Interpreting

30,000 professional sign language interpreters across the United States experience something on a daily basis that most other professionals do not have to face. Like a mouse in a maze, ASL terps are sent through a dizzying array of twisted passageways, dead-ends, frustrations, and conflicting instructions before we finally reach the end of our hunt and secure our prize. Although instead of a piece of cheese, interpreters get a person who is deaf.

David's Story: Deaf patient at a medical facility

"Oh what a good day to be a communication facilitator and provide access to language!" David takes in a deep, satisfying breath and asks the front desk attendant where he can find Mr. SoNso to provide him with the interpematation.

"You're a what?"

"A sign language interpreter."

Blank stare.

"I interpret for people who are deaf."

"Dead people? Why do they need an interpreter? They're dead!"

"No sir, DEAF ... as in a person who cannot hear? Namely yourself?" (last question was interior monologue)

"Hmm ... yes ..." *ruffles papers and tries to look knowledgeable* "Yes ... oh here we go. Yes, go to the part of the hospital called 'International Relations'."

Blank stare ... this time from David.

The interpreter, puzzled and quite confident that International Relations has nothing to do with deafness, spends a significant amount of time hunting down the IR office. Upon entering, David sees flags of multiple nationalities adorning the wall, as well as informative pamphlets on foreigners' rights (or non-rights?) to medical care in the great U.S.of.A.holes.

Two individuals, speaking with accents that are definitely of foreign nature, turn with helpful expressions to the interpreter.

"Ah ... yes ... I'm a sign language interpreter and I'm here to interpret for a person who is deaf."

Blank stares.

"Is this the right place?"

They look at the interpreter as if he had just undid his pants and started using Jim Carrey ass-speak. "Sir, what you want is Patient Advocacy."

Another 10 minutes later David finds himself in the Patient Advocacy office, only to find that the assignment had been cancelled.

This cheese stinks.

Metro responds

Last week I wrote a blog about a very disturbing Metro experience that apparently isn't all that uncommon. After reading through some other blogs and news sources, it seems that Metro has faltered in several areas of customer safety. I wrote Metro with a formal complaint, and then forwarded that email to the Blade, Metro Weekly, and the GLBT Liaison Police.

I received a phone call from Metro 2 days after my email, and a very VERY professional and courteous man spent a good amount of time discussing the situation with me.

Basically, the Metro transit police has about 400 officers employed to monitor over 80 Metro stations, 1,600 bus lines, and over 100 miles of railways throughout DC and the metro area. He explained that their resources are spread thin, and so every Metro station cannot be manned with an officer at all times (I just realized how sexist the verb "to man" is ... correction-- "every Metro station cannot be person-ed with an officer"). Therefore, it is sometimes faster to get the train to the officers rather than get the officers to the train.

Staffing, budget constraints, etc. etc. etc. and certainly not the answer I wanted to hear. Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing this man could do to magically fix the problem.

So money and staffing aside, my biggest concern was the lack of communication on the part of the train operator. If the train is being moved and transit police have been (or will be) notified, shouldn't the passenger(s) know about it? Wouldn't an announcement by the conductor potentially deter the harassers?

Mr. Red Line Security Manager Man said that this was definitely a concern of his, and they were currently using the information I provided to identify which operator was running the train at the time. I think he'll get in trouble, which I'm not too happy about, but safety supersedes my guilt and hopefully this operator will not make the same mistake again.

Metro's advice? Ride in the train car closest to the operator.

I feel so safe.

Field of Clovers ...

Movies movies movies ... Hollywood never ceases to disappoint. Well ... except for Million Dollar Baby (I dare ANY of you to explain why that movie was popular, as I literally began plucking the hairs on my arm during the movie to entertain myself). But generally there is at least $10 worth of entertainment from anything that brightens the silver screen.

And so it goes with Cloverfield- the newest thriller that shows the buildings of New York City being tossed about like the Lego's of a temperamental 2-year-old on speed. First of all, why is it always NYC? Between The Day After Tomorrow and Artificial Intelligence there are hardly any buildings left to destroy! I guess it's more exciting to watch human beings running and screaming for their lives instead of cows going for a swim in a tsunami. But still, let's give NYC a rest and wipe out an area of little worth ... like, um ... Texas (minus Austin)?

Anyway, Cloverfield is effectively the combination of Godzilla, War of the Worlds, and The Blair Witch Project. Persons who are motion-sickness-challenged, please be advised- the blurred images and jostled scenery feel quite like Mel Gibson out for an evening drive. The lady behind me in the theater said "I'm gonna puke", and that is the kind of immersing movie experience that I would prefer to forgo (leave the surround sound to the speakers, sweetheart). Luckily she kept it together.

The characters of Cloverfield, however, had some trouble keeping it together. When I say "it", I'm really talking about their friggin' common sense and decision-making abilities. "Hmm ... my girlfriend is trapped in a region of Manhattan where an unidentified biting object is reeking havoc on the city, certain to result in death and unpleasant dismemberment of all appendages.... LET'S GO !!!!!" Sigh ...

It could be the love of my life trapped in the Trump Towers- I am out of there, bitch ... Well, now that I say that, I have to wonder... If it's the love of your life, is life worth living without him/her? Even if your exit to the afterlife involves a considerable amount of bleeding and tangled limbs?

Regardless, the characters were silly and had delusions of grandeur when they thought they could take on the UBO without losing a few friends along the way. But hey! Lady friend is stuck in the tower. Screw the dragon and rescue the princess!!!

I enjoyed the effects and the 1st person perspective of Cloverfield. Scenes of mass panic and the psychology of crowds has always been fascinating to me, and so I got my fill with this movie. I was also able to leave the theater without being afraid of the sunset, which I cannot say about I Am Legend.

As I stepped out into the (comparatively) quiet streets of Washington, DC, I had to wonder: what would happen if some ginormous monster started causing destruction all around me, ruining lives and crushing the world without a care for the consequences?

Hey wait ... how did I get started talking about the Republican party??? (oooooooh COLD .....) Sorry, that one just seemed too easy, and I'm not clever enough to REALLY insult the beast.

Metro opens doors ... to danger and irresponsibility

*ahem*

I shall now tell you a very sad tale, particularly on a weekend where equality and differences in humanity are not only accepted, but celebrated.

9:15 on a Sunday evening in the friggin' bitter cold of a windy January (honestly, Dear Wind: we get it. It's windy. You blow. CUT IT OUT !!!! ... so obnoxious ...). Our train pulls into Judiciary Square when a slight ruckus breaks out on our Metro car. One man comes to my side of the car and pushes the call button, informing the train operator that there are two men harassing him and requesting that someone come immediately.

Indeed, they were harassing him- with anti-gay slurs and explicitly sexual remarks that were far from positive. They continued yelling at him from across the car. Everyone else froze- unsure whether they should intervene or not, and wondering how much they could tolerate ignoring this disgusting scene.

After a few minutes, the man pushed the call button again and said "Please help, please help" in a calm but insistent tone. Our train was holding on the platform due to maintenance at another station. The train operator asked for clarification as to what was happening in the car. 5 minutes had past, and no one from the transit police had arrived.

One of the harassers come over to my side of the car, pushed the call button, and said "Don't pay any attention to this mother fuckin' nigga". Still no response from the operator.

Another few minutes passed. The train was still being held at Judiciary Square. The two harassers, continuing their slurs and degradation, finally exited the train and went about their merry business.

By this time it had been 10 minutes since the man's first report to the operator. And still nothing. Then, the car doors closed and our train proceeded to the next stop. Only then did the operator make a loudspeaker call to transit police to come to our car for a reported assault. Two uniformed officers dashed into our car asking who had been assaulted.

The man and I explained the situation-- there was no physical assault, and the harassers had exited the Metro several minutes before and at another station. The officers' response: "Oh ... I'm sorry that happened."

Now ... should it take over 10 minutes for someone to intervene when a man is being harassed on the Metro? What can happen in 10 minutes? What happens when you close the doors on that person and take them to the next Metro stop, not knowing whether or not his harassers are still in the same car with him?

Appropriate letters to Metro supervisors and others are currently being drafted ...

I have a dream, too ... but last night I definitely woke up to reality :-( It's sad.

Flurrying in the snow

*And it's beginning to snow* (Rent)

For a silly kid from Florida, nothing is more exciting than a fresh snowfall. Hell, even for a 27-year-old pseudo-adult, snow is pretty damn enthralling. I found myself today, like most children across the District, magnetized to the window and staring out at a million flakes that lazily coasted down to a candyland sea of powdered frosting, romanticizing everything they touched. Snowflakes are like upside-down white-laced umbrellas, cascading down in uniform- yet unique- bands of fluff and stuff that caught me spellbound and mystified.

10 minutes later, after trudging through some mud and slipping a dozen times, I was so over that shit.

Haha actually, all the skank that goes along with a gallop in the snow is quite worth it in the end. What's particularly interesting about snow, especially for someone who wasn't raised in it, is all of the symbolism tied to snowy days and winter wonderlands.

I immediately think of: warm fireplaces, getting some chapters done in a book, wooden cabins, soft candles, and snuggling under a warm blanket with that special someone.

But what if you don't have a fireplace, you're reading a book that bores you to tears (LOL actually, I'm currently reading "So you want to be an interpreter?" which I quickly have to shove in my bag when my deaf clients approach me on my interpreting assignments *cough cough*), your house is made of brick, your candles may set off the smoke detector, and you don't have anyone to snuggle up with (sorry, Henry the Turtle, but you are a cold-blooded creature...)??? What then, snow ... what then?!?

What's surprising to me is that sometimes when we are presented with the most spectacular sights, the most brilliant sunsets, the most immense canyons -- all of those things which make up the essence of being a conscious being -- we then wish for something on top of that. We sometimes wish we could share that experience with someone else (again, Henry, I'm so sorry but your softness can only go so far).

I thought about that today as the snow relentlessly proved its cuteness for hours and rested itself gently on every single tree branch in Fort Totten Park. To which I thought: "no ... actually, this is quite enough".

I don't need a fireplace, I don't need a novel, an isolated cabin adorned with sweet-perfumed candles, or even a cuddle buddy.

This sight is so perfect... so serene, so gently exquisite- why complicate it with all of that? I am privileged enough to enjoy it, perhaps more so than the people who've grown tiredly accustomed to a first snowfall.

So let it snow, let it snow, let it snow ... come here, Henry.

Franklin's in Hyattsville

The de-suburbanization of townships and the renewed interest in a "downtown" art's district with loft spaces and apartments for budding talent has taken hold even in Hyattsville, Maryland. At the center of this revitalization is a restaurant called Franklin's -- a general store turned microbrewery and ... well, a "general" store.

Do not be fooled by its title- "general" to "Franklin's" is like "black and male" to "Michael Jackson". The store is a large space jam-packed with colorful toys, games, and random oddities for the young and old. And I also found that the store was quite gay-friendly. Items of note included: a healthy selection of boas, Hallmark cards turned queer (something about a birthday gone wrong by the hands of some angered drag queen? I can't remember...), magnets (those kinds with old photographs, usually depicting some 1950's mother ladling martinis down her throat and all), and even gay gum (um ... always fresh?).

Our waitress was Shannon from the Midwest (oh my gash oh yeah you betcha), who's spunk was as addictive as their homemade bread pudding (however, there were just too many damned raisins, I must say). The dining area is very spacious, spread out over 2 floors with booths and tables decorated with colorful rainbow-checkered tablecloths. It still has the feeling of a large general store, or almost like an enormous modern loft, with enough hardwood and brick to deserve the label "quaint" and two thumbs up from this hungry bitch.

Speaking of food: the mixed bread basket was quite tasty, and my coconut curry chicken was certainly enough to fill this belly and consider not getting dessert *GASP*. They also have a great selection of beers- try the sampler (choose up to 9, I had 4 for $4.50) which comes on a round wooden board with numbered circular inserts for the glasses to identify which beer is which.

The cuteness just goes on and on, like watching Zac Efron scene-by-scene in Hairspray over, and over, and over, and over ... *ahem* - yeah just watching it once, that's all, and not more than once of course don't be silly what do you think I am a freak shutup.

Next visit to Franklin's I will try one of their famous pizzas and perhaps, if I'm daring, a slice of carrot cake (but I'll feel like the food critic in Ratatouille ... don't mess with my cake, bitches). Then I'd like to spend some more time in the general store, wading through pirate rubber duckies, candies that you cannot find at 7-Eleven, kitchen cutlery that is just damn cute, and a host of other items that scream gay, gay, GAY!

It's like Cracker Barrel- only more colorful and without the rockers and inbreeding.

The Palace of Wonders

In yet another effort to seek out an "undiscovered" area of DC and transform it into the "hip" part of town (thereby interesting investors, driving out the locals with higher property taxes, and building obscene condos), H street NE has had an amazing face-lift -- one that would rival even Cher -- over the past few years. Cute little bars that serve risottos and delicious sweet potato fries are drawing white bohemian-esque persons from all over the District (they mostly arrive via taxi ... the 1200 block of H Street looks like a hornet's nest of yellow, black, and orange vehicles spinning about to shuttle bus-shy people to and from Union Station).

The Palace of Wonders is a recent addition to what is now being referred to as the "Atlas District" (nice ring to it, right? Well, Atlas struggled, didn't he? Just like the locals who won't be able to keep up with the Jones' once businesses realize the potential of this region ... it's actually really sad).

This palatial bar is a trendy mix between a circus, Moulin Rouge, and Ripley's Believe it or Not. Last Friday, after using my feminine wiles to convince the bouncer-lady to give me a discount on the cover (score ... wish I were equally convincing in other arenas), I was treated to a fire-eating-dancing burning-sword-swinging fire-hula-hooping extravaganza. Quite unlike anything I've ever seen at JR's or Cobalt (although both featuring "flaming" individuals).

It was quite refreshing to watch a talent show - albeit a somewhat odd and unexpected show - on a Friday night with mixed company and mixed drinks. There is a small stage on the ground floor, barely visible through a sea of heads that usually sport spiked haircuts and braidings of uncertain origins. The second floor has display cases showing the various anomalies of the human species (for 2 seconds I SWEAR I saw Richard Simmons) and other mythical creatures of the world (a date-able gay man, for example).

All in all, it was very trendy and quirky and fun ... which basically means that once this place is discovered by the NW inhabitants (and if they are strong enough to brave the mysteries of H Street and/or the X2 bus), the Palace of Wonders will be packed to the brim, line stretching down the block, and appeal entirely lost due to the lack of spunk from its former attendees.

Odd ... quite like the fire-dancers, I too must be wearing some sort of flame-deterrent oil. Come on baby light my fire ... *poof* ...

New neighbors

First impressions are important- getting off on the right foot is essential to effective relationship-building. Yeah- this bitch has two left feet, apparently. And my first social encounter with my new neighbors was about as awkward as two strangers at a middle school dance.

When I first came to the house to move in, my new roommate cleverly hid my set of keys in an inconspicuous location where no thief would ever dare look - under the flower pot off the front porch (clever, like a wallet in the toe of your shoe at the beach). So after receiving my instructions to retrieve the keys from this amazingly confidential spot, I pulled up to the house and had my first look at my new home (yes, I signed a lease site-unseen ... I've lived with enough psychos that I'm sure I've exhausted the mentally-insane population by now).

I began the hunt for my hidden keys. What my roommate forgot to tell me, however, was WHICH flower pot I should look under- there were about 6 altogether. So I went up on the porch and tried the first on the right ... and nothing. Then the one in front of the porch- again, nothing. I lifted each flower pot, and then again a second time, frantic and concerned that our secret exchange had been compromised.

Until the front door slowly opened, and a middle-aged woman suspiciously cocked her head out of the door, and sternly inquired- "Excuse me! Can I help you?!?"

*ahem* "Um ... yes ma'am, I'm your new neighbor, and I happen to be looking for my keys on the wrong porch."

"Mmhmm." *door slams*

Well, screw first impressions. It's like the first time you have sex- you think it's allllll important and everything, but after a few awkward motions and avoided eye contact you realize it wasn't enjoyable for either party.

Round 2, only this time it was with her son. Yesterday I was enjoying a PB&J on the front porch (neighbors comment- "Hey look! White bred eating white bread! The irony!"), when the same front door swung open and an 8-year-old boy meandered out on to the porch. He was dressed in his pajamas, and I believe he is mentally retarded or developmentally delayed in some capacity.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm enjoying a pleasant peanut butter and jelly sandwich on this fine day, dear neighbor. And how about yourself?"

"Get the fuck inside the house."

Silence.

"Um ... I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, get the fuck inside the house!"

More silence. "Well, um ... no, actually, I'm eating my lunch and I intend to finish it."

"Do you have a bike?"

(this conversation was like chimpanzees playing ping pong) "Nope, don't have a bike. Do you?"

"Mine's broke. Do you have a bike?"

"Nope, I sure don't."

"Get the fuck inside the house!" *door slams*

Sigh ... Well, it's not Mister Roger's Neighborhood, but at least it's home. And honestly, I wouldn't feel comfortable unless I had some amount of insanity living nearby.

OMG ... I just realized how gay Mister Roger's was. The clothes, the spotlessness, the singing and cheery disposition ... however the difference between Mr. R and myself is that if I went parading down the street singing "Won't you be my neighbor?", I'm liable to get shot.

But hey, even Mr. R liked a good pistol-whipping every now and then.

Conversations on sex, dating, and nothing in between

This morning I took a minute to sit down and really think about the conversations I've had in the past few days- alarmingly, there seems to be an obviously recurring theme in all of them. Different friends, different scenarios, different settings- one pervasive issue ... relationships. I turn on the radio- it's there. I pull up my favorite movie- hmm, there also. Every phone conversation, every dinner and mingling and chat at a bar. Relationships are the Starbucks of our discourse.

Which makes me have to wonder about our society-- what the hell is wrong with us?

"Small people talk about other people. Average people talk about things. Great people talk about ideas."

Hmfph. Well, I suppose this snotty quote isn't all that far off the beaten track. In fact, most of the discussions on relationships and dating involve the search for the unobtainable- an idea, if you will - for that "thing" we seek as a companion. I am surprised by how many truly amazing single people I know, who are usually not single by choice.

If we're all talking about it, and we all want it- then why can't we get it together, people?!?

These aren't joyous discussions about seeking a partner, either-- they are filled with scary dates (I recently heard one about being held hostage, in a oh-no-I'm-not-really-in-to-S-&-M-but-thank-you kind of way), heart-wrenching break ups, complaining, whining, yearning, hallucinating, dreaming the impossible ...

We are a complex synthesis of emotions and biology- one dictating what we need, another concluding what we want, and all of the drama that ensues when these collide.

Now talk amongst yourselves ...

2007 ... and DreamGirls (huh?)

Last January I was fully inducted into gaydom (or queendom?) with what would immediately become a personal obsession that rivaled previous affairs with great Broadway productions like Evita, Annie, or even the tireless Wicked. Three smooth, strong, black voices in chorus together, bright lights and shimmering costumes that hung closely to swiveling hips as performers extravagantly peacocked their way around the stage -- heaven on the silver screen, my dream Girls, indeed.

And even though iTunes hasn't invented a digit high enough to count the number of times this soundtrack has poured itself soothingly into my life, the obsession brings itself full circle to another January- another year. Personally, this music brings with it a surprising amount of emotion interlaced in the fabric of eloquently crafted and performed songs that represent the very essence of what it is to be human- or, at least, what it is or felt like to be me in 2007.

Some excerpts, in no particular order:

"move right out of my life": a boy, a department, an ex-bestfriend, and a landlord (sounds like the Real World, although I would have to re-name it the Real Shit World)

"putting all my trust in you, cuz you ... you'll always be true": for a very special guy, although my heart just wasn't in it :-(

"you've got the charm, you simply disarm me every time": a silly 3-month ordeal of buckling knees and cowardice, which eventually gave way to friendship and quite a bit of confusion

"What about what I need? What about what's best for me? What about how I feel?": my pleas to a department intent to cast aside any request that proved to be in my interest- FYI ... if you leave a person out in the cold, they do get frostbitten...

"Heavy heavy, you got so heavy baby ...": OK OKAY, yes, an extra pound or two wiggled its way on to my sensitive muffin-top waist. Fortunately the metal zipper that securely binds my jeans together is stronger than my resistance to cookie temptation ...

"I don't wanna be free ...": You know that feeling of quasi-relief when you break up with someone you weren't really into, and you suddenly find more of yourself in your free time and friendships? Yeah, the opposite of that.

"Stop all the rivers, push- strike- and kill ...": That feeling when you've been burned unfairly, or judged unscrupulously, and nothing you can say or do can make it right. Even though those persons were there to teach, instruct, and guide.

"Patience - it's gonna take some time": Finding hope and inspiration in unlikely places/persons, and trusting in the ultimate power of the human spirit that refused to wither.

"All those years of darkness could make a person blind ... but now I can see": Like a benefactor of Jesus' miracles (he was a skilled optometrist ... "Read that eye chart over there, mortal human" ... "W ..... W ..... J ...... D ....."), I remember feeling a huge change coming on about September as I began to prove my potential not only to my department, but to myself.

"finding myself, and getting a hold of the anger in me": Well ... learning it was there in the first place, and then trying to get a hold of it -- like unbridled horses who have had too much Starbucks.

"the only trouble is you really don't have the time": Ahh, yes ... if there was one thing in this universe I would like to give to others and myself, it is more time. But I assume we'd waste it on shoe shopping, reality TV, and fretting about tomorrow- instead of what's right in front of us (carpe diem, in a breathy voice).

"I'm not at home in my own home": Well, honestly, who would feel at home when their roommate said "If you died, I'd be relieved" ... and you lock your door and blockade it with a chair every night (insert Psycho music now). And then if at another residence you were badgered by a non-tenant "tenant" who lied about you to your landlord, resulting in the loss of $500. Sigh :-)

"Listen to the song here in my heart": A simple but honest tune put out there that remains unheard-- perhaps I should pluck my heart-strings harder? And as the echo comes back to me without a harmony or "fine", I have to wonder- why do I find myself playing for the wrong audience? *no applause, please*

And, quite like Effie singing "And I am telling you, I'm not going", yes--- obviously I, too, can be a melodramatic diva.