100 Day Challenge Terms + Day 1 - View from a Hill

The camera that I recently bought for myself sits on the coffee table most days, accumulating dust. I've been terrible about updating my blog as I'm sure you've (all one of my followers) have noticed. I don't really have an excuse for not taking pictures, making movies, and writing stories - I've just been lazy lately.

My friend Amanda told me last week that she's doing a 100 day challenge, where every day for 100 days she does something creative. It struck me that this was the perfect solution to my recent drought in creative motivation. I never say no to a challenge, and I absolutely hate quitting. So I took it upon myself to start this challenge today, May 23, 2015.  Although before I begin, I must make myself agree to specific terms so that I don't start to make excuses and fall into the same unproductive pattern. By starting this challenge, I agree to the following terms:

• Every day for 100 days straight, I must do something creative. It doesn't matter what it is that I create, as long as I am able to document it in my blog. Activities may include, but are not limited to: a written blog post, a photo, a drawing (which can be scanned or photographed and added as a post), a movie or short film.
• Due to potential unforeseen circumstances, such as limited or no internet, I am not required to upload my project on the day that it was created. As long as I create it on the appropriate day, and note the date in the post, it counts.
• I must create/complete the project on the said day. Again, due to potential unforeseen circumstances, I am allowing myself to skip two days. However, I must make up that missing project the following day, by completing two projects.
• If I miss more than two days, I must start the 100 days from the beginning.
• I'm welcome to upload/create multiple projects in one day. Although only one project will count towards the total (unless it's one of the two allowable make-up projects).

I, Lorraine, agree to the above terms and conditions.

Below is my first contribution to this project. I walked from the Richmond to my parent's house in Duboce Triangle, with my camera in hand. It wasn't until I'd almost reached their house when I saw this view: 

On being an Albert woman

"Congrats, Heather! That's incredible!" I typed in response to an email announcing a co-worker’s first place win in a marathon. Many people were ‘replying all’ to the email thread, so I did the same. Although the moment I pressed 'enter,' and sent that email to the entire company, I felt hot and sweaty. Shaking, I looked over my response again:

"Congrats, Heather! That's incredible!"

Doesn’t incredible technically mean not credible? I thought to myself in a panic. I just told a co-worker, in front of the entire company, that she’s a liar.

I was tempted to follow up with another email saying, "I meant to say, ‘so amazing that it's almost incredible.’” However, I quickly realized that calling her achievement "almost incredible" would be even more confusing than my first statement. 

I started to calm down and realized that if it did cross anyone’s mind that my statement could mean that I was calling Heather a liar, they would surely know my intention. Everyone knows the colloquial usage of incredible.

Yet I still wished that I had chosen a different word - one that no one could poke holes in. Even though everyone at the very least understood my intention, I was still afraid of being judged by those who questioned my intelligence because I choose such a sloppy word.

In the timespan that I thought this out thoroughly, at least 10 other co-workers responded, also congratulating Heather. One other person responded with the word “incredible.”

Well, at least two of us think she’s a liar.

Painting a bird

On a bathroom break at work, I overheard one woman say to another, as they fixed themselves up in the mirror, "the work it takes to be a woman..."

"I know...so much work!" Complained the other woman, while reapplying her lipstick.

They both were immaculately made-up, in knee length skirts, flowing blouses tightly tucked in, and work appropriate 3-inch heels.

I shuffled out of my stall, jeans frayed, dragging under my flats, and met their faces in the mirror. It was a stunning contrast - my face so plain and dull next to their rosy-cheeks, red lips and outlined eyes. 

I quickly washed my hands, avoiding my own gaze in the mirror. I wanted to say to them, “it doesn’t have to be so much work!” But they’d take one look at me, and politely disagree.

To be honest, I wouldn’t blame them. It’s a lot easier existing when you look good. You feel better about yourself, and people (mostly men) are nicer to you. You may even get a job or advance in your career because of it. You can definitely meet a mate as a result of it. 

But that’s where I’m confused. Men already want sex, and think about it, on average, much more than women do. Because of this, other species have evolved so that the males strive to be beautiful. The males have to demonstrate their beauty to win the heart of (or a few minutes with) the female. I remember as a child, my dad pointed out that I could usually differentiate the male bird from the female bird by their colors - the female was almost always a dull brown, and the male had shiny, colorful feathers. I asked my dad why the female bird wasn’t as beautiful as the male bird (I was honestly a little disappointed in these female birds. I mean, come on ladies. Try a little), and he said that the colors and patterns were used to attract and impress the female birds (he probably said they’d go out on a nice date and share a worm dinner after the courtship).

I know that there is a long, male dominated history, that could easily explain why women still feel like they must grow their hair long, wear dresses to events, and put chemicals on their faces. I admit that I do all of these things, myself, and sometimes I enjoy doing them. Although I am a practical person, and I cringe every time the cashier rings me up at Sephora. That is until she tells me that I have enough points for a free gift, and I notice that the eyelash-extending mascara is among the array of choices. My previous mascara was definitely not doing my lashes justice.

Polarity

My first attempt at a short film.

For a better quality version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-sk71BrhYc&feature=youtu.be

What San Francisco means to me

I watched the Giants game tonight, where we rallied in the sixth to score three runs and pull ahead of the Cardinals, 6-4. I watched as our bullpen shut the Cardinals out, all the way until the top of the ninth, when one final swing blew past one final pitch and the game was over. Tony Bennett’s voice echoed throughout the stadium as a camera panned over flattering shots of San Francisco, which aren’t hard to come by. As I witnessed this glorious scene, I found myself getting choked up.

Nothing makes me feel nostalgic quite like a Giants game. I’ve been watching the Giants ever since I can remember. My family would take me to games when they played at Candlestick Park, which will soon be demolished. I remember when they built AT&T park, and that whole area around the Caltrain station lit up with life. Apartment buildings shot up, bars and restaurants opened, in a neighborhood that was once filled with empty lots and warehouses. I remember listening to almost every game on my clock radio, because our family didn’t have cable. I remember going out to the ballpark on the weekend, sometimes by myself, to watch the Giants games from the free spot, behind right field. I remember having my heart broken in 2002 when they Giants finally made it to, and then lost the World Series.

Sometimes I get upset or jealous because as hardcore of a fan as I am, I have never been to a postseason Giants game. Ticket prices shot up after they won the World Series in 2010 and then again in 2012. I could never justify spending the money on tickets. Yet I would watch as wealthy coworkers, and acquaintances splurged on a postseason game, only having been fans since the first World Series win.

The Giants have become great, and so they have more fans, which means higher ticket prices. However, it also means a greater budget for the Giants, meaning better facilities, and better players. So I feel like I should be happy for the team and what it’s become. Isn’t it what every baseball team and fan strives and hopes for? 

The energy around the Giants these past five years only mirrors the vibrancy I feel in the city itself. What was once a gritty, diverse city, is becoming more polished and inaccessible.

I grew up in what is now Duboce Triangle. When I was a kid, there weren’t so many neighborhoods. I always said that I grew up in the Castro, and I did. Every year my parents would bring me to the Gay Pride Parade. I would fashion a sign with washable marker on a piece of poster board, filled with rainbows and happy same-gender couples. I was always one of few children there and would usually receive a plethora of candy, balloons, and general smiles and “aren’t you adorable”s. It was one of my favorite days of the year, next to Halloween and Christmas.

I went to public school all the way through college. As a white girl, I was a minority in every school I attended. I was picked on a lot in elementary school and middle school. I found my groove and my lifelong friends in high school.

I grew up in the Castro, but spent most of my time in the Sunset, where my middle school, high school, swim team, and almost all of my friends lived. I ate a lot of Dim Sum and boba, even though I didn’t really like boba.

I didn’t go to the mission as a teenager. Although when I was a kid, my parents would take me there sometimes for Mexican food or paletas. Dolores park was on old beat-up wooden playground, that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere near after sunset. It was a popular spot to buy and sell drugs, as it is today, but the clientele was very, very different.

I never went to house parties - I thought they only existed in movies. I swam, did my homework, listened to Giants games, and hung out with friends, when I had time.

It was a happy childhood in a wonderful city - a city that I became suddenly nostalgic for when I went away to college. As beautiful and fun as San Diego was, I missed the fog, the Chinese food, and Muni. I missed my friends and family and everything that is San Francisco. I spent every Summer, Winter and Spring break at home, where I was happiest.

Now I’ve been living on my own in the City for several years. I currently live with my boyfriend in a small one bedroom in the Richmond, but we’re not sure how much longer we can afford it. We both want to eventually move somewhere a little bigger, and maybe even a little cheaper.

So now the secret’s out, about how wonderful San Francisco is. I almost feel like I found it out too late, that just as I began to truly realize how dear this city is to my heart, I am being pushed out of it. But like with the Giants, shouldn’t I be happy to see my city thrive and flourish?

I worry, just like many longtime San Franciscans, that this influx of young money won’t change the city for the better. That it will become more homogenous and therefore more boring. That it will become what so many people treat it as: a playground for the wealthy.

What I have to understand is that change is progressive and will eventually be for the better, even if not immediately. Only when a city becomes stagnant, does it suffer. My relationship with San Francisco is like that with a lifelong friend. We’ve grown together, and changed together - heck, I even got a job in the tech industry for her. But friendships change over time, and I might not be able to keep up with the rising costs. It is heartbreaking, but as is life. No matter where I end up, San Francisco will always be in my heart. But I will not leave my heart in San Francisco - that will stay with me, open and ready to love wherever I end up next.

*I will, however, be a Giants fan until I die.

Sheryl Wouldn't Quit

I’ve competed in countless races in my lifetime, most of them swim races, but also a handful of runs, regattas and a triathlon. I like to race, but I like to win even more. However, the issue with being an adult is that most races (that anyone cares about anyway) are running races, and in spite of my athletic past, I am a slow runner.

I competed in a 5k* with co workers a year ago. Being competitive and athletic, I psyched myself out, giving myself lofty goals and looking at everyone as competition. I told myself that I will at least break 30 minutes - that was my minimum goal. When the race started, I burst across the starting line, passing people like a gazelle, graceful and quick. When I thought I was nearly finished, I passed the 1 mile marker. My heart dropped and I slowed down significantly, as not to have a heart attack. I ended up finishing in over 30 minutes, as I chugged across the finish line, exhausted and defeated.

I had competed in a half marathon and an olympic distance triathlon, both of which were nowhere near as painful as this 5k had been. I realized that I had no idea how to pace myself for such a short distance and ended up trying to sprint the whole thing. I was determined to devise a better strategy for next year.

The next year came around, and a month before I decided to try to train. I cursed myself for not training sooner, but made the most of the time I had left, going on runs several mornings each week.

When the race day approached, I felt more prepared than I had the last year. Last year I was too confident, thinking that a 5k was nothing. This year I knew better. I drank a cup of coffee and ate a snack a couple of hours before, and then headed to race with co workers. I started to psych myself out again, but each time I got a little too intense, I reminded myself that I need to take it easy - I can’t sprint the whole thing.

We got to the starting line and the buzzer went off. I again, started at a quick pace, passing people as I bounded along. After a couple minutes, I reminded myself of last year and slowed down. I’d speed up for a while, and then slow down. Then when I felt that I could, I would speed up again. Things seemed to be going OK until about halfway through the race I found that I wasn’t able to speed up again. “It’s OK,” I told myself. “It’s better to keep a steady pace than to kill youself on the third mile.” It was during the last mile that my stomach started to really bother me. I slowed down even more when I would start to feel queasy. “It’s OK. You’re OK.” I kept telling myself.

As the last half mile came around, I wanted to walk. My stomach was not feeling any better. Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, which I was in the middle of reading at the time, came into my head. I thought of her trek across the Pacific Crest Trail and her strength and perseverance inspired me momentarily. “Cheyrl wouldn’t quit!” I thought to myself and pushed on. I could see the finish line straight ahead of me when someone I knew passed me slowly on my right. “Cheryl wouldn’t let that girl pass her!” I thought. So I passed her back seconds before crossing the finish line. Then, roughly 10 feet from the finish line I barfed all over my shoes. Then I barfed on them again and again. It’s a right of passage, I told myself, as I was escorted to the medical tent. You can’t claim to be an athlete and never barf during a workout. Although I didn’t expect to be 27, running a casual 5k when it happened.

I rode my bike home, trying not to go over too many potholes, as my stomach whirled and ached. When I got home, I immediately rinsed the puke off of my shoes and clothes and took a shower. Then I opened my computer and checked my time - I had slipped under 30 minutes with a 29:45. The satisfaction I felt in that moment reminded me of why I put myself through torture. “Next year I’m going to break 28 minutes,” I told myself as my stomach gurgled painfully. I pushed my computer aside and quickly ran to the bathroom.

*It was actually slightly more than a 5k. Technically it was 3.35 miles, which is a 5.4k

Actual photo of me, seconds before barfing

Lulu

My second grade teacher, Mrs. Susie, was an older woman with a raspy, smoker's voice. She dressed in gold and pearls, and once left a cigarette butt on my desk. Her room always smelled musty, like a mix of stale cigarette smoke and grandma's perfume.

When we were learning cursive, she gave us a homework assignment to write our name 50 times. I came home, complaining to my mom that my 8-letter name will take me much longer to write than the names of the other students. My mom offered the brilliant idea of writing my nickname, "Lulu," instead of my full name. Realizing that this would save me half the time, I agreed, and wrote "Lulu" 50 times in cursive.

Mrs. Susie was unpredictable, and would often punish kids for the most ridiculous crimes. We once were told to draw a picture from a scene in chapter 10 of The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. I missed the chapter break, and read all the way through to chapter 12.  Without realizing it, I ended up drawing a picture from chapter 11. I was particularly proud of this picture; I had drawn a king with his hand wrapped around a sceptre. When I turned it in, I expected praise for my impressive attempt at drawing something in 3D. Instead, she took one look at it and yelled at me for drawing something from the wrong chapter. She sent me to my seat, forced me to erase the entire drawing, and told me draw something from chapter 10 on the same sheet. I cried silently as I erased my masterpiece.

Because of this experience, I half expected her to yell at me when I turned in my nickname, which I had never mentioned, written 50 times. Instead, she said in her raspy voice "Lulu! That's adorable! Why didn't you tell me that was your nickname?" I hadn't told her, because I wasn't particularly fond of that name and preferred to be called "Lorraine." For the rest of the year she called me "Lulu." She was the only person in my life to consistantly call me that name. Family members and close friends referred to me as "Lu." Everyone else called me "Lorraine."

Every time she said my name, I wanted to ask her to please call me Lorraine. Yet, it was my own  fault that she now knew of this nickname. I couldn't admit to her that I actually didn't like being called "Lulu," since that would reveal that I had been lazy on that one homework assignment. She also became somewhat nicer to me after she started calling me Lulu. Saying the name seemed to give her some odd satisfaction. To this day, I still don't know if the name "Lulu" actually made her smile, or if that smile was a devious, knowing smile, deriving satisfaction from the constant punishment I bestowed upon my lazy self.