Are retail employees human?

Quel shock, a post! I am at last inspired to rant.

Said inspiration came today as I sat at my desk at work, listening to all the radio commercials talking about how people didn't need to rush, the ever benevolent retail chains (ahem london drugs) were saving the world and being open late Christmas Eve and YES even Christmas Day. Halleluia! How good of them to think of others....

I know from experience working in a grocery store that a lot of people will be thinking exactly that. Now they can leave their shopping to an even later last minute and not be stressed. As if. I can tell you what they're not thinking, they're not thinking "wait, that means someone has to be working that day instead of being with their families like I will be."

I'm familiar with not having the family all together all day Christmas Day. My dad has worked every Christmas Day for the last six or seven years. This is because he works in a group home that doesn't have the option of closing. Someone HAS to work Christmas and since most of the people my dad works with have young children who wouldn't really understand having to wait until 5pm to open gifts, he volunteers. That's fine.

I intensely dislike this attitude that's developping that shopping is an essential service. Hospitals are essential; emergency services essential. You want to know what makes something ESSENTIAL (and I have this beef about the teachers' strike too), LIFE or DEATH. When there is the risk of death or serious injury if the service is removed, then it's essential. No one died from lack of cranberry sauce on Christmas Day.

A friend of mine is living in Zurich, Switzerland right now. In Switzerland the stores close in the evening on Saturday and by law cannot reopen until Monday. And guess what, people get by just fine. If they can do this every week, why can't North Americans do it once a year.

Retail employees are people too. They have families and friends that deserve to spend time with them at Christmas. They shouldn't have to give that up just in case you forgot to buy eggs.

The Search for Permanence

Last week I went to Stanley Park with some people from out of town. We chose to take the trail from Prospect Point to that weird rock thing (that’s the technical term by the way). Along the way we came across a tree stump that had been there long enough to have a quite large tree growing from it as well as a few smaller ones. One of the out of towners stopped to take a picture or two while his girlfriend pointed out that the view was even more impressive from the other side. Here is part of the other side of the tree:

This was hardly the first time I’d seen initials carved into a tree but I took this picture anyway and for the remainder of our walk towards English Bay to see the fireworks, found myself thinking about the initials on that tree.

I can’t help but wonder who DN and LN are or L and A and who loves (or loved) A. I am curious about their lives and their stories, most of all, about what has befallen them since those letters were carved into that tree.

Presumably, at one time or another they were taking a romantic stroll through Stanley Park. They stopped to get a closer look at this odd-looking tree stump and decided to immortalize their affection for each other by leaving a permanent mark on this bit of nature. Some were obviously equipped with knives or a similar sharp tool because the letters are carved clearly and deeply. Others may only have had a pen or a set of keys and just managed to scrape the surface.

In some cases it might have been a special moment between the two as one person (and I won’t mention gender out of fairness to both sexes) took out pocket knife of other sharp tool and carefully and meticulously carved the letters into the tree. I suspect this was the case for LN and DN. These letters were not haphazardly carved out. Someone took time to make sure they were clear. The other person watched, reveling in the romance of the moment and filing it away in memory. At that moment, they thought nothing could change the way they felt about each other.

On the other hand, perhaps some of these were one-sided tributes, expressing a crush or unrequited love. Now the letters become a means of expressing something that the person was perhaps not comfortable voicing aloud.

So what happened next? The tree is like the middle of a story without a beginning or ending. There is no context and no further explanation. We are forced to fill in the blanks ourselves with speculation like that above. So did LN and DN stay together. What about L and A? And does whoever loved A still feel the same. Yes, yes, silly I know.

The initials found in this tree as well as those carved into bus benches and walls, raise an interesting point. They express a desire to leave some kind of permanent mark on the world, even if it is as trivial and inherently meaningless as initials in a tree. We are all too aware of the brevity that surrounds so much of life and seek to combat this by leaving some kind of a trail. How many of us wrote our initials on a desk in high school? It’s a way of asserting our presence somewhere long after we’ve gone, even if no one will actually know who we are.

As for the pairs of initials, maybe that is both a desire to express love as well as the search for an amulet against a broken heart. Who knows, maybe carving initials into a tree is good luck.

The Cool Pill

I went to see Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (sidebar: pretty good movie despite Johnny Depp’s frightening resemblance to Micheal Jackson) and while heading into the theatre I noticed an ad on the wall. It looked like the poster for an action movie, the kind meant to bring in the 16-35 male demographic due to a cast of young, attractive women but that was definitely NOT who the ad was targeting. It was actually an ad for Alesse, the birth control pill.

Maybe it’s just be, but lately I’ve noticed a change in the way birth control is advertised, Alesse being at the head of the pack. If I recall correctly, it wasn’t so long ago that print and television ads for these products focused on effectiveness, ease of use and perhaps, how good they were at preventing acne. Basically, the standard ‘informative’ ad, list the products attributes, ad fine print explaining the draw backs and off you go.

I’m sure it has something to do with the increase in available options but it seems that sticking to raw information is no longer enough. Branding has become increasingly important. So now, it seems, we should be worried about using the cool pill, the one with the correct brand image. Disturbing thought to say the least. Call me naïve but I kinda thought that with at least a few products, the logo wasn’t important. I should have known better.

They needn’t stop at the commercials and ads though with all those happy looking girls proudly announcing “I’m on Alesse,” why not go one further and market the patch with cool designs and cartoon characters. You know it’s just a matter of time.

If anyone should happen to come across an image of this or a similar ad, please do send it to me.

Tattoos and Nice Boxes

It was a brilliant plan you know. I told Pat, official blog pesterer that I would not write another post until I got his article for InContext. I figured that I would not only get the article that way but would also have the perfect excuse not to update without constant pestering. Of course I didn’t count on Pat writing not one but two articles long before I was prepared to update. So a deal it a deal.

I have been struggling with what to write. Inspiration simply has not been striking lately. Maybe it’s that I’m not watching much TV and am spending way less time on buses that there are fewer things annoying me these days, at least things that are worthy of blogging. Then, earlier this evening I was having a conversation when an idea for a topic came up.

It happened again the other day, I was at work and reached for something behind the desk. As I did so someone standing beside me caught a glimpse of my tattoo. Their response was typical of most people who see it, something along the lines of “YOU have a TATTOO?”

Maybe it’s that I have had it for nearly three years now and I got over the shock of having one long ago but the response always surprises me. That line is usually followed by a “you don’t seem like the type.” I assume by this they mean that I am not a sailor, a former convict or a biker but I thought those stereotypes were losing popularity. It seems everywhere you turn someone has a rose or a butterfly on their ankle and the old ‘types’ don’t seem to fit anymore. What they actually mean is that I seem to ‘nice’ to have a tattoo. Or at least that’s the impression I get listening between the lines.

Perhaps it’s the tone some people use when they say ‘nice’ which makes it sound less like a compliment. I am nice, or I like to think so. And yes, in a lot of ways I suppose I fit quite nicely into the nice girl label. I’ve never smoked, don’t really drink and I like school. I don’t swear much. Model child right, my parents must be thrilled. I’m not complaining. I like who I am but it seems unfair to be to assume that the ‘nice’ thing, precludes you from anything society deems remotely rebellious.

My getting a tattoo did not come as a surprise to anyone who knew me well. I had, after all, been talking about getting once since I was eleven or twelve. It was generally a matter of when and of course what. In later years I said as soon as I quit dancing (tattoos and even ear piercings being a big no no in the highland dance world). I believe my mother’s response when I told her was “oh did you.”

Getting a tattoo did not change who I am. I was the same person when I walked out of that room that I was when I walked in. More to the point, I am still the same person after people find out I have it, that I was before they knew. It doesn’t make me less ‘nice.’

That said, sometimes I wish it would, not because I don’t like being perceived as nice but because I don’t like the narrow ‘nice-shaped’ box I’m expected to fit into. It is limiting and suffocating. Was the tattoo about rebellion? No but it was probably in part an attempt on my part to prove that I was not just a quiet little girl and to puncture a few holes into that ‘nice-girl’ box of mine.

Is your name condemning you to a low-brow existence?

Is your child’s name condemning him or her to a low-brow existence?

The last time I visited my parents’ house I made the mistake of opening the Province. On the inside cover (you know where they put the index and incredibly stupid stories no one needs to read) sure enough, there was an article about names. According to the “article” some names are considered high-end and some low-end. Apparently, when parents name their high-end parents certain names, these names then become high-end and low-end parents start using them for their low-end babies. Presumably in an attempt to make them seem high end.

One of the names mentioned was Clementine. Apparently, this is a popular name among high-end parents and thus, in a few years time the world will be littered with little Clementines. Of course, once the name is used for low-end babies, high-end parents abandon it.

So does this mean that in ten years we will see an increase in the number of Cocos and Apples in the world?

I sure hope not.

I found this very brief bit of drabble quite amusing and disturbing. The concept of high-end and low-end babies would be hilarious if it weren’t so true. Anyone who has read even a little Bourdieu knows that we are marked from infancy on either end of the high-low spectrum. Why shouldn’t our names reflect that? Actually, when you think about it, it makes perfect sense. This way, teachers, employers, society in general can look at a person’s name an immediately know what class of society they are in. So all you Leroys and Barts out there beware. You will never gain respect in this world.

If this system is to work of course, we will have to place some controls on who can name their baby what. So if you have your heart set on naming your daughter Clementine, you will have to provide proof of income, societal status etc before filling out the birth certificate. Likewise, if you are a low-end parent, you will be given a list of suitable names. Naturally there will be penalties for attempting to name your baby above his or her status.

Additionally, people will not be able to change their names to something high-brow later in life, regardless of whether or not they eventually become high-brow. This is so that everyone will know whether or not they were born high-brow or whether they moved up in life. As we know, it is better to be high-brow from birth and this distinction cannot be ignored.

It all seems kind of silly but at least to a certain extent it’s true. Your name is often the first impression people get of you and it’s usually at least second. People will make assumptions about you based on your name and some of those may well be about your social class. For example, when you hear the name Beauregard Hunter Richmond III, you probably don’t think trailer trash. Likewise, Billy Bob doesn’t drum up visions of country clubs and 5 star dining.

I’ll refrain from using a certain Shakespearean cliché but the fact is that a name isn’t just a name. It tells people a lot about who you are and where you came from and most of us didn’t have much choice in the matter. So please, think about this if you ever feel the urge to name your child Barty Hogg or Peggy Sue Hayroller.

When did I stop loving the things I used to?

You'll have to make do with this for now Pat

There’s a picture in my baby book that is probably one of my favorite pictures of me. I’m eight months old and I’m sitting at a little white plastic table in a little kid chair. My hair is curly and I have a crayon in my hand. The caption my mother wrote next to the picture reads “your love affair with crafts began at eight months and went on and on and on…”

I’ve always loved that picture because I thought it so completely captured me, who I was then and who I’ve always been. I’ve been drawing longer than I’ve been walking, and just about as long as I’ve been talking. A lot of things have changed about me in 23 years but I’ve always been an artist.

For the first time in my life I’m questioning that. I haven’t picked up a paintbrush or drawing pencil in 3 years. When I packed up my room to move I left the box with all my art supplies and my easel behind. I told myself I just didn’t have room but the truth is I don’t feel like making room. When the art draught started I blamed it on the mess at UCFV. The experience I had during my last semester had just been so stressful, so soul crushing that I wanted to leave everything about it behind, including all art related activities. I embraced the identity of the academic whole heartedly, blissfully setting aside my conte crayons and prismacolours in favour of McLuhan and Marx and Bourdieu and forgot about the artist that had lived there for 20 years.

I can’t blame UCFV anymore. That story is long since over but I’m left wondering where the intense need to paint and draw or just scribble has gone and if I’ll ever get it back. I did bring my portfolio with me to Burnaby. Looking through it, I remember the girl who created these things, the girl who spent nearly 20 hours painting individual stitches to depict a pair of wool kilt socks, the same one who’s head was filled with so many images it was always a matter of just choosing one.

I can’t draw anymore. The ability is still there yes but when I open my old, long neglected sketchbook, pen in hand, I am met with apathy and frustration. The blank pages that used to be filled with promise are now just empty.

When did drawing stop being cathartic? When did I stop turning to my expensive box of fancy crayons whenever I was in a bad mood? And how do I start loving it again?

Why I want to be a professional student

Why am I uttering such a preposterous thing mere days after finishing the semester where I spent four months bitching about papers, exams and the crappiness of school in general? There is method to my madness believe it or not.

Though many students complain of stress, and rightfully so, the life of a student is really not that bad. Yes we all feel the pressure of exams and papers and the lack of time to finish everything but what’s the worst that could happen if we missed a deadline or two? A drop in GPA, having to retake a class, none of this adds up to the end of the world. Compare this to the world of careers and work where missing deadlines has real and lasting consequences. Take my part time job for example where tight deadlines are a regular occurrence. If we miss one a show doesn’t open or we have to reschedule everything. With some deadlines we also risk losing funding. This has helped make me put school deadlines into perspective. In other jobs missing too many deadlines could mean losing your job.

What it amounts to is that there is a certain safety inherent in being a student. It becomes a handy excuse at time. Oh, I live with my parents because I’m a student. I don’t have a job because I’m a student. It’s a handy way of shrugging off things that are largely socially unacceptable for the rest of the population. We also get to enjoy a feeling of superiority when we reach the point where we think we know everything in theory, or at least a lot. Come on, we’ve all been guilty about throwing around words like commodity fetishism and conspicuous consumption just because we can. This only works in academia because the reality is, once you land that first job it’s not going to matter how much theory you’ve managed to stuff into your brain or that you’ve read Bourdieu’s Distinction in its original French (one of my geekier goals lol) because you will soon realize that you actually know nothing about the job you’re supposedly qualified for. I’ve had friends who upon landing that first job lived in fear for the first six months that they would be uncovered by a fraud and sent back to the fast food chain.

The life of a professional student would be a handy alternative to both the stress of school and the stress of work. How so? Well if you were a professional student, that is somehow able to take all the classes you want without ever having to finish, it really wouldn’t matter if you got that paper done or finished that exam. You could take classes in basket weaving and finger painting if you so desired and never worry about meeting silly graduation requirements (ahem CMNS 261 and KIN 110) and so long as your gpa kept you out of academic probation it wouldn’t really matter if it were a 2.0 or a 4.0 because you’d never need to use it to get that job or get into grad school. On the other hand, you wouldn’t need to face getting a real job either and when people asked you when you were graduating you’d shrug your shoulders and say “never, who wants to graduate?”

Now if I could just turn this into a financially viable option I’d be all set.