This is why I am a closet yuppie.
Not only did I get on the train this morning holding a fresh latte made by the lovely folks at the train station Starbucks, but I read the New Yorker the whole way while listening to The Last Five Years on my minidisc player. I realize that having an MD player makes me a little behind on the technology revolution, but it allows me to record my voice lessons without dragging around a tape recorder or purchasing the very expensive attachment for the iPod, a gadget I am still reluctant to purchase.
I love the New Yorker. I'm finishing up the food issue from a few weeks ago - my daily commute now leaves me about an hour a day to sit and read whatever I please and that's just about the best thing ever. For the first time in my life, I can read in a moving vehicle, drink my coffee, and not get honked at or motion sick.
And the New Yorker does funny cartoon drawings of George Bush that make him resemble one of the flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz. Which really, he is. But I think the monkeys had more personality. *sigh*
Going to dance class, then acting. Have a dress rehearsal tonight for our scenes program tomorrow night. Mom and Dad are back from Natchitoches, seeing the brother, with newly purchased underwear and clothes.
When people, in casual conversation, as me where I'm from, I am now reluctant to say "New Orleans" because the inevitable piteous looks and inquisitive comments follow. Even the Starbucks girl this morning, after checking my ID against my debit card, asked if I had family in New Orleans. I was chatting with a co-worker at my church job the other day and sharing my most recent conquest against capitalism - the victorious low hotel rate for the wedding. She asked me if I had to "play the New Orleans card."
I am not a victim in the direct sense of the word. My things were not taken from me by a natural disaster, the domicile in which I live was not under four feet of water, but I would be in denial to say that my family has not been affected and that I have undergone tremendous stress as a result of coordinating my familial whereabouts with one another and generating lists of replacement values for my mom via patchy telephone connections. I do not share this information with every random acquaintance who asks me where I'm from - though I suppose by posting it on my blog I am sharing it with random strangers. These days, I'm inclined to say "Indiana" just to avoid the conversation.
I don't want pity from strangers. I don't want special treatment. When I seek comfort, it's from my friends and my fiancee who share the same grief that I do about the destruction of our favorite place. So why did it strike some very offensive chord in me that this girl asked me if I "played the New Orleans card?"
Still thinking, must go to class.
