Packin' up, gettin' rid of stuff - Pt. 1

When I was younger -- maybe seven or eight because I was old enough to take on some chores but too young to really see the point -- I would take a long time to clean my room. Once you couldn't see the floor anymore, my parents would give me the ultimatum: clean it up or we throw it away. Sometimes, to add dramatic effect, my dad would even come in with a large, black garbage bag and start rifling through my stuff. He used this tactic to speed up the process because I would take forever.

Mainly because I spent a lot of time looking at and playing with the things I was supposed to be putting away. I'd start in one corner of the room, find something I hadn't seen in a while, and then make a day of it. Maybe I'd rearrange my dollhouse, put all of my Polly Pockets in a row, or make a new city out of Legos.

When I got older -- maybe twelve or thirteen because I was young enough to still have to clean my room but too old to have many toys -- my procrastination was fueled by long-lost diary entries or old stories that I had to revisit and reflect upon. This would usually turn into me pulling more things out of the depths of my closet, rather than putting them away.

Thus, packing up my 22-year-old life proves no different. Plus I'm a pack-rat. So I still have those diaries and short stories. Only now they sit under new short stories,

poems,
research papers,
newspaper articles,
letters,
ticket stubs,
fortune cookie fortunes,
old cell phones,
class notes,
birthday cards,
pictures,
and even old, empty packets of birth control pills.

I like to think that everything has a memory attached to it. But most of this shit has just become something that invokes the same memory: "Oh, that happened."

So I'm trying to force myself to have higher standards regarding what I choose to keep. I'm also trying to let myself just have memories instead of evidence.

There are still going to be a lot of unnecessary things that I pack up and take with me when I leave Philly. But the number of boxes is getting smaller.

And looking at things while I pack them up is still fun. Here are some past-life pictures for y'all to enjoy:

That's me in 5th grade, eating my government-provided lunch. To my right is my best friend from elementary and middle school. She died last October; so I mourn moments like this.

That's me in 7th grade. Playin' ball.

I'm the 16-year-old sitting on the ground to the left. This was my first time ever on any coast -- Wildwood, NJ. We were there as a girl scout troop, part of a larger camping trip at the shore. My mom is the lady in the white sweatshirt behind me to my right. My troop leader is the woman on the right side of the picture wearing a fisherman's hat and a green t-shirt. She died last August; but I am glad that I got to tell her how much she meant to me years before.

Still at the shore -- this time in Cape May, NJ. For about a year, I really loved wearing this purple fedora.

Our first trip to Spain in high school. That's 18-year-old Elliot standing in front of a windmill in Castilla-La Mancha.

That's me, looking larger than life.

Note the bicycle tube belt.

I put up a few of these because I don't think I've seen them since we went to Spain in 2007. Makes me psyched to return in a few months.

Leaving Mantua

Most of the people I know living in Philadelphia have dealt with some kind of tension, either in their own neighborhoods, or in others to which they've visited.

Jumped in West Kensington
Pistol-whipped in Olney
Heckled in Francisville
Beaten in Center City
Punched in Fishtown
Cat-called in Point Breeze
Robbed on the Broad Street Line

For the most part, we all have something in common: we're kind of poor but not really poor. So we can afford to live on the edge -- that which lies between a more contentious area and one that is more, say, white.

Mantua, Philadelphia (via photographyclubcolumbia)

My edge is Brandywine Street. Technically in Mantua, but five steps away from Powelton Village where college kids have crept into the 150-year-old neighborhood over the last decade or so.

I feel safe on my block. It's usually quiet, except when the dude a few houses down blares his car stereo (old and new R&B that I don't really mind). No one has ever made me feel uneasy. Some neighbors have even expressed their enjoyment -- not annoyance -- of weekly band practices held in our living room.

But I wouldn't say that I feel completely comfortable in Mantua.

1. I avoid Haverford Avenue on my ride home, even though it technically represents a quicker route from the Spring Garden bridge. I take Hamilton Avenue instead because it's less likely that people are on the sidewalks or out in the street. Even more unlikely that people on the street are going to fuck with someone on a bike. Hamilton is lined with big, old houses with iron fences, English ivy, Christmas lights, and porches. Once you get past 34th Street, Haverford consists mainly of empty lots, boarded windows, and a sketchy pizza place. When my family was visiting a couple years ago, I told them to use Hamilton even if the GPS suggested to use Haverford. I wasn't necessarily worried about them being fucked with, but I figured they would have a better impression of my neighborhood if they got to my house via Hamilton. Anyway, they decided to go against my directions to see what the fuss was about and the first thing my 14-year-old brother said when he came through the door was "I think we just saw a drug deal."

2. I never made a decent effort to know my neighbors. Sure, I recognize most of them, but there's never more than a hello and a wave when we cross paths. During block parties, I hung out on the stoop for a hot minute, but never crossed the street to drink a beer with the dudes that grill all the time. Interestingly, I never got to know the other white college kids on the block either. Never really saw them outside. A kind of collective agoraphobia. There is a grass lot on our street, about the size of two rowhouses. Perfect for an urban garden -- sun, space, and proximity. I thought about this project, and the best/fairest way to go about it. Should I start it on my own, or get the support of other families on the block? Should we share a communal garden, or have individual plots? Should I push for organic and sustainable methods of gardening that I've only read about, or let everyone do their own thing? The final question I asked myself was, Should I even be the one to do this? I decided I shouldn't be. After all, I was one of the newest tenants on the block. It'd be pretty white of me to move in, not talk to anyone, stick a shovel in the ground, and start making "recommendations." So the lot remains empty.

3. I didn't plan to be here long. I moved to Philadelphia for school. I moved to Mantua because it was convenient, cheap, and relatively safe. Always wanted to live off of Baltimore Ave. (see previous post). Lately, I've been all too eager to leave. I never felt like a Mantua resident to begin with. No investment in this house or this street. Gave up on living in the city.

So in the next two weeks, I'm leaving this neighborhood. I'll be living in Manayunk for a few weeks (stay tuned!) and then moving back to the childhood comfort of Greensburg.

I realize that I am in a privileged position, to come and go as I please. On one hand, I feel like an intruder living in a neighborhood where I don't have any roots; on the other, I feel sheltered and naive living where I feel too comfortable. And as a traveler, I'm an outsider anywhere.

I don't have any conclusions. But I do have some advice: visit as much of Philly as you can (or substitute Philly with wherever you live). While I wasn't completely comfortable here, I feel confident in saying I've lived here because I know where things are, and I know what places look like.

GET A MAP

Baby research

I thought it would be neat to write a post on what my post-graduation job entails. The real one, as opposed the one on the side. (Just kidding)

For some of you, this might be interesting because you're interested in developmental psychology, jobs that resemble careers, babies, etc.

For me, this post not only reflects what I do five days out of the week, but also provides some insight as to what I went to school for in the first place. Especially since I'm currently in the process of paying back my dues.
 

I am the lab coordinator for the Developmental Science Lab, a psychology research facility, at Temple University. Behind me in the picture to the left, is the lab -- half kindergarten classroom, half high school chemistry lab.

What's more interesting about this picture is that this is what a parent sees when they visit our website and browse the members page. So that's me, trying to look friendly, approachable, and smart! The hand on the hip implies that I'm serious about my job, but I can have fun, too.



Most of my job responsibilities are routine: checking emails, answering phone calls, signing for packages, filing receipts, organizing data, managing undergrad researchers, and stuffing envelopes.

The reason I have this job, though, is more complicated. For those of you not familiar with academic fields that rely heavily on research, research, research, psychology is one of these fields. Most people imagine the whole therapist & couch scenario when they think of psychologists, but most of us (yes, I'm including myself because I've got a fuckin' degree) are researchers. That's how universities get money, and it's also how the field progresses (sort of).

Research, if done right, involves a lot of writing, planning, hypothesizing, and recruiting. Thus, research implicates the contributions of many different people: investigators (tenured professors, grad students, post-docs), interns, student researchers, and volunteers. All these people help to carry out studies, analyze results, and publish anything significant.

In short, my job is to keep all of this going. And the incentive is that if I don't keep all of this going, the lab's projects won't be funded, and I'm out of a job.

Ok, so that was kind of boring. I'll try to talk more about babies.

Yes, my research mainly involves 14-month-old infants! Basically, I invite them and their parents in (usually a mom, but sometimes a dad or a grandma), obtain consent (very important), and then try to put an EEG cap on the child's head.

I wish I could use a picture from our lab, but I'm pretty sure the photo consent form didn't say anything about use on a researcher's blog. This interweb picture does the cap justice, though.

You should know that this process is a challenge. While EEG is used worldwide as a way of collecting data, not many labs attempt to use the technique with children, especially those as young as 14-months.

You can't explain anything to the child about what you're going to do; all you can do is wave the cap in front of them and smile really big so they think it's OK. And it is -- I promise it is.

The first time I put an EEG cap on a baby, she cried. She frowned and buried her head in her mom's chest every time I came near her. I don't know if I can do this, I thought. I'm tormenting her.

But I did do it. And continued to do it. Approximately one out of two babies cry when we put on the cap.

Why? Because it's weird.
They don't want the cap on.
They don't know who I am.
Their mom is almost two feet away.
They haven't had their morning nap.
They have a tummy ache.

Most parents get this -- that babies cry for lots of reasons. Some don't. The mom's face starts to look worried and the baby can sense that and so she wails harder.

I've gotten used to the crying. Not that I don't know the difference between a whine and a get-the-fuck-away-from-me cry. But I'm not going to wince at every whimper.

The more shocking/awkward stuff I see is from the parents:

- One mom consistently bit her son's hand whenever he grabbed for something
- Another chose to start breastfeeding while the study was in session
- There was a dad who lied to me twice about his daughter's age
- A mom who brought four other kids with her, two that weren't hers
- A grandma who left in a huff because she totally disapproved of her daughter and granddaughter participating
- Several parents who disciplined their (14-month-old) son for playing with "girl" toys

Anyway, having worked in this lab for 3 years, I don't think I want to do research.

This job was great; it provided me with invaluable experience. I have sincerely enjoyed it. But seeing the research process in action has discouraged me. There are exceptions, sure, but most studies take at least a few years to plan, carry out, and publish. And it takes far longer for the information learned from these results to trickle down and benefit those concerned.

This bothers me. Especially when I get a rash of calls from parents seeking out an expert who can explain why their child isn't walking, talking, smiling yet. The point of research is to expand resources, but the chain of events is too spread out to be truly effective.

I still maintain that research is an important element for the field of psychology -- still enjoy reading about it. Just don't want to have a role in it. I'm not patient enough.