Why Switzerland? Why Switzerland!

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When I was a teenager, I saw myself to turning into a jerk. I fought with people for no reason, said obnoxious things in class and was generally pretty teen-like to my parents.

Even in my jerk state, I could see that I didn’t want to be one forever. I wanted to argue less and get along more. And for some reason, Switzerland embodied all that I wasn’t but wanted to be. Switzerland, above all things, is neutral. That’s good and bad: They skipped Vietnam, but they didn’t do anything about the Holocaust either. But for someone who brought up the fact that Mark Maguire was using steroids when my English teacher was trying to create a class discussion around an inspiring quote of his, neutrality was a worthwhile goal.

For a long time, my motto was “be like Switzerland.” As anal and judgmental as I am now, it could have been a lot worse if my motto had been “be like Germany.” Back then, and even now, I find comfort in the idea of a country that has stayed at peace despite everything happening around it. So often I let situations control me. But from WWII to the EU, Switzerland has remained Swiss, and has been neutral to everything.

Even though I’m sort of obsessed with the Switzerland, I didn’t actually know that much about the country outside of my admiration and two trips there. But I just read a lovely book called Why Switzerland? by Jonathan Steinberg that, at least to me, validated my fascination with the country.

It wouldn’t be very Swiss of me to force my esoteric interests on anybody, but still. It’s a country and an ideal worth considering.

One Raronauer Reads, Explained

I’m in this odd spot right now. For the month of March, I’m guest blogging at Gawker. It’s exciting, but also scary and weird. So as soon as I finish Why Switzerland?–much more on that selection later—I’m going to read Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song.

The Executioner’s Song is a very long book. It’ll probably take me the entire month to finish. But I like the idea of tying a book to a time in my life. When I’m done with the Executioner’s Song, I’ll be done with my guest blogging stint and the two will forever be connected in my head.

For me anyway, culture is the best way to remember an experience. One Wednesday evening in high school, my mom was teaching, my brother was in college, and my dad suggested I come into the city to meet him for dinner. I still remember the short story I read on the train in.

Casual Racism Is My Favorite Kind

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This girl I know posted a picture of herself on Facebook hugging a man who looked like a recent immigrant from India. This man is tagged “my mom would be so proud.”

At first I was confused. Why would her mom be so proud that her daughter is hugging a South Asian man? And then I thought, “Wait, this friend of mine is being sarcastic. Her mom would actually not be proud. She would be disappointed that her daughter was dating someone from a different background.”

And then I realized my friend is not actually making her mom “proud” in that way. In fact, she finds the possibility of sexual relations with an immigrant so implausible as to be laughable. And if anything, her mother “would be so proud” of her daughter’s antipathy toward a man who doesn’t share her socio-economic upbringing.

And then I thought, “Goddamn. Why am I Facebook friends with such a fucking racist?”

Inconvenience Day, For Real

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My friend Josh alerted me that today is Inconvenience Yourself Day. The holiday is a reminder to go out of your way to be nice to others.

Before I knew about Inconvenience Day as a goodwill celebration, I observed Inconvenience Day as an inconvenient event for my 23rd birthday.

In New York, people are so put out by birthday parties. It’s as if weekend subway changes and distant neighborhoods are legitimate reasons not to have fun. So for my birthday that year, I decided to inconvenience people as much as possible.

Instead of throwing a convenient gathering at a central location, I made everyone go to the aquarium in Coney Island. Every aspect of the day was inconvenient: The F train was messed up, a sea lion tried to attack my friend and the service at Totonno’s was awful. But with the stated goal of inconvenience, any setback just furthered the theme and fun. If the meaning of life were just to contemplate our own morality, existence would be the ultimate party.

Outside of birthday parties, my entire life is incredibly inconvenient. I live in Brooklyn, but far from the G train. The cell phone reception in my apartment is terrible. My gym isn’t nearby, so I’m always carrying around sneakers. The only thing that is convenient to me is the Brooklyn Museum, and I have a standing date not to attend their first Saturday parties.

But as the inconvenience website states, “Inconvenience Yourself™ is a way of living.” And I am living that inconvenient dream.

Thanks, Mom

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An artist and a lawyer, my mom and dad were the original hipster-yuppies when they lived in Brooklyn 30 years ago. Soon after my brother was born, they kept real with themselves and retreated to the suburbs.

Last night, I told my mom that I never wanted to be a Park Slope mom on a diet or married to a Park Slope dad who looks like he’d
rather be in the office than splitting a muffin with his kids.

Her response: “We mock what we are to be.” Peri totally served me.

Okay, I said, I just never want to be a mom talking about how good Weight Watchers bars are in a Park Slope coffee shop.

To that she said, “I have confidence in you.”

It means so much to have parents who believe in you.

[image via Peri Schwartz.com, “Self-portrait, 1983”]

The Impossible Education

photo_1_4ab9ca642142fc724e93195dca9602b6.jpg I can’t wait for Google Books. I just reread all of Psychoanalysis: The Impossible Profession to find this passage:

Another story tells of an analyst who decided to do some follow-up work. He telephoned two women patients who had been in analysis with him five years previously. There were comparable cases: both had had stormy, tempestuous analyses, with all kinds of Sturm und Drang and very emotional, intense transferences. Now, five years later, one woman said, “Doctor, every night before I go to bed I thank my lucky stars that I had you as my analyst. The analysis with you has changed my life. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about what I learned from you, and apply it. You are an ever-living presence in my daily life, and I think of you with something like reverence.” The other woman—who had had just as tempestuous and emotional and intense an analysis—said, “You know, every so often I think about you, and I think, Maybe my life wouldn’t be much different if I hadn’t been in analysis. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much of the analysis. You seem to be a nice man. I guess the experience was O.K. But I can’t say what helped me and what wouldn’t have happened anyway.” Right away, he knew who had had the better analysis. When you’re though with the operation, you sew up the patient, you hope that the scar isn’t too conspicuous, and if everything afterward goes as it should—fine, that’s enough.
Despite having read a book about psychoanalysis twice, I’ve never been in psychoanalysis. The reason I read it at all is because it’s by Janet Malcolm, who also wrote The Journalist and the Murderer. I reread it because I’ve been thinking about that anecdote a lot lately. Soon after I graduated college, I decided the whole thing was bunk. I was the kind of student who read all the assigned texts instead of just the parts that would be on the test. After four years, I got a degree that implied that I’m educated. But if I had failed Spanish IV, which I nearly did, I wouldn’t be a Bachelor of the Arts. But what does Spanish have to with the price of tea in China? In fact, what does the price of tea in China have to do with my life now? Plus, not to get all Good Will Hunting, but a lot of stuff I learned in college I could have just read on my own. But like the second women in that story, my college education has become such a part of me that I don’t really notice it anymore. There’s a production of Othello happening in London right now that I should have no interest in, but I’ve read all about it. And it’s no coincidence that Othello was my favorite play from the two Shakespeare classes I took in college. (Also no coincidence: I saw O before reading the play.) Incidentally, the other professions Freud described as impossible were education and government. I guess the operation was a success.

Take That Takes Its Revenge

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I’ve been listening to “Back For Good” on repeat all day. I can’t stop. I want to kill myself.

Seriously, I know you want me back for good, but is this really how you want me? Depressed and anxious? If you really loved me, you would let me leave that coffee cup with my lipstick mark still on it. I don’t want to be back for good.