealousy and self-seeking....she was stripped of all enchantment now and i knew her for an uncongenial stranger to whom i had bound myself indissolubly in a moment of folly. i would go on with my job, but i could bring to it nothing more than acquiescence.... my eyes were dry to all save poetry.'

precisely.
this simple passage can be applied to all of the things i need to eradicate or move on from in my life.

and
'i should like to bury something precious in every place where i've been happy and then, when i was old and ugly and miserable, i could come back and dig it up and remember'

& i suppose that's all there is to it: selective memory. recalling happiness. moments recollected in tranquility. the end, period.

& away we go.

50 days left for my current state of directionlessness to disappear...

perpetuating purgatory

I can't go on. I'll go on.
-Samuel Beckett

I'm counting down the days until my I can successfully add a completed B.A. to my resume. Only a couple more months of Smith College and I'll be out the door. I know these are my last moments here and, indeed, the last moments of a very concrete, very defined portion of my life. Soon, eating stolen pancakes on my bedroom floor with my bare hands will no longer be the norm and I'll be forced to keep a much more socially productive schedule. I'll need to stay awake for more than six hours at a time and I'll need to adjust my diet away from starch and caffeine. I feel almost like a terminally ill patient, as awful as that sounds, who has just been given a few months to live. I am seeing what I've learned to take for granted here. I'm starting to realize that my core group of friends will soon be dispersed all over the world. While I'm tentative to leave behind the place that I've come to call home, I'm also looking forward to the prospect of a time when alpha sigma sigma is running this joint (the world, that is). Indeed, this big earth has felt a bit smaller lately-- I think of all the places I and my friends have been to recently, the things we've accomplished, and what we've made of ourselves in such a short span of time, and I start to regain a little bit of faith in humanity. As long as Julia is saving Peruvian orphans, Jess is running the Met., Mareva is entertaining millions with her music, and Julia Baker has found the cure to the common cold, all will be right in the world. Having such amazing, talented, and brilliant friends makes life a little bit more worthwhile and unpredictable.

It's odd, however, how 'predictable' life has become here. I don't necessarily mean it in a bad way-- it's just that Smith gives students no room for any kind of typical college social life. The lovely ladies of Park Annex have, of late, been joking about how habitual and geriatric our lives have become. I often feel as though I'm in some sort of rest home. I mean, when it's cold out, none of us want to leave the house and instead complain about the hundred yards we have to walk to get dinner. We have a grand piano that is often subject to renditions of classical pieces one might hear on NPR. I'm pretty sure that if we had wheel chairs, no one would bother walking. People cringe at the idea of having to walk up two flights of stairs to get something. Friday nights have become a time for sitting around the fireplace in squishy armchairs discussing literature, the presidential race, or gossiping about professors. The other night, Julia Baker brought me a blanket and tucked me in as I curled up on an ottoman to read some Evelyn Waugh. Teacups and newspapers are sprawled haphazardly on our coffee tables along with reading glasses. Rarely do any of us go to bed after midnight, even on a weekend. When young firsties pass the house drunk at three in the morning, we're more inclined to roll our eyes or bark at them to shut up than to join in. Sure, we might have a glass of wine once in a while, but it's more in the ' a glass of red wine will help me sleep better' sense than in the old 'let's get drunk and steal things' mode of the 'old days', as Ali and I say, when we had only recently turned 21 and spending a significant portion of our bank accounts on alcohol was more acceptable. I wouldn't change this for anything. I love the excitement that surrounds the simple act of having dinner together or sharing a pot of coffee. I'd rather this than eternal beerpong tournaments any day. I complain about it, of course, but at least I can get my work done and I'll leave here with more brain cells intact.

So, right now I'm kind of in the middle of two places. I'm almost done with school, with one foot out the door into the "real" world. (But what even quantifies "real"? I'm willing to create and substitute my own reality for anything I find less than satisfactory.) Come January, I'll throw out some lines and see what I can get. Whether it be a job, an opportunity to travel, or even an opportunity to relax, I'm glad I've taken my focus off law school. I need to see some things for myself before I descend back into the world of academia. And it seems that this is indeed the time to do it.


As I type this, there is a fairly drunk young lady screaming bloody murder somewhere outside my window. She must not have taken a class with Doug Patey yet.

Oops! Haven't updated; I'm not dead.

Ok, so I failed MISERABLY at keeping my blog updated while in England. That should serve as a testament to how much I was enjoying myself. I really didn't have the time or motivation to sit down and rehash adventures while more awaited.

That said, I'm home now-- have been for two months. I'm back at Smith and once again finding myself equally loving and hating it. I'm thrilled that it's my last semester, but I'm graduating in January into a horrific economy with a B.A. in English from a school whose main association is "lesbian". Although Smith has been ranked, usually, right within/outside the top ten best lib arts colleges in the country, it's been kind of thumbing its metaphorical nose at newsweek ratings/other ratings which rely heavily on SAT scores...Smith kind of ignores SAT scores at this point and now we're slipping...i understand where they're coming from, but to an everyday person who googles smith and finds it slipping in rank? that doesn't help my job prospects. THANKS AGAIN, CAROL CHRIST!

at least we've got 'prestige', whatever that means anymore. and good housing!

and overall, we're 13th for being happy with our overall experience. i wonder what it's like to be MORE miserable than a Smithie. wow.


i hope this holds when i go to job interviews! otherwise, lots of money wasted (not that i didn't take anything out of being here).

Anyway, I looked at a few law schools this weekend. UVA, Georgetown, and American were all great but I decided I'll definitely be taking a year off or more after all is said and done.

Options for the year off? I'd like to think I'm going to travel the globe and save the earth with Julia Rhinelander (who is leaving for New Zealand in a week-- JEALOUS), but I'll probably just sit in Easthampton and rot like the economy.

Ok. So prospects aren't that bad. I could always work at the Registry of Deeds, picking up my old job for about 28k a year (not too great, but at least it's money). I'm looking at local law firm options and since I've done two legal internships (not in the strict sense of the phrase), hopefully that will help. I'm in talks with a superior court judge for an internship now, so keep your fingers crossed for me...

Or I could travel. Hey, I can dream. I really want to go back to Oxford-- and I want Izzy to come with me!--but I also really want to go to Spain to see Mareva (& Julia if she's there), I'd love to go to Amsterdam, because we missed it when we were in England. Paris to see Jess, perhaps? Great American road trip to visit all my friends who are sprawled out around this country? Senegal to volunteer with Julia? I've always wanted to go to India. Ooh, and Chile. Voy a practicar mi espanol. I'd love to go to the west coast of ireland, too-- didn't make it there, we just ended up staying in Dublin. Internship at Kew Gardens? Internship at the Bodleian? Who knows. Who wants to give me money for travel?

In the meantime, I can only wonder, in the words of Azure Ray's 'Displaced', "am i making something worthwhile out of this place? am i making something worthwhile out of this chase?"...I hope the massive piles of money I've given Smith will return to me tenfold. Or, at very least, I hope I end up happy.

I guess it's all in what I make of it. At least I'm not socially inept like half of this school!



Peace kiddos. I'm off to read some shakespeare.