excuse the sanitized writing

Ok the last two posts are just straight copies from a writing travelogue - I apologize, as it is very blain, but I have been too dam busy with school to rewrite these to be more true to form. Excuses excuses

Day 64 - Rescue 911

One morning sometime around 2-3am I awoke in a pool of blood. It took me a few minutes to calculate what was going on I knew I was in pain and I could feel liquid leaving my face I groaned as I felt my body again, opened my eyes and closed them. I just needed to lie there for a while I just wanted to sleep. I heard a girls voice, “Oh my god are you alright?” Normally I would have some dead pan answer but being closer to dead on this day I didn’t have it in me, “Um yeah, I just think I fainted I just need to lie here a while I’ll be ok in a minute” I wanted her to go away. She told me she was going to a call an ambulance I replied, “No don’t! I will get someone to drive me I’ll be fine I just need a few minutes” I thought about who was going to drive me, as I wasn’t actually sure I knew anybody well enough to ask the favour, but I had just watched the film Sicko and a scene had jumped into my head when a lady’s insurance company had refused to pay her ambulance bill because she failed to obtain pre-approval as she was unconscious, yes that’s right folks unconscious. Did I need pre-approval? No one really has or needs health insurance in New Zealand what were the rules? The last thing I needed was a $10,000 bill for a flashing red taxi. I explained this and knew how lame it sounded as soon as it left my mouth the pool of blood growing. She said she was going to do it anyway and left. By this time a small crowd had gathered. The first question camp mother AKA Residence Life Coordinator asked me was, “have you been drinking?”, and as luck would have it I had, but I was always drinking and four beers over six hours is under my normative drinking habits. Nonetheless, I could feel the judgement searing my helpless body. 

The medics arrived and I was filled with confidence and embarrassment as I saw six chiselled good-looking young men, it was just like the episodes of 911 I saw as a kid except better looking (New Zealand had the real problem of people dialling 911 instead of 111 in emergencies). The emergency staff back home had nothing on these guys. “How come six people come out when someone just faints?” I asked, feeling like a complete moron and time waster with my room being within an arms reach and me managing to pass out instead on the concrete tiles a few steps before the carpeted stretch. “We always have a fire truck come out with the ambulance people can be to heavy to move with just two medics” this makes me laugh hurting my face “only in America huh?” and I tell him about back home. He helps me onto the stretcher and trundles me off all dishevelled and bloody in my stripy red pyjamas. I think about old people alone and vulnerable; I don’t want to get old. The verdict after much prodding, drugs, nudity, and tests was a fractured nose and a head injury resulting from dehydration and an on-coming flu. I wait to be picked up by my roommate in the outside lobby its 7am and the only people I see are staff coming to work and a small child with his mother holding an ice cream container under his face with the shock now subsiding I swallow back sobs. I have a painful and vacant few days once more on Vicodin. 

Lock ‘n’ Load G-Unit

In New Zealand to shoot a handgun you have to have a police-issued licence and belong to a gun club so the idea of just nipping down the road to pop off a few shots with an assault weapon was most curious, so much so that it became something I had to do. I swaggered out of the car and into the shooting range office and perused the guns on offer; a 9mm Glock was my weapon of choice, every hip hop artist I idolised as a teen spat lyrics about their Glock, I had to indulge my sick fetish. My English friend James chose a M16 semi-automatic rifle and my other friend an ex-American navy officer chose a Beretta we each bought a box of ammunition “Ma’m, Just take you ammunition and go down to the range you’ll get your gun there.” A cold trickle of fear seeped into me when I realised that no one had asked to see my ID and that not one shred of paper work had been presented. My eyes darted around groping the walls for safety instructions, disclaimers, precautions? Where the hell were all the safety rules? Alarm bells raged in my head. Why is it that I am treated like a visually impaired drooling infant by health and safety government zealots when I want to swim in a pool or catch a bus, but when I want to shoot a deadly weapon for fun I get subtle near invisible safety warnings. Instantly, I was gripped by a more terrifying reality I was entering a rule-less pit of gun nuts - my senses were on full alert. 

We got our guns and after the range attendant walked off he must have remembered and came back asking one of us for a licence, but this I fear was more for the guaranteed return of the weapons than for the screening of age. The attendant asked if I had shot a gun before, I am not sure if it was because I was a female (the only one there) or it was my sheet-white face that prompted him to ask, no was the answer and he gave me a demonstration then left is to it. I couldn’t bring myself to load the gun the image of my face all pulpy with a gaping raw hole through it kept flashing in my head, what if I did it wrong? I left it to navy boy he handled assault weapons as if he had gushed out the womb guns blazing this disturbed and comforted me, yet in fairness to him he was very safety orientated and sensible except when he suggested I practice shooting with my left hand in case I injured my right, “you must know how to defend yourself with both arms in case you get shot” he told me, my view of him as sane was crumbling like the Berlin wall. 

I shot the Glock, my hand would not hold steady, the gun kicked and I shot the beam on the roof, holy shit. My English mate shot the piece of metal that held the targets. I was fraught with the thought of ricocheting bullets as empty cartridges were hitting my body and the constant sound of close gunfire was reverberating in my eyes. I shot the berretta and even managed to get inside the bullseye three times, but it all felt inane I could not bring myself to finish my ammunition nor could I shoot the M16 instead I sat down and watched two middle-aged men whoop and holler as they shot some sort of semi automatic rifle. I felt dirty; it was guilt-by-proxy. I saw a sign on the way out taped to the window of the range booth it summed it up well, it read: “As seen on bumper sticker: It’s God’s responsibility to forgive Bin Laden. It’s our responsibility to arrange the meeting *United States Marine Corps*”. My sick fetish was just that sick.

Policy violated: Respect Issues

So checked my mail today, yay I got mail! Excitedly I torn open the letter - Notification of Conduct Meeting, in bold and underlined. Fuck you have got to be kidding me. No, they are not kidding. The next line reads Policy Violation: Respect Issues. So great America thinks I have respect issues. Well certainly the last small piece of respect I did have for America has just become nonexistent. So it goes on to say there will be a hearing etc etc. I hate this hall of residence, words fail to articulate it, actually no amount of physical violence would even come to close to the loathing that exists in my person with regard to this circus of B rated fullhouse characters. 

They have signs informing you of all the rules pasted on the walls, every metre there is one insulting my autonomy. They look like they have been constructed by five years on date-rape drugs. So I guess what everyone wants to know is what did I do? 

Well to be honest I am not entirely sure. It could be the expression of open frustration at the resident  dim witt (also known as RAs - Resident Advisor, whose advisor skills are at a level that would rival a baby chimpanzee). He tried to help me lower my bed, a bed that would of posed a challenge to many a skilled high jumper. It resulted in him sniveling "my hands are really hurting, do you  have any strong friends?" and then stating the obvious "arh this is not working" all of this was in a baby tone accompanied by a wobbling bottom lip and overtly pathetic attempts at "helping" me. I tolerated this infantile behaviour for ten or so minutes then curtly turned to him, after he suggested I just sleep on the floor till the morning, and said I will go and search out someone myself. I also made it known that I was less than impressed with their lack of service and suggested they get a maintenance man - this could have been, to an American ear, construed as snide. Or perhaps it could of been when this muppet returned two seconds later to which he got another curt retort of "don't worry I have dealt with it myself" as i attempted to slam the door he said "no that is not it, do you have a candle burning in your room?". This was the straw that broke the camels back, the idiot was just in my room!

I lost it "No, I don't have a candle burning in my room" the hatred was basically visible. I slammed the door in his face. Could this be it? 

Anyway the guy ratted me out, bitch. So now I am in trouble with the camp leader, he is actually gay, which makes this even funnier. 

My excuse "cultural difference" and cultural adaptation stress - brilliant argue with that camp mother!  I am also going to present their goals and objectives and challenge them - apparently they support personal growth and social development. I am going to suggest that their hierarchical and formal way of dealing with conflict will enable people from developing real-world conflict resolution skills. Take that America - you big fucking baby.  

 

I do love running along the river in the morning...

Guilt has penetrated my person. There are things I do like about America. There is that great 'new' feeling and appreciation about the scenery. It is often gray here with stalky looking trees and fog. That sounds depressing but it's not. It is new - New Zealand is never like this. It is foreign and an experience I will always attach to being here, in Sacramento. 

Post it notes the epitome of America

Please do not be lead to believe that I think all Americans are awful. It is not true. My room mate, yes I have a room mate, is a very lovely American girl. Being so lovely, she put her friends number on my wall planner so that I could get in contact with him, as we got along reasonably well. This provides the opportunity to expand my list of palatable Americans to two - a very exciting prospect. I was on my way out the door for a lecture when the said post-it note in question assaulted my vision. It was an orange, tubby, star post-it note with rounded spokes, as to never possibly have the option to ever hurt or offend anyone, god forbid. It just hung there violently out of place but content in its oblivion. The post-it note. The coloured post-it, the scratch and sniff post it, the shaped post-it, the multi-purpose post-it. It is just a piece of paper with some adhesive on it but American's could not leave it alone they had to make it better. Now the bastardized post-it, is fun, smells good, shines. I shuddered, shut the door and left for class.

Slothful Beauty?

There is a notable difference between New Zealand females and American ones. Now, before you crucify me for my wand like generalisation; I am aware that I am making them. You see, I just don't care. American females on campus seem to be somewhat confused about attire and make-up. The girls come out of their rooms in daggy looking track pants, which usually connotes a  lack of self respect and enthusiasm for life. They then top the look with a plain sweatshirt or hoody. Now this is not overly perplexing. People dress like this everywhere. The bit that throws me though, is the pain staking effort that has gone into the make-up and hair. The lips are lined, filled, glossed and probably dabbed on tissue, for that matter, to allude to the 'I want you to think I haven't just put this on but I have just put this on' look. It is very similar to the 'bed-head look' of the 90s - you know the one you spend three hours on and costs you $30 for just the right product to guarantee you with that 'I don't give a shit look' - it's cool because its natural. Here is the thing: It's not natural, you were sold it, your not cool because you bought into it, it is obvious you bought into it. Therefore, we all know you give a shit. So for god sake's if your going to "Give a shit" do us all a favour and do just that give a shit, be consistent. It's one thing to so obviously care about your image it is totally another thing to care about you image and still manage to look trash. Drop the daggy trackies and put on some decent threads.