Visiting New York always promises to be an adventure. In addition to spending time with my closest friends, who are all, obviously, cooler than me, drinking myself into a happy oblivion, and taking advantage of the public transportation, I inevitably leave the tri-state area with some ridiculously dramatic story that somehow always involves a poor life decision on my part and an equally as destructive reaction from the unfortunate other party involved. I am not sure if I find myself in these situations because I get on the plane knowing that I am going to have a good time whether I like it or not or if it’s because drama actually follows me wherever I go. It’s like a disease. Either way, my New York jaunts always leave me with some pretty cool new cocktail party icebreakers.
Let me first address the Mecca of New York eligible, yet socially inept, Jewish bachelors that is Washington Heights. At first, when I was a freshman in college, coming from Michigan, that place seemed like a dreamland. Every boy I had ever known or was going to know was just roaming the streets, ready for my taking. I used to love going there just for the slight chance that I would find myself in a room surrounded by single Jewish boys. However, after having taken serious advantage of having many horny, estrogen-starved boys in such a small area (seriously, it was like they had never been around a vagina before), I kind of exhausted the selection. That may sound really slutty (good for me!) but, if one is going to play by the unwritten YU rules, once you have hooked up with one person from one particular clique you end up eliminating around 10 guys from the list of possible partners…they become off limits. Bros before hos rings truer than ever in the Heights (which is interesting given the rampant lack of any other, more important, social morals that exists there. Like fidelity and/or the need for financial independence for example). So, after having hooked up with my fair share of friends of a friend of a friend, going to the Heights became even more exciting…I never knew what the next visit would bring. A rematch? A new victim?
However, things changed drastically when I started dating (for lack of a better word) that infamous ex boyfriend of mine who, by now, you are all painfully familiar with. At the risk of exposing his identity (that’s almost funny), he too lived in Washington Heights during the duration of our relationship. Given that he was an extremely jealous boyfriend who couldn’t get over the fact that I had had a life before he came along, venturing into YU territory became less of a dream and more of a nightmare. We would go out for pizza and unavoidably run into a former flame of mine. This inexorably led to THE fight…the one where I argued that I had hooked up with so-and-so in 10th grade and that I can’t help it if every guy I had ever known was in his orgo lab.
With all of this in mind, Washington Heights kind of lost its flair. But, when he and I finally “ended things”, the Heights completely morphed from a happy place, in which I was able to feel like I was picking for French kisses, into my very own low budget horror movie. Now, every time I go there, I constantly have to look over my shoulder and be keenly aware of my surroundings out of fear that I will run into either him or, worse, someone who knows him or anyone else with whom I have shared bodily fluids. It is so unfun.
Yet, now that most of my friends (with the exception of those few perpetual students and those few married people who have not gotten the message) have graduated and/or moved out of the Heights, I no longer frequent that region of Manhattan. You would think, then, that all the drama would stop and that going to New York would just feel like visiting Cleveland, boring but lovable. But no. I will never be able to escape the cloud of commotion that has followed me throughout my life.
I STILL run into exes. On the street in the Village, in restaurants in Midtown, on the subway in the Upper West Side. New York city is just crawling with awkward situations waiting to happen and there is no avoiding it. Just the other day, for example, I ran into an older ex boyfriend of mine. He and I dated when I was 18. It was one of those camp romances where days function like years with all the emotions and drama of a real relationship crammed into a 30-day period. Needless to say, we ended things when life got real again; however, we never really lost that summer fling passion and ended up going for round two my freshman year of college. We didn’t officially date the second time around so we kind of became each other’s dirty little secret for a good 2 years. Looking back, it was dangerous and fun, but sort of destructive. He was the first guy who ever sunk his claws into me, the first guy to ever tap into my vulnerable side that I had worked so hard to conceal. He scared me.
There were many reasons why he and I were not right for each other, but the one that stands out in my mind, which has since reorganized itself, making room for even more intense relationships and big people worries, is that he always had this uncanny knack for making me feel stupid. I am by no means a dumb person. In fact, I like to consider myself at least somewhat intelligent, but he never saw it. He always managed to turn everything I said around and make it seem like I was either wrong or irrational. I vividly remember telling him that I was pre-med and that I intended on eventually going to medical school. I remember that he looked at me, giggled, and said, “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it. I guarantee that you will never go to med school”. Ever since then, every time a science class seemed beyond my comprehension and every time I couldn’t bring myself to study another hour for my MCAT, I have replayed that moment in my head. I would show him.
So you can imagine the look on his face when I ran into him in midtown and told him that I would indeed be attending med school this fall. After the look of pure shock drained from his obsessively groomed face, all he could come up with was “wow, that’s a big decision”, to which I promptly responded to with “yeah, I kind of made that decision a long time ago”. Suck it.
But, the funny part is that even though I was able to experience that gratifying moment, he still managed, within the literal 5 minutes that we spoke to each other on the street, to make me nervous. As soon as I saw him, I became wildly self-conscious. I became aware of every blackhead, every pound that I had put on since I last looked at him…from underneath him. I immediately started to shift my body, unable to stand in one place. My sister, who I was with at the time, told me that I rocked that awkwardly fake smile that I wear when I am either trying to impress someone I don’t really care about or when I am extremely uncomfortable. I looked like a Chinese girl with Downs.
This is what I get for coming to New York. Hi, nice to randomly see you ex boyfriend, I am wearing this schemata on my head because I am having a crazy bad hair day and am sweating profusely because I have just spent the past two hours limping around midtown because I have developed a blister on the bottom of my foot the size of Montana. I’ll never escape the drama. I will always see someone I don’t want to see and I will most likely be sweating or crying or screaming or laughing or limping or doing something wholly unattractive that will inevitably make me want to jump off the George Washington Bridge.
It’s the story of my life. I have already had my fair share of New York crazy and I am not even home yet. But, hey, at least I didn’t run into that OTHER ex boyfriend, because THAT would be quite the blog. Horrible for me, awesome for you. I guess there is always tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Dr. Puta
Ever since I got home, after finishing up my four-year stint at pre-med prison, I have been consuming books like I only have 3 more months to live. Well, technically, that’s almost true. No applause please, but I finally got into medical school. Ok, fine, applaud away. No really, I am so happy to finally have a concrete direction in life, a tangible future. My stress level has been reduced significantly, I no longer bear the burden of ambiguity that had been weighing me down for months. So, with this newfound relief, I have taken to my chair, perfectly situated, facing the sun, in my dad’s backyard. It’s no stolen Wyndham lounger, Blue Diamond beachfront, vacation rules Miami Beach, but it certainly does the trick. It has only been a week and a half and I have already read 3 books. I have all the time in the world to work on my tan and my literary database and I have been loving every minute of it.
The books I read are novels, mostly about fucked-up people with fucked-up lives, who somehow discover who they are through a series of unfortunate events. Really encouraging, I know. Yet, despite their less than cheerful motifs, they are a welcome change from the mind-numbing monotony of Ebbing and Gammon’s General Chemistry (I will forget you not, old friend. For if I do, let my right hand forget its skill). These books are beautifully written, poetic stories about life and death, love and hate, sex and well…sex. I devour every syllable, wishing I could write with even a fraction of the talent that these authors possess. But I can’t. So I blog. I’ll become a doctor instead.
In one of the books I just finished (yes, I am going somewhere with this), the author drew my attention, yet again, to the fact that we live in a man’s world. The protagonist, on her road to self-discovery, ponders the idea that “men whistled and stared and yelled things at you, and you had to take it or you get raped or beat up. A man’s world meant places men could go but not women. It meant they had more money, and didn’t have kids, not the way women did, to look after every second. And it meant that women loved them more than they loved the women, that they could want something with all their hearts, and then not” (Fitch, 142). I had heard it before, this man’s world, and I, like the protagonist, knew that it meant that women still only make 76 cents to the dollar and that a woman alone is a walking victim waiting to happen. Every woman I know feels the brunt of this man’s world. We all peer out from underneath the glass ceiling, we all know what it feels like to be undressed by someone’s eyes. I’m every woman.
This is a widely recognized phenomenon. Everybody, save for those ignorant masses who consciously choose to ignore the obvious and maintain that women want to be inferior, that they desire to live their lives barefoot and pregnant (yeah, I am talking to you), knows that patriarchy still very much exists. I hope I haven’t surprised anyone.
But, what happens when the tables are turned? Last summer, I had the amazing opportunity to work at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York. Ah, New York. You Mecca of poor life decisions. I filled my days with groundbreaking research and patient interaction and my nights with binge drinking and cleavage sporting. It was glorious. Yet, despite the excitement of knowing that I lived around the corner from Crumbs, I was most energized, during my stay in the land of freaks, hipsters, and enormous pigeons, by the grunts, winks, and strange sounding Spanish phrases that I am sure were far dirtier than I assumed that came from the people living and working in the neighborhood surrounding Mount Sinai.
Being the man’s world that it is, I was never safe from the wanton advances and sexual innuendo that permeated 96th and Madison. The dude who sold gyros on the corner called me puta, the 3rd floor janitor winked and gestured every time I walked by the broom closet, and the grocery store bagger even had the audacity to look at my Mount Sinai ID and catcall me by name.
Now, I am not gonna lie. Sometimes, the attention was exciting, almost flattering. I mean, come on, I’m no Jennifer Aniston (who I, incidentally, do not find all that attractive. All she has is good hair. Get over it), so having a guy attracted to me at every corner was kinda cool. Cool, but piggish. Girl power!
But here’s the rub. Two weeks into my time at the hospital, my boss freed up some time for she and I to make patient rounds together. Since I was going to be shadowing her in the hospital proper, I had to get my own lab coat. Awesome, I know. I felt like freakin Meredith Grey. I was born to wear a doctor’s lab coat.
So, when I was finally asked, on that first day of my new life as a make believe doctor, to go visit a patient in a building down the street, I was elated. Anything to wear the coat in public. I strolled down Madison like I owned the place, making sure I walked with that doctory air of urgency, a hint of ego in my step. I walked from building to building, expecting to be mistaken for a real doctor and asked to step in to help stop someone from bleeding to death, or at least asked for directions. But I got nothing other than a dirty look from a nurse and a blister on my foot from walking with that bounce. I returned to my office, feeling annoyingly defeated. Yet, just as I was about to go on facebook and pretend I was doing actual work, I realized, to my amazement, that the gyro dude didn’t ask me, as he often did, if I wanted a taste of his meat, the 3rd floor janitor never even looked up from his mop, and the grocery bagger only asked if I wanted paper or plastic…mam.
Did I look exceptionally ugly that day? Did I get pen on my face when I was doodling Mrs. Sidney Crosby all over the steno pad while listening to the morning messages? Did I step in dog poop or something? What happened? Where did all the attention go?
And then I realized where it went. It was hiding underneath my lab coat. Evidently, the lab coat was more than just my lame attempt at getting that hot resident in cardio to notice me. It was a status symbol, an educational red flag, a blinking light that screamed “stop, respect me, I am a doctor, not a woman”. Suddenly, calling me “blue eyes” and thrusting your pelvis was socially unacceptable. I had been transformed from every woman into THAT woman. That’s Dr. Puta to you.
Does this mean that fancy acronyms and a mountain of debt from student loans award women the right to command respect? Does this mean that going to professional school exempts me from the gender divide? Does getting into medical school really just mean a get out of jail free card from the minimum wage workers of society who want to do me in the alley behind Duane Reade? If it is this sort of secret agreement that allows me to circumvent the standard daily dose of sexual harassment, then why will I still make 76 cents to the dollar? Why will I still have to fight in order to be taken seriously by my peers and colleagues? Why will I probably be considered a workaholic, absentee mother when I put my children in day care while I save lives?
Because, while being a doctor or a lawyer or a business executive may excuse me from having to listen to the catcalling, mostly because my status scares the crap out of the locals, it still doesn’t exempt me from being a woman. I still will be, despite my career and my successes and my fancy lab coat, by society’s standards, out of place. Get back to the kitchen and make me a pie!
I wonder what the gyro dude would think if he knew that I was wearing an apron and pearls under that lab coat.
The books I read are novels, mostly about fucked-up people with fucked-up lives, who somehow discover who they are through a series of unfortunate events. Really encouraging, I know. Yet, despite their less than cheerful motifs, they are a welcome change from the mind-numbing monotony of Ebbing and Gammon’s General Chemistry (I will forget you not, old friend. For if I do, let my right hand forget its skill). These books are beautifully written, poetic stories about life and death, love and hate, sex and well…sex. I devour every syllable, wishing I could write with even a fraction of the talent that these authors possess. But I can’t. So I blog. I’ll become a doctor instead.
In one of the books I just finished (yes, I am going somewhere with this), the author drew my attention, yet again, to the fact that we live in a man’s world. The protagonist, on her road to self-discovery, ponders the idea that “men whistled and stared and yelled things at you, and you had to take it or you get raped or beat up. A man’s world meant places men could go but not women. It meant they had more money, and didn’t have kids, not the way women did, to look after every second. And it meant that women loved them more than they loved the women, that they could want something with all their hearts, and then not” (Fitch, 142). I had heard it before, this man’s world, and I, like the protagonist, knew that it meant that women still only make 76 cents to the dollar and that a woman alone is a walking victim waiting to happen. Every woman I know feels the brunt of this man’s world. We all peer out from underneath the glass ceiling, we all know what it feels like to be undressed by someone’s eyes. I’m every woman.
This is a widely recognized phenomenon. Everybody, save for those ignorant masses who consciously choose to ignore the obvious and maintain that women want to be inferior, that they desire to live their lives barefoot and pregnant (yeah, I am talking to you), knows that patriarchy still very much exists. I hope I haven’t surprised anyone.
But, what happens when the tables are turned? Last summer, I had the amazing opportunity to work at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York. Ah, New York. You Mecca of poor life decisions. I filled my days with groundbreaking research and patient interaction and my nights with binge drinking and cleavage sporting. It was glorious. Yet, despite the excitement of knowing that I lived around the corner from Crumbs, I was most energized, during my stay in the land of freaks, hipsters, and enormous pigeons, by the grunts, winks, and strange sounding Spanish phrases that I am sure were far dirtier than I assumed that came from the people living and working in the neighborhood surrounding Mount Sinai.
Being the man’s world that it is, I was never safe from the wanton advances and sexual innuendo that permeated 96th and Madison. The dude who sold gyros on the corner called me puta, the 3rd floor janitor winked and gestured every time I walked by the broom closet, and the grocery store bagger even had the audacity to look at my Mount Sinai ID and catcall me by name.
Now, I am not gonna lie. Sometimes, the attention was exciting, almost flattering. I mean, come on, I’m no Jennifer Aniston (who I, incidentally, do not find all that attractive. All she has is good hair. Get over it), so having a guy attracted to me at every corner was kinda cool. Cool, but piggish. Girl power!
But here’s the rub. Two weeks into my time at the hospital, my boss freed up some time for she and I to make patient rounds together. Since I was going to be shadowing her in the hospital proper, I had to get my own lab coat. Awesome, I know. I felt like freakin Meredith Grey. I was born to wear a doctor’s lab coat.
So, when I was finally asked, on that first day of my new life as a make believe doctor, to go visit a patient in a building down the street, I was elated. Anything to wear the coat in public. I strolled down Madison like I owned the place, making sure I walked with that doctory air of urgency, a hint of ego in my step. I walked from building to building, expecting to be mistaken for a real doctor and asked to step in to help stop someone from bleeding to death, or at least asked for directions. But I got nothing other than a dirty look from a nurse and a blister on my foot from walking with that bounce. I returned to my office, feeling annoyingly defeated. Yet, just as I was about to go on facebook and pretend I was doing actual work, I realized, to my amazement, that the gyro dude didn’t ask me, as he often did, if I wanted a taste of his meat, the 3rd floor janitor never even looked up from his mop, and the grocery bagger only asked if I wanted paper or plastic…mam.
Did I look exceptionally ugly that day? Did I get pen on my face when I was doodling Mrs. Sidney Crosby all over the steno pad while listening to the morning messages? Did I step in dog poop or something? What happened? Where did all the attention go?
And then I realized where it went. It was hiding underneath my lab coat. Evidently, the lab coat was more than just my lame attempt at getting that hot resident in cardio to notice me. It was a status symbol, an educational red flag, a blinking light that screamed “stop, respect me, I am a doctor, not a woman”. Suddenly, calling me “blue eyes” and thrusting your pelvis was socially unacceptable. I had been transformed from every woman into THAT woman. That’s Dr. Puta to you.
Does this mean that fancy acronyms and a mountain of debt from student loans award women the right to command respect? Does this mean that going to professional school exempts me from the gender divide? Does getting into medical school really just mean a get out of jail free card from the minimum wage workers of society who want to do me in the alley behind Duane Reade? If it is this sort of secret agreement that allows me to circumvent the standard daily dose of sexual harassment, then why will I still make 76 cents to the dollar? Why will I still have to fight in order to be taken seriously by my peers and colleagues? Why will I probably be considered a workaholic, absentee mother when I put my children in day care while I save lives?
Because, while being a doctor or a lawyer or a business executive may excuse me from having to listen to the catcalling, mostly because my status scares the crap out of the locals, it still doesn’t exempt me from being a woman. I still will be, despite my career and my successes and my fancy lab coat, by society’s standards, out of place. Get back to the kitchen and make me a pie!
I wonder what the gyro dude would think if he knew that I was wearing an apron and pearls under that lab coat.
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