I’m at a cross-roads in my life; I’m currently unemployed and am not sure what I want to do. I’d go back and repeat some of my previous adventures and write about them, but I have no way of paying for life on the road. Somehow, no one is looking for me to do an ethnography of the rock and roll business. Alas!
I spent all day applying for a couple of jobs; modern jobs seem to require applying online and, although I have a lovely curriculum vita and can write a mean cover letter, many of the places that I’d like to employ me have their own proprietary human resources software that require me to take all of the information on my CV and plug it into their data base in a different order than I’d used when I wrote the CV. And their data bases will time me out if I don’t save within an unspecified period of time, but I cannot save without filling in all of the blanks in a section and it takes me longer to fill in a section than the time out period! To quote Charlie Brown, “Aargh!” I finally managed to apply for two jobs (one had about six openings in the NYC area, the other only one but it is in Springfield) but felt dissatisfied with myself and life. I wish I could get the job that has lots of openings, but in Springfield!
Even before I spent over eight hours on the computer, I had been in a bad mood. Over the years, my town’s sanitation department has systematically ripped the locking handles off of my garbage cans, usually within a few weeks or months of my purchasing them. The rolling cans are expensive, too, costing over $40 each. Last year, when I couldn’t afford to replace my can for the fourth time, I bought some strap metal, threaded rod and nuts, and fabricated a new handle for one (the other two had been damaged too badly for me to replace the handles). The home-made handle doesn’t lock the lid in place but, so far, the trash men have not succeeded in ripping it off, so the can can be wheeled out for pick-up. Since they only collect trash every other week and I forgot to take it out last week, my can is overfull. The dump is usually open on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Since New Year’s Day is a Saturday, the dump was open on today, Friday, this week. I decided to bring a couple of bags of trash to the dump this morning, as my can was overflowing and I thought it better than stacking it up next to the (non-existent) curb on Monday. When I got there, the dump wanted to charge me $1 per bag for the privilege of flinging it in to their dumpster, myself. I brought the trash home. I’ll haul it out for pick-up on Monday. It annoyed me that I couldn’t get rid of an old chicken carcass from the refrigerator without paying a fee in addition to the annual dump fee that I already pay! Bon appetit to the dog that raids my can.
Anyway, I’d made plans to attend First Night in Northampton and I bought my admission button yesterday. First Night is something that I have enjoyed immensely in years past. I left the house intending to head to Northampton but had neglected to bring my coat; I was cold in the car as it got moving. I drove to Five Corners and picked up a lottery ticket for tonight's gigantic drawing (over $240 million dollar prize). I pulled out the ticket that I’d bought for the previous drawing, which no one won. I never remember to cash in my tickets and didn’t know if I’d won anything. I asked the clerk to check and was thrilled to discover that I’d won $17. I’d spent $16 on my First Night button. As I headed home to pick up my coat, I suddenly decided that I didn’t need to be concerned about wasting the money for my button and that I really didn’t want to go tonight. Having made the decision, I was no longer bad tempered; I felt free. I called to cancel my plans and went inside to watch TV. I wrote, cooked a good dinner, and ate it. I’ll probably go to First Night next year, but I just didn’t feel like dealing with thousands of people today. For tonight, I’m happy in my Hermit Club. Tomorrow, I’ll be social, again, and whine, snivel, and rant no more. Until the next time I’m in a bad mood!
I didn't win the big prize tonight, but that's all right. I'm in a much better mood despite not winning. Sometimes, I just need to be left to my own devices. Usually, they aren't terribly dangerous or destructive devices. Usually.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Well, Duh!
This isn't a surprise to people who know me but I was a contestant on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” five years ago. As a result of my appearance, I wrote a paper and presented it at the Society for American Archaeology annual meeting. I told my story to fit the title of the session, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience” and the sponsoring organization, the Women in Archaeology Interest Group. This isn’t the long blog entry that I promised last week but I’ll get it for you, soon. I’m posting this because I talked about the whole experience at a Christmas Eve open house and decided it was still a good story.
“Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? TV game shows, graduate school, and the quest for the American Dream.” Presented at the 2007 Society for American Archaeology annual meetings, Austin, TX, April 26, 2007, in a symposium sponsored by the Women in Archaeology Interest Group, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience.” Mary Robison, PhD
For many, acquiring a graduate degree is one step in their quest for the “American Dream”, but graduate school can leave a former student in debt for years. Personal relationships can suffer (or cease) from the financial hardship of this quest. I both gave birth to a child and divorced his father while in graduate school. Despite receiving child support in a timely fashion, completing grad school as a single parent was, for me, a financially difficult time. I used an unusual method to finance my terminal year in graduate school, and so might you, too.
Some graduate students work under professors who routinely obtain large research grants; these students perform assigned tasks and base their theses and dissertations on this work. Other advisors do not obtain such support for their students; these students have more freedom in determining their research topics but must find their own sources of support. In my time, the typical graduate student in anthropology at UMass Amherst supported themselves by teaching or leading discussion sections in large undergraduate courses that fulfilled the university’s liberal arts requirements. It was not possible to support a family on these meager earnings. Every semester, a few students could augment their income by also teaching in the division of continuing education. Off campus jobs also paid poorly but were still desirable in that the work never “came home.” Teaching required substantial preparation and “home work.” This home work took away time from the “real” work of research and writing to complete one's degree.
Some students are able to make progress on their dissertation while teaching; I was not one of these students. In order to write, I inevitably had to spend hours (or days) trying to recover a train of thought that I had been forced to drop in order to prepare lessons, correct student work, or cook dinner for my son. Ultimately, I concluded that I had to bite the bullet and stop all outside work to complete my dissertation. My financial needs were not as great as many of my peers in that I owned my house; I did not have rent or mortgage payments. Nevertheless, I still had property taxes and upkeep. I had carefully budgeted for routine expenses but, early in the year, the unexpected happened; my roof started to leak badly.
When confronted with this challenge to my limited budget, I tried something completely different from seeking the usual student jobs. I tried out to become a contestant on the syndicated television game show, “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?” I thought the title question was silly - after all, who wouldn't want a million dollars?
Although many game shows run contestant searches throughout the United States, none occurred in western Massachusetts. “Millionaire” tapes in New York City and audience members are encouraged to attempt the qualifying test. I went online and obtained a ticket to a test and taping session, more or less on the spur of the moment. I took a day off and bused to New York, then caught the subway to ABC studios on the Upper West Side.
The qualifying test (thirty multiple-choice questions, timed, in ten minutes) is given before the taping, but the results aren’t announced until after the session is finished (presumably, to keep the audience from leaving when the majority do not pass). Approximately ten percent pass; I passed. Although they will not give out the scores, I knew that I correctly answered twenty-eight questions. Passing the test, though, is only the first step in becoming a contestant. Interviews are immediately held in the studio. At this, I was a miserable failure. Somehow, in my excitement as a member of the studio audience, I had forgotten why I had come. I was exhausted and not terribly interesting in the interview. I got a polite “thanks, but no thanks” post card a week later. With the knowledge that I could pass the test, I tried again.
For my second attempt, it poured, reminding me of my leaky roof. Herded out of the rain and into the ABC cafeteria, I worked on my questionnaire, which was used for the interview. This time, I had prepared by outlining, ahead of time, a number of amusing personal pastiches, a series of one-size-fits-all responses to the type of questions asked on my first foray, which I had only answered sketchily at best. The second test was NOT the same as the first one; it was considerably harder. I had no idea what the correct answers were for about half of the questions (I guessed, probably incorrectly). My only consolation was that everyone seemed as clueless as I felt. One of the “easier” of these questions was, “What is the name of the spiral arm in the Milky Way galaxy where planet earth is located?” (Orion, although I guessed Sagittarius; Perseus and Norma were other incorrect choices). After the test, we were sent back outside. Some of us retreated to the nearby Starbucks, to attempt to stay dry, chat, compare answers, and complain. I took notes (allowing me to write this paper).
After another lineup in the rain, we were finally brought into the studio. This time, the audience bleachers were sparsely populated; many test-takers apparently gave up after the extremely difficult test. The show’s interns were brought in to round out the audience; one sat next to me. I attempted to chat with her about her work, but she didn’t want to talk to a mere audience member.
Although I didn’t score as well as I had the first time, I was again called for an interview. Like the first test, about fifteen names were called. From this, I assume that the tests are scored on a curve.
This time, I tried to sound like the Energizer bunny on speed. I had a quick quip for every question. My interviewer was particularly amused that, in my life before graduate school, I built special effects for the rock band, KISS, and rode a big motorcycle (which I still own). These facts are at odds with my personal appearance; I look like an overweight, white, middle-class, 40-ish mom, an observation that is accurate, but does not include any personal nuances. Still, I really don’t look like the head-banger that my stories imply. I was interviewed, sequentially, by two producers. When the second producer told me, “I hope we'll be seeing you in a couple of weeks,” I took it as a good sign.
There are a substantial number of people who repeatedly try out for TV trivia shows. Of the people with whom I chatted in line, one had taken the Millionaire test at least four times previously and another had just flown to New York after taking the test for Jeopardy in a Florida contestant search. Many others also mentioned taking the Jeopardy and Millionaire tests previously. This was a new phenomenon for me. In order to attempt to get a seat at a Jeopardy test session, it is necessary to register on-line for searches in multiple cities. Jeopardy’s producers use a random selection process; there seems to be a very low probability of selection if one applies for only one city. To try out, you must be willing to fly almost anywhere in the country. Jeopardy’s process does not seem to be a viable option for impoverished grad students.
The possibility of winning a large sum of money was repeatedly mentioned as the single motive for this peculiar obsession. How each person would use the money varied: primarily discussed were major outstanding or upcoming bills. Occasionally, long-postponed vacations, down-payments on houses, new cars, or other semi-exotic “toys” were fantasized. The desire to demonstrate to the watching world exactly how smart each would-be contestant is, was an unspoken, but palpable, motive. The need for this validation speaks volumes about how unrewarding (both monetarily and emotionally) most employment is for (self-defined) “smart” people. Both money and validation are equal parts of the American Dream for most test takers.
A week after I took the second test, I received a call from the contestant coordinator for Millionaire. My name had been pulled for a show that would tape in a little over two weeks. I hadn't even received the postcard that said I had been selected for the contestant pool (that came two days later). With only two weeks until the taping, I had just enough time to get very nervous but I decided that I was going to have fun, no matter what the outcome. I've made a fool of myself enough times previously to not worry about the possibility of doing it on television.
The timing was not ideal. I was in the final stages of writing my dissertation. My university's requirements called for the committee to receive their final draft at least four weeks prior to the defense date - which was scheduled to occur precisely four weeks after my taping! Although I thought I should try to review some information for “Millionaire”, I had to concentrate on writing coherently, now a very difficult task. I bought a few books and spent a single day looking at major events as reported in Time Magazine, but did little else to prepare.
I believe that one of the reasons why TV trivia shows and reality programming are popular is because many people secretly believe they could excel on one. If one is young, muscular, willing to consume disgusting items, and not overwhelmingly intellectual, one might aspire to “Fear Factor.” For the young person who thinks they can sing, there is “American Idol.” Many middle-class, relatively intelligent people (students, professors, or their relatives, the main body of my current acquaintance) tend to think that they could succeed on a trivia show.
Seven contestants, including me, arrived at 8 AM for the taping on November 8. We were each assigned a producer to look after us. The green room was bright and cheerful, full of comfortable furniture, a nice rug, and photographs of previous big winners. A buffet of breakfast pastries was laid out, with fresh coffee brewing, next to a refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottled water. We were encouraged to help ourselves. The buffet was refreshed and changed throughout the day with a hot lunch, salad, afternoon sandwiches, and various desserts. Our bags, cell phones, books, newspapers, and any reading materials were confiscated as soon as we entered. As someone who habitually reads (even a cereal box is better than nothing), this was a major hardship.
We had been instructed to bring proof of identity, citizenship, and social security number, and had received, by mail, contracts to sign. These were taken by the show’s accountant while we had a series of briefings by various program personnel. The show’s lawyer asked us if we had carefully read the contract. He then went over some portions and, among other things, told us that the show would not take any taxes out of our winnings. The producer (as opposed to a producer, this one was THE producer) explained what was explicitly NOT allowed, such as visible logos on anything that might appear on camera, or us mentioning any trade names. Stalling is not making progress toward an answer, and it wasn’t allowed, either. We met the show’s publicist, who asked us about any local TV or radio stations and newspapers that might be interested in covering our appearance. We also practiced entering the studio and sitting in the “hot seat”, but the lights were dimmed so it wasn't the same.
The young producers that were assigned to us were all (obviously) recent college graduates. They had mixed emotions about us; in some ways, they were important television professionals whose primary job was.... babysitting us. From the time we arrived until we left, we were isolated and it was the producers’ job to keep the world at bay. On the other hand, the young producers were in awe of us, respecting our ability to have passed the test and our (comparatively) vast sums of knowledge; one producer said, in a tone that was polite despite the insulting words, “You know, you guys are freaks, you're so smart.” Their job could not have been more contradictory.
Mostly, we chatted with each other and our producers. We had to be escorted to and from the bathroom, but the producers were fairly cheerful about this duty. They fetched whatever we needed. Eventually, show time drew near and we were escorted to various private rooms, to change into on-camera clothing. No one had noticed that the pants I wore were actually black jeans (jeans were banned on camera), so I didn’t change them. In my normal life, I often wear black and I had difficulty locating clothing that met the dress code (no black or white on top, no jeans or T-shirts, no logos, and no close stripes). We had all brought two stage outfits to the studio, in case we appeared in two shows.
Four more contestants, hold-overs from the previous day, arrived. We all got made up. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
It was show-time. The four hold-overs were called out of the green room, first. One had started his appearance the previous day and went immediately on stage, but the rest were sent to an “on-deck” area. They keep three contestants on-deck - in the studio but offstage, none knowing who would be selected as the next contestant. I was one of the first from our group to be called out of the green room to be on-deck. I was miked and warned against dropping the transmitter, clipped to the back of my pants, into the toilet if I used the restroom.
My producer prepped me on my stories. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited! The producers continued to keep us in a state of frenzy; having us stay on-deck was just one example of how they manipulated our emotions. As each contestant finished, we stood in a row, to be randomly “tapped” - literally, tapped on the shoulder from behind, then thrust out through the stage entrance. First tapped from our group was the newly-wed from Minneapolis, others followed. As one entered the stage, another was brought out of the green room to join the on-deck group. We chatted quietly about the show and continued to be offered drinks by the producers (the studio air was cold and dry). When the third show ended with the contestant giving the incorrect answer, we all knew that the next one to be tapped would begin the last show of the day and would probably be the only one to finish up. Still, they kept us hanging, not telling us who it would be!
All of the liquids finally caught up with me; I asked if I could use the restroom but they wanted to determine the next contestant, first. A little longer, and it was ME! Now, I really needed the restroom! As I marched up the stairs to the facilities, I audibly reminded myself not to drop my transmitter into the toilet. Only later did I think about the sound technician, listening in as I used the restroom, but this is probably not an uncommon experience for TV sound engineers.
My producer, once again, coached me on my stories. Finally alone and awaiting the start of the new show in the studio doorway, I hopped up and down, I was so excited. The comedian who had warmed up the audience was nearby, facing away, making obscene body motions towards an unseen (to me) Meredith Viera. I hadn't realized that his job included keeping her amused, too. I laughed so hard, I was afraid I would fall over the edge of the set; I clutched the stage rigging and giggled uncontrollably.
The music came up, Ms. Viera and I entered the stage together, I sat down in the hot seat, and the rest is almost a dream. We ad-libbed a bit about my having been in the audience a few weeks earlier (I remember waving toward the section where I had been sitting and the audience cheering for me so loudly, I couldn't hear Ms. Viera’s questions). We also talked about how my students would never believe my rock and roll history. At some point, I held my USB drive up to the camera, carefully obscuring the Memorex logo with my index finger, saying it was my dissertation, which I was afraid of losing unless I kept a copy with me at all times (this bit was edited out of the show). At a commercial break, my make-up was retouched. I was never frightened - I was absolutely giddy with euphoria. The experience was surreal.
Afterwards, I was taken to a little booth under another part of the stage to sign papers with the show’s accountant. I kept looking at my fake check, not really sure how I had won $25,000. Even before I entered the “hot seat”, the producers had whipped me into a totally suggestible state, something that I never would have thought possible. I was doing everything they wanted me to do, on cue - sitting down, telling particular stories, even holding up my USB drive. It was as if I had been hypnotized - I was willing to accept anything that someone else said; had the audience suggested an answer that was not even one of the options, I would have agreed with them, even knowing that it was wrong. And it felt SO GOOD. It was an illuminating experience; is this what gambling, drinking, and/or taking drugs do for addicts? The euphoria I experienced is certainly addictive; that I could fall into such a suggestible state is frightening. But I want to do it again. Who ever would have thought that a game show could be analogous to crack?
I have recorded a number of episodes of Millionaire. They are a convenience sample, not an SRS; I taped episodes whenever I remembered to program my recorder. In addition to normal contestant selection such as I experienced, the show has a number of specialty weeks where all contestants are either newlywed couples, or movie buffs, or even audience members selected at random. I have not done a formal study of my sample, but my sense is that there is a bi-modal distribution of winnings - when contestants use up their lifelines quickly, they win very little money. If contestant gets to the $25,000 level, she is guaranteed that amount, so there is no risk in answering the next question, which can net the contestant $50,000. A few contestants are willing to gamble for higher amounts, but most do not if they reach the $50,000 level - less than 20% of contestants reach this level. From my observations, the “typical” contestant is white and college-educated, with relatively equal numbers of men and women chosen for the pool. Almost all contestants have some major debt that they would like to pay with their winnings; many contestants are undergraduate and graduate students from a variety of disciplines, especially law and history.
I corresponded on-line with a couple of my test- session peers. I encouraged them to think about more than passing the test. I had, rather cold-bloodedly, spent some time between my two test dates thinking about what producers look for. The test weeds out those without sufficient general knowledge but a good contestant is more than a walking encyclopedia. Producers want interesting people who can present themselves well on camera - they want someone who has short, funny stories to tell, who has a quick come-back to any question, and who can laugh at themselves. These are not easy skills but they can be obtained with practice. A brilliant person who acts like a jerk will never be chosen as a contestant. In my case, my being an occasional smart-mouth was not a bad thing. In my first attempt, I had only been able to say, “I can't believe I passed the test!” The producers must hear this all of the time, so it did not single me out as interesting. I have genuinely outrageous stories to tell about myself but almost everyone has at least some funny stories, whether about themselves, their family members, or their job. In any case, I succeeded in packaging myself as an attractive candidate in my second attempt to become a contestant, and I shared this information with my test-peers, and now, with you.
There are 175 half-hour segments of "Millionaire" produced every year (according to Meredith Viera, in an appearance on the "Tony Danza Show", May 22, 2006). From my observations, each segment uses between one and four contestants per episode, typically, slightly less than two. Therefore, the annual contestant pool must have at least 350 members. I have developed two major hypotheses about the Millionaire contestant pool from my observations, although I was unable to verify them.
Since the show has so many contestant searches throughout the country, they do not need to select many at the New York City tapings. I think I was the only person selected for the pool during my second attempt; I was the only person who received attention from the second producer. I think that the contestant pool is deliberately kept small and that there are relatively few members who are not eventually selected for a show. It would be infuriating to be chosen for the pool but never selected for a program before the season ended. I believe that most contestants are found in the nation-wide contestant searches in an attempt to obtain what looks like a more diverse pool, but that diversity is an illusion as a result of self-selection by would-be contestants.
Once chosen for a taping of Millionaire, a contestant is guaranteed to sit in the Hot Seat (if they show up), but not necessarily on the day called. Any hold-overs from the previous taping day go on stage before the new cohort. The show tapes on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I believe that there may be two contestant pools, with contestants from the New York area specifically chosen for Thursday tapings, so it is not a hardship for them to return on the following Tuesday. On my taping day, a Tuesday, all of the hold-overs were from the greater New York area, while all of the contestants called with me were from outside the area. In addition, I was the only one who had taken the test in New York, where many would-be contestants are local. On the website for another syndicated television program (The View) taped at ABC studios in New York, there are two separate pools for ticket requests; one if you are from New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, or Pennsylvania; and one if you are from anywhere else. I think "Millionaire" similarly divides the contestant pool.
To recap - I have made two major assumptions about the contestant pool:
1. Although there are more test opportunities in New York, there is a higher chance of being selected for the pool in a search outside the city. Still, there is a chance of being selected from a New York test;
2. The day for which a contestant is called may be influenced by one’s home state. In conclusion, a game show is unlikely to pay for all of one's graduate school expenses, but it can pay for a year or two. I won the average amount, $25,000. Most contestants win either much less, or $50,000. However, do not be intimidated by the bimodal distribution of winnings. You might be luckier than me. In any case, I had a lot of fun. I have a new roof, a unique story to tell, an amusing new hobby, a new topic for further research, and am that much further in my quest for the American Dream!
“Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? TV game shows, graduate school, and the quest for the American Dream.” Presented at the 2007 Society for American Archaeology annual meetings, Austin, TX, April 26, 2007, in a symposium sponsored by the Women in Archaeology Interest Group, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience.” Mary Robison, PhD
For many, acquiring a graduate degree is one step in their quest for the “American Dream”, but graduate school can leave a former student in debt for years. Personal relationships can suffer (or cease) from the financial hardship of this quest. I both gave birth to a child and divorced his father while in graduate school. Despite receiving child support in a timely fashion, completing grad school as a single parent was, for me, a financially difficult time. I used an unusual method to finance my terminal year in graduate school, and so might you, too.
Some graduate students work under professors who routinely obtain large research grants; these students perform assigned tasks and base their theses and dissertations on this work. Other advisors do not obtain such support for their students; these students have more freedom in determining their research topics but must find their own sources of support. In my time, the typical graduate student in anthropology at UMass Amherst supported themselves by teaching or leading discussion sections in large undergraduate courses that fulfilled the university’s liberal arts requirements. It was not possible to support a family on these meager earnings. Every semester, a few students could augment their income by also teaching in the division of continuing education. Off campus jobs also paid poorly but were still desirable in that the work never “came home.” Teaching required substantial preparation and “home work.” This home work took away time from the “real” work of research and writing to complete one's degree.
Some students are able to make progress on their dissertation while teaching; I was not one of these students. In order to write, I inevitably had to spend hours (or days) trying to recover a train of thought that I had been forced to drop in order to prepare lessons, correct student work, or cook dinner for my son. Ultimately, I concluded that I had to bite the bullet and stop all outside work to complete my dissertation. My financial needs were not as great as many of my peers in that I owned my house; I did not have rent or mortgage payments. Nevertheless, I still had property taxes and upkeep. I had carefully budgeted for routine expenses but, early in the year, the unexpected happened; my roof started to leak badly.
When confronted with this challenge to my limited budget, I tried something completely different from seeking the usual student jobs. I tried out to become a contestant on the syndicated television game show, “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?” I thought the title question was silly - after all, who wouldn't want a million dollars?
Although many game shows run contestant searches throughout the United States, none occurred in western Massachusetts. “Millionaire” tapes in New York City and audience members are encouraged to attempt the qualifying test. I went online and obtained a ticket to a test and taping session, more or less on the spur of the moment. I took a day off and bused to New York, then caught the subway to ABC studios on the Upper West Side.
The qualifying test (thirty multiple-choice questions, timed, in ten minutes) is given before the taping, but the results aren’t announced until after the session is finished (presumably, to keep the audience from leaving when the majority do not pass). Approximately ten percent pass; I passed. Although they will not give out the scores, I knew that I correctly answered twenty-eight questions. Passing the test, though, is only the first step in becoming a contestant. Interviews are immediately held in the studio. At this, I was a miserable failure. Somehow, in my excitement as a member of the studio audience, I had forgotten why I had come. I was exhausted and not terribly interesting in the interview. I got a polite “thanks, but no thanks” post card a week later. With the knowledge that I could pass the test, I tried again.
For my second attempt, it poured, reminding me of my leaky roof. Herded out of the rain and into the ABC cafeteria, I worked on my questionnaire, which was used for the interview. This time, I had prepared by outlining, ahead of time, a number of amusing personal pastiches, a series of one-size-fits-all responses to the type of questions asked on my first foray, which I had only answered sketchily at best. The second test was NOT the same as the first one; it was considerably harder. I had no idea what the correct answers were for about half of the questions (I guessed, probably incorrectly). My only consolation was that everyone seemed as clueless as I felt. One of the “easier” of these questions was, “What is the name of the spiral arm in the Milky Way galaxy where planet earth is located?” (Orion, although I guessed Sagittarius; Perseus and Norma were other incorrect choices). After the test, we were sent back outside. Some of us retreated to the nearby Starbucks, to attempt to stay dry, chat, compare answers, and complain. I took notes (allowing me to write this paper).
After another lineup in the rain, we were finally brought into the studio. This time, the audience bleachers were sparsely populated; many test-takers apparently gave up after the extremely difficult test. The show’s interns were brought in to round out the audience; one sat next to me. I attempted to chat with her about her work, but she didn’t want to talk to a mere audience member.
Although I didn’t score as well as I had the first time, I was again called for an interview. Like the first test, about fifteen names were called. From this, I assume that the tests are scored on a curve.
This time, I tried to sound like the Energizer bunny on speed. I had a quick quip for every question. My interviewer was particularly amused that, in my life before graduate school, I built special effects for the rock band, KISS, and rode a big motorcycle (which I still own). These facts are at odds with my personal appearance; I look like an overweight, white, middle-class, 40-ish mom, an observation that is accurate, but does not include any personal nuances. Still, I really don’t look like the head-banger that my stories imply. I was interviewed, sequentially, by two producers. When the second producer told me, “I hope we'll be seeing you in a couple of weeks,” I took it as a good sign.
There are a substantial number of people who repeatedly try out for TV trivia shows. Of the people with whom I chatted in line, one had taken the Millionaire test at least four times previously and another had just flown to New York after taking the test for Jeopardy in a Florida contestant search. Many others also mentioned taking the Jeopardy and Millionaire tests previously. This was a new phenomenon for me. In order to attempt to get a seat at a Jeopardy test session, it is necessary to register on-line for searches in multiple cities. Jeopardy’s producers use a random selection process; there seems to be a very low probability of selection if one applies for only one city. To try out, you must be willing to fly almost anywhere in the country. Jeopardy’s process does not seem to be a viable option for impoverished grad students.
The possibility of winning a large sum of money was repeatedly mentioned as the single motive for this peculiar obsession. How each person would use the money varied: primarily discussed were major outstanding or upcoming bills. Occasionally, long-postponed vacations, down-payments on houses, new cars, or other semi-exotic “toys” were fantasized. The desire to demonstrate to the watching world exactly how smart each would-be contestant is, was an unspoken, but palpable, motive. The need for this validation speaks volumes about how unrewarding (both monetarily and emotionally) most employment is for (self-defined) “smart” people. Both money and validation are equal parts of the American Dream for most test takers.
A week after I took the second test, I received a call from the contestant coordinator for Millionaire. My name had been pulled for a show that would tape in a little over two weeks. I hadn't even received the postcard that said I had been selected for the contestant pool (that came two days later). With only two weeks until the taping, I had just enough time to get very nervous but I decided that I was going to have fun, no matter what the outcome. I've made a fool of myself enough times previously to not worry about the possibility of doing it on television.
The timing was not ideal. I was in the final stages of writing my dissertation. My university's requirements called for the committee to receive their final draft at least four weeks prior to the defense date - which was scheduled to occur precisely four weeks after my taping! Although I thought I should try to review some information for “Millionaire”, I had to concentrate on writing coherently, now a very difficult task. I bought a few books and spent a single day looking at major events as reported in Time Magazine, but did little else to prepare.
I believe that one of the reasons why TV trivia shows and reality programming are popular is because many people secretly believe they could excel on one. If one is young, muscular, willing to consume disgusting items, and not overwhelmingly intellectual, one might aspire to “Fear Factor.” For the young person who thinks they can sing, there is “American Idol.” Many middle-class, relatively intelligent people (students, professors, or their relatives, the main body of my current acquaintance) tend to think that they could succeed on a trivia show.
Seven contestants, including me, arrived at 8 AM for the taping on November 8. We were each assigned a producer to look after us. The green room was bright and cheerful, full of comfortable furniture, a nice rug, and photographs of previous big winners. A buffet of breakfast pastries was laid out, with fresh coffee brewing, next to a refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottled water. We were encouraged to help ourselves. The buffet was refreshed and changed throughout the day with a hot lunch, salad, afternoon sandwiches, and various desserts. Our bags, cell phones, books, newspapers, and any reading materials were confiscated as soon as we entered. As someone who habitually reads (even a cereal box is better than nothing), this was a major hardship.
We had been instructed to bring proof of identity, citizenship, and social security number, and had received, by mail, contracts to sign. These were taken by the show’s accountant while we had a series of briefings by various program personnel. The show’s lawyer asked us if we had carefully read the contract. He then went over some portions and, among other things, told us that the show would not take any taxes out of our winnings. The producer (as opposed to a producer, this one was THE producer) explained what was explicitly NOT allowed, such as visible logos on anything that might appear on camera, or us mentioning any trade names. Stalling is not making progress toward an answer, and it wasn’t allowed, either. We met the show’s publicist, who asked us about any local TV or radio stations and newspapers that might be interested in covering our appearance. We also practiced entering the studio and sitting in the “hot seat”, but the lights were dimmed so it wasn't the same.
The young producers that were assigned to us were all (obviously) recent college graduates. They had mixed emotions about us; in some ways, they were important television professionals whose primary job was.... babysitting us. From the time we arrived until we left, we were isolated and it was the producers’ job to keep the world at bay. On the other hand, the young producers were in awe of us, respecting our ability to have passed the test and our (comparatively) vast sums of knowledge; one producer said, in a tone that was polite despite the insulting words, “You know, you guys are freaks, you're so smart.” Their job could not have been more contradictory.
Mostly, we chatted with each other and our producers. We had to be escorted to and from the bathroom, but the producers were fairly cheerful about this duty. They fetched whatever we needed. Eventually, show time drew near and we were escorted to various private rooms, to change into on-camera clothing. No one had noticed that the pants I wore were actually black jeans (jeans were banned on camera), so I didn’t change them. In my normal life, I often wear black and I had difficulty locating clothing that met the dress code (no black or white on top, no jeans or T-shirts, no logos, and no close stripes). We had all brought two stage outfits to the studio, in case we appeared in two shows.
Four more contestants, hold-overs from the previous day, arrived. We all got made up. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
It was show-time. The four hold-overs were called out of the green room, first. One had started his appearance the previous day and went immediately on stage, but the rest were sent to an “on-deck” area. They keep three contestants on-deck - in the studio but offstage, none knowing who would be selected as the next contestant. I was one of the first from our group to be called out of the green room to be on-deck. I was miked and warned against dropping the transmitter, clipped to the back of my pants, into the toilet if I used the restroom.
My producer prepped me on my stories. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited! The producers continued to keep us in a state of frenzy; having us stay on-deck was just one example of how they manipulated our emotions. As each contestant finished, we stood in a row, to be randomly “tapped” - literally, tapped on the shoulder from behind, then thrust out through the stage entrance. First tapped from our group was the newly-wed from Minneapolis, others followed. As one entered the stage, another was brought out of the green room to join the on-deck group. We chatted quietly about the show and continued to be offered drinks by the producers (the studio air was cold and dry). When the third show ended with the contestant giving the incorrect answer, we all knew that the next one to be tapped would begin the last show of the day and would probably be the only one to finish up. Still, they kept us hanging, not telling us who it would be!
All of the liquids finally caught up with me; I asked if I could use the restroom but they wanted to determine the next contestant, first. A little longer, and it was ME! Now, I really needed the restroom! As I marched up the stairs to the facilities, I audibly reminded myself not to drop my transmitter into the toilet. Only later did I think about the sound technician, listening in as I used the restroom, but this is probably not an uncommon experience for TV sound engineers.
My producer, once again, coached me on my stories. Finally alone and awaiting the start of the new show in the studio doorway, I hopped up and down, I was so excited. The comedian who had warmed up the audience was nearby, facing away, making obscene body motions towards an unseen (to me) Meredith Viera. I hadn't realized that his job included keeping her amused, too. I laughed so hard, I was afraid I would fall over the edge of the set; I clutched the stage rigging and giggled uncontrollably.
The music came up, Ms. Viera and I entered the stage together, I sat down in the hot seat, and the rest is almost a dream. We ad-libbed a bit about my having been in the audience a few weeks earlier (I remember waving toward the section where I had been sitting and the audience cheering for me so loudly, I couldn't hear Ms. Viera’s questions). We also talked about how my students would never believe my rock and roll history. At some point, I held my USB drive up to the camera, carefully obscuring the Memorex logo with my index finger, saying it was my dissertation, which I was afraid of losing unless I kept a copy with me at all times (this bit was edited out of the show). At a commercial break, my make-up was retouched. I was never frightened - I was absolutely giddy with euphoria. The experience was surreal.
Afterwards, I was taken to a little booth under another part of the stage to sign papers with the show’s accountant. I kept looking at my fake check, not really sure how I had won $25,000. Even before I entered the “hot seat”, the producers had whipped me into a totally suggestible state, something that I never would have thought possible. I was doing everything they wanted me to do, on cue - sitting down, telling particular stories, even holding up my USB drive. It was as if I had been hypnotized - I was willing to accept anything that someone else said; had the audience suggested an answer that was not even one of the options, I would have agreed with them, even knowing that it was wrong. And it felt SO GOOD. It was an illuminating experience; is this what gambling, drinking, and/or taking drugs do for addicts? The euphoria I experienced is certainly addictive; that I could fall into such a suggestible state is frightening. But I want to do it again. Who ever would have thought that a game show could be analogous to crack?
I have recorded a number of episodes of Millionaire. They are a convenience sample, not an SRS; I taped episodes whenever I remembered to program my recorder. In addition to normal contestant selection such as I experienced, the show has a number of specialty weeks where all contestants are either newlywed couples, or movie buffs, or even audience members selected at random. I have not done a formal study of my sample, but my sense is that there is a bi-modal distribution of winnings - when contestants use up their lifelines quickly, they win very little money. If contestant gets to the $25,000 level, she is guaranteed that amount, so there is no risk in answering the next question, which can net the contestant $50,000. A few contestants are willing to gamble for higher amounts, but most do not if they reach the $50,000 level - less than 20% of contestants reach this level. From my observations, the “typical” contestant is white and college-educated, with relatively equal numbers of men and women chosen for the pool. Almost all contestants have some major debt that they would like to pay with their winnings; many contestants are undergraduate and graduate students from a variety of disciplines, especially law and history.
I corresponded on-line with a couple of my test- session peers. I encouraged them to think about more than passing the test. I had, rather cold-bloodedly, spent some time between my two test dates thinking about what producers look for. The test weeds out those without sufficient general knowledge but a good contestant is more than a walking encyclopedia. Producers want interesting people who can present themselves well on camera - they want someone who has short, funny stories to tell, who has a quick come-back to any question, and who can laugh at themselves. These are not easy skills but they can be obtained with practice. A brilliant person who acts like a jerk will never be chosen as a contestant. In my case, my being an occasional smart-mouth was not a bad thing. In my first attempt, I had only been able to say, “I can't believe I passed the test!” The producers must hear this all of the time, so it did not single me out as interesting. I have genuinely outrageous stories to tell about myself but almost everyone has at least some funny stories, whether about themselves, their family members, or their job. In any case, I succeeded in packaging myself as an attractive candidate in my second attempt to become a contestant, and I shared this information with my test-peers, and now, with you.
There are 175 half-hour segments of "Millionaire" produced every year (according to Meredith Viera, in an appearance on the "Tony Danza Show", May 22, 2006). From my observations, each segment uses between one and four contestants per episode, typically, slightly less than two. Therefore, the annual contestant pool must have at least 350 members. I have developed two major hypotheses about the Millionaire contestant pool from my observations, although I was unable to verify them.
Since the show has so many contestant searches throughout the country, they do not need to select many at the New York City tapings. I think I was the only person selected for the pool during my second attempt; I was the only person who received attention from the second producer. I think that the contestant pool is deliberately kept small and that there are relatively few members who are not eventually selected for a show. It would be infuriating to be chosen for the pool but never selected for a program before the season ended. I believe that most contestants are found in the nation-wide contestant searches in an attempt to obtain what looks like a more diverse pool, but that diversity is an illusion as a result of self-selection by would-be contestants.
Once chosen for a taping of Millionaire, a contestant is guaranteed to sit in the Hot Seat (if they show up), but not necessarily on the day called. Any hold-overs from the previous taping day go on stage before the new cohort. The show tapes on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I believe that there may be two contestant pools, with contestants from the New York area specifically chosen for Thursday tapings, so it is not a hardship for them to return on the following Tuesday. On my taping day, a Tuesday, all of the hold-overs were from the greater New York area, while all of the contestants called with me were from outside the area. In addition, I was the only one who had taken the test in New York, where many would-be contestants are local. On the website for another syndicated television program (The View) taped at ABC studios in New York, there are two separate pools for ticket requests; one if you are from New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, or Pennsylvania; and one if you are from anywhere else. I think "Millionaire" similarly divides the contestant pool.
To recap - I have made two major assumptions about the contestant pool:
1. Although there are more test opportunities in New York, there is a higher chance of being selected for the pool in a search outside the city. Still, there is a chance of being selected from a New York test;
2. The day for which a contestant is called may be influenced by one’s home state. In conclusion, a game show is unlikely to pay for all of one's graduate school expenses, but it can pay for a year or two. I won the average amount, $25,000. Most contestants win either much less, or $50,000. However, do not be intimidated by the bimodal distribution of winnings. You might be luckier than me. In any case, I had a lot of fun. I have a new roof, a unique story to tell, an amusing new hobby, a new topic for further research, and am that much further in my quest for the American Dream!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Shoot! I've got two computers! Ooh - and Season's Greetings!
I spent a LONG time writing a new blog entry yesterday and, as I'm frantically looking for the file to upload it and CANNOT find it, I just realized that I wrote it on my laptop! Of course, I"m on the desktop, now (the only computer I use to upload).
Computers are like teddy bears. I've always got one with me to write on but sometimes it's just my smart phone. As I mentioned, I got a new (cheap) laptop to replace the one that I need to return to my last employer (it's going back as soon as I take all of my files off of it, probably between Christmas and New Year's). And I've got my old dinosaur of a desktop. It's been very reliable but the C drive is so full, it gets confused. I need to pull everything off of it, start over, and get rid of the partitioning. Or just replace it as soon as I can afford it. Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that where it could read it! It erased everything for a second! I'm sorry. I'll maintain you better; I promise! I'll even replace your non-functioning ports! Just don't fail me!
I imagine that I would have just talked to myself, in the days before computers. I occasionally kept a journal but it was so much work because I don't write very legibly. This is so much more satisfying. I really do like computers. I wonder if I frustrate them as much as they sometimes frustrate me, though. Or maybe I'm just over-anthropomorphizing them. Good computer! Very good computer (pat, pat)! I need my computer at least as much as it needs me to provide electricity and spare parts, though.
Happy Holidays! Mid-December has snuck up on me, for the reasons I'll explain tomorrow. Merry Christmas, a belated Happy Hannukah, Joyous Beltane, or whatever holiday you celebrate. I don't have any problem with offering any kind of holiday greetings. I celebrate Christmas (like the majority of Americans) but it's the time of year when we ideally offer the gift of peace and happiness to everybody - so don't get annoyed if I give you more holiday cheer than you personally celebrate. Don't get upset if people and stores are generic in their greetings; any polite seasonal salutation shouldn't be offensive, so don't make it a big deal if it isn't the particular one you want. "Happy Holidays" in no way decreases my Christmas and it shouldn't affect your celebration, either. I'm not being politically correct; I just like the season and the ideal sentiment. It gives me the illusion of hope for my fellow citizens. Be nice when someone offers you a happy season's greetings. It defeats the whole sentiment of Christmas to take offense. And that's my rant for the day!
Computers are like teddy bears. I've always got one with me to write on but sometimes it's just my smart phone. As I mentioned, I got a new (cheap) laptop to replace the one that I need to return to my last employer (it's going back as soon as I take all of my files off of it, probably between Christmas and New Year's). And I've got my old dinosaur of a desktop. It's been very reliable but the C drive is so full, it gets confused. I need to pull everything off of it, start over, and get rid of the partitioning. Or just replace it as soon as I can afford it. Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that where it could read it! It erased everything for a second! I'm sorry. I'll maintain you better; I promise! I'll even replace your non-functioning ports! Just don't fail me!
I imagine that I would have just talked to myself, in the days before computers. I occasionally kept a journal but it was so much work because I don't write very legibly. This is so much more satisfying. I really do like computers. I wonder if I frustrate them as much as they sometimes frustrate me, though. Or maybe I'm just over-anthropomorphizing them. Good computer! Very good computer (pat, pat)! I need my computer at least as much as it needs me to provide electricity and spare parts, though.
Happy Holidays! Mid-December has snuck up on me, for the reasons I'll explain tomorrow. Merry Christmas, a belated Happy Hannukah, Joyous Beltane, or whatever holiday you celebrate. I don't have any problem with offering any kind of holiday greetings. I celebrate Christmas (like the majority of Americans) but it's the time of year when we ideally offer the gift of peace and happiness to everybody - so don't get annoyed if I give you more holiday cheer than you personally celebrate. Don't get upset if people and stores are generic in their greetings; any polite seasonal salutation shouldn't be offensive, so don't make it a big deal if it isn't the particular one you want. "Happy Holidays" in no way decreases my Christmas and it shouldn't affect your celebration, either. I'm not being politically correct; I just like the season and the ideal sentiment. It gives me the illusion of hope for my fellow citizens. Be nice when someone offers you a happy season's greetings. It defeats the whole sentiment of Christmas to take offense. And that's my rant for the day!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Building stuff with my kid
I've talked briefly about a course I'm taking (in entrepreneurship) so Jack and I can have a successful start-up electronics business but I didn't want to talk about the actual business before now. It works! It works! I'm SO excited!
Jack and I went to a conference in July for super-geeks. I was in my element - and Jack had never seen me like this before. We bought some kits for pretty cool toys and saw a lot of neat stuff. We decided to build a quadrocopter, a two foot square flying device, powered by four electric motors. The "brains" of the quadrocopter is an "Arduino", an open-source microprocessor connected to sensors that keep the device balanced and flying straight. There is an active internet community of builders of such flying machines, so there are plenty of people who can help with problems.
Initially, Jack wanted to write all or almost all of his own software, which kind-of defeated the purpose of having an open-source platform. He came around to using existing libraries of Arduino programs and quickly developed his own program to emulate portions of the hardware on his computer. We traded off building bits, but after multiple updates, my circuit boards were all in use, but the programming was entirely Jack's edited creation. The only problem was, after replacing certain parts that were defective or had been damaged in earlier versions, the device would continuously and uncontrollably roll over (and rapidly crash, if it were actually flying instead of the emulator displaying the flight characteristics).
Today, Jack and I sat down together at his father's house and talked through the problem. We concluded that the sensors were working properly. There were a couple of less-than-ideal solder joints on the main circuit board, which I fixed. It still rolled. I pulled out the schematics that I used to build the main circuit board and started going over the wiring. There was a significant difference between the drawing and the device in the sensor connections - they were connected in a different order than the drawing specified. We talked over the reason for the difference; it dated to when Jack was writing all of his own programs - when it didn't matter if the sensors were wired in a unique manner. Since he was now using a library of software, the sensors had to match the software originator's plans (and they didn't). So, I unsoldered one end on each of five wires on the circuit board and reconnected them so they matched the schematic. We hooked the board up to the computer and it stopped rolling!
I could finally put the whole quadrocopter together. The circuit boards are mounted in a plastic box,which is mounted on the frame. We had previously mounted the motors, motor controllers, and battery to the frame. Everything is all hooked up. Jack still has to calibrate the sensors but we hope to be flying tomorrow (if the weather isn't horrendous, as forecast). Maybe we'll go somewhere where there is a building with high ceilings and fly indoors. Hmmmmm.
I'm so excited and happy, though! We've been working on this since mid-September, and have spent three months debugging the thing. Debugging is both fun and maddening. Right now, the quadrocopter isn't anything unique. It's just a very expensive, albeit fun, toy. But stay tuned. Our business isn't just making quadrocopters; lots of people are building them. I can't talk about the rest, yet. Nyah, nyah! Seriously, there are a LOT of people building these things for profit, so we need to keep certain ideas a secret until we're ready to market the thing.
But it works! Neither of us could debug the machine's problems alone; we've got a pretty good division of labor. I like working with Jack. Building stuff with your kid is a lot of fun.
Jack and I went to a conference in July for super-geeks. I was in my element - and Jack had never seen me like this before. We bought some kits for pretty cool toys and saw a lot of neat stuff. We decided to build a quadrocopter, a two foot square flying device, powered by four electric motors. The "brains" of the quadrocopter is an "Arduino", an open-source microprocessor connected to sensors that keep the device balanced and flying straight. There is an active internet community of builders of such flying machines, so there are plenty of people who can help with problems.
Initially, Jack wanted to write all or almost all of his own software, which kind-of defeated the purpose of having an open-source platform. He came around to using existing libraries of Arduino programs and quickly developed his own program to emulate portions of the hardware on his computer. We traded off building bits, but after multiple updates, my circuit boards were all in use, but the programming was entirely Jack's edited creation. The only problem was, after replacing certain parts that were defective or had been damaged in earlier versions, the device would continuously and uncontrollably roll over (and rapidly crash, if it were actually flying instead of the emulator displaying the flight characteristics).
Today, Jack and I sat down together at his father's house and talked through the problem. We concluded that the sensors were working properly. There were a couple of less-than-ideal solder joints on the main circuit board, which I fixed. It still rolled. I pulled out the schematics that I used to build the main circuit board and started going over the wiring. There was a significant difference between the drawing and the device in the sensor connections - they were connected in a different order than the drawing specified. We talked over the reason for the difference; it dated to when Jack was writing all of his own programs - when it didn't matter if the sensors were wired in a unique manner. Since he was now using a library of software, the sensors had to match the software originator's plans (and they didn't). So, I unsoldered one end on each of five wires on the circuit board and reconnected them so they matched the schematic. We hooked the board up to the computer and it stopped rolling!
I could finally put the whole quadrocopter together. The circuit boards are mounted in a plastic box,which is mounted on the frame. We had previously mounted the motors, motor controllers, and battery to the frame. Everything is all hooked up. Jack still has to calibrate the sensors but we hope to be flying tomorrow (if the weather isn't horrendous, as forecast). Maybe we'll go somewhere where there is a building with high ceilings and fly indoors. Hmmmmm.
I'm so excited and happy, though! We've been working on this since mid-September, and have spent three months debugging the thing. Debugging is both fun and maddening. Right now, the quadrocopter isn't anything unique. It's just a very expensive, albeit fun, toy. But stay tuned. Our business isn't just making quadrocopters; lots of people are building them. I can't talk about the rest, yet. Nyah, nyah! Seriously, there are a LOT of people building these things for profit, so we need to keep certain ideas a secret until we're ready to market the thing.
But it works! Neither of us could debug the machine's problems alone; we've got a pretty good division of labor. I like working with Jack. Building stuff with your kid is a lot of fun.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
One by one, the penguins steal my sanity
I once saw this on a bumper sticker and, like inside jokes, it has become meaningful only to me. I’m not sure exactly what it means, it just makes me feel better when life is going out of control. I’ve often tried to pretend that I’ve got control over my life. More recently, I’ve given up the pretense and now just try to roll with the punches.
One of the things over which I have no control but pretended that I did, is autism spectrum. I’ve finally come to accept that I, like my son and my ex-husband, have Asperger’s Syndrome. It was a traumatic revelation for me. Females, much more than males, are socialized to conform. As a female on the spectrum, I’m better at hiding my utter confusion over most social situations than the boys do; sometimes I even revel in my bewilderment.
I’m all right with one person; I can narrow my focus to comprehend many of the unspoken cues from a single person but I start to feel lost with a small group and a large group is overwhelming. Even with one person, I overthink what is supposed to come easily. For example, in “Parade” magazine a few weeks ago, there was a picture of a person with a tightly rounded mouth and wide-open eyes. The text said that up to half of teenagers had difficulty identifying the emotion portrayed but that “all” adults got it.
So, I looked carefully at the picture. Initially, I decided that the person was angry but, after consideration, remembered that angry eyes are usually narrowed. These were wide open. Open eyes could be surprised but the mouth was wrong. I copied the expression with my own face. As I considered the emotions evoked by my own expression, I finally thought the person might be scared. Fear could result in a tight mouth and open eyes. I turned the page and discovered that I was correct. It only took me ten seconds to run through this difficult thought process but I was pleased to discover that I thought like one of the grown-ups! But, do most adults have to copy the face in order to identify it? I think not. I’m an adult, but one who must analyze carefully rather than simply “know”, almost by instinct.
As a kid, people said I was shy. In retrospect, I wasn’t shy so much as terrified because I could never figure out what people were thinking, the way other kids could. When I decided to stop behaving shy, I still found myself occasionally paralyzed by fear when in new situations. Just as people can decide that pain is sexually exciting (yuck!), I decided that total bewilderment was not frightening, rather, it was fun and entertaining. I conflated my acceptance of confusion with believing that everyone else was as confused as I was. This meant I was “normal” in my confusion.
Being “normal” meant a lot to me. After all, adolescence is all about trying to fit in. Before I gave up my “shyness”, I found the AV club. I didn’t fit in anywhere in my high school but the AV club gave me some measure of acceptance, but the other girls in AV understood the rules of high school girls; I never did. At best, I was invisible to the rest of the high school. I liked it that way. When I started college, I decided that being invisible wasn’t going to work as I had no support group and was unlikely to find one if I was shy. Abandoning shyness. I’ve sought out and found a corps of geeks to join, wherever I’ve gone.
I was willing to accept that I was smarter than a lot of people, I just didn’t think I was that different, particularly in a group of mixed smart people like my geeky friends. I have lots of smart friends but many of them are probably on the spectrum, too. My neurotypical friends generally don’t have the all-consuming drive to read everything they can lay their hands on or to take apart their “toys” to discover how they work. I used to believe that all of the people that I admired for their expertise in one realm were equally knowledgeable across the board (like me). Occasionally, someone would surprise me by telling me that they didn’t know something that I considered common knowledge.
For example, yesterday, a neurotypical friend thought the word “complement”(used appropriately) was “compliment,” merely misspelled. I don’t know what to make of this.
Margaret was surprised but gratified to discover that I could fix her wheelchair when its wheel kept jamming on her. I can’t see why no one else around her was able to do anything. It was simple. All it took was a willingness to figure out how the brake assembly worked, then to loosen (and tighten) a single bolt to make a minor adjustment! I still can’t imagine why anyone who can use both hands couldn’t do such a simple thing.
I was in Walmart last night and saw a woman laughingly purchasing an inexpensive purple tool kit for a Christmas present. She chuckled to her (older female) companion that her daughter had recently moved into her first apartment and would need it. This pleased me, although the tools were crappy and a better set could be had at Home Depot for the same price. It suggested to me that perhaps this mother also experimented with home repairs so maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all!
“Normal” means average - something that the majority of people can and will do. But, if your peer group is not representative of the population as a whole, your ideas about “normal” are skewed. I think my peer group (for almost my entire adult life) has been far above average in most things so my ideas about “normal” have a much higher standard than the average American. Even in this group, I’m not “normal,” although I’ve sought it in social venues and often discounted my gifts in intellectual areas. “Normal” was something that I sought and deeply desired for myself. I never wanted to be the outlier, but I guess I am. AS makes me an outlier, but, according to the people from the Discovery Channel who interviewed me about John, being able to articulate the differences between AS and the neurotypical minds makes him (and me!) an outlier amongst outliers. The main difference is, he had less of a need to fit in. He has reveled in his diagnosis, whereas I agonized with mine.
I’m gradually coming to the conclusion that I wouldn’t change myself, though. I like being a geek amongst geeks. It’s all the neurotypicals who make me insecure.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I think; I require words to help me with visual input. Reading gives me both visual input and words. I cannot go for a single day without reading for a significant part of that day. I read when I’m stressed; I read when I’m at ease. When I’m reading, I fight to stay awake despite sleepiness and forget when I’m hungry. I read the way a glutton eats. I don’t read word-by-word, I read in chunks of text, consuming entire paragraphs, whole and intact, slurping down pages and eagerly looking for more. When I read fiction, I see the action unfold before me, like a cross between a cartoon and a movie with live actors. I hear the dialog and smell the odors. Reading is better than real life, as books are predictable. Oddly enough, it is the people who turn into blurry cartoons unless I actively keep their descriptions in the front of my mind, while the locations, background, and objects remain crisp and lifelike.
I cannot remember what people look like in real life unless I explicitly and deliberately describe them to myself, verbally. It isn't enough to just think a general description, I have to slow down and articulate every word, individually. Real people don’t actually turn into cartoons, but my reading memory of fictional people echoes my perception of real people. The real people all blur together - to me, almost everyone looks like everyone else. If I am confronted by people that I’ve met at the same time, I usually can’t tell them apart. I think in pictures, but I cannot remember the people in them without explicit words to describe their differences. I think this is why I read so much. Books give me the words I need without any additional effort on my part. In addition, the act of reading mediates between the external world and me.
I also think that my difficulty in visual memory of humans underlies why I was “shy” as a kid. I never knew if I’d met someone before and didn’t know how to react to changes to my routine, in addition to not knowing what their expressions meant.
I"m still going to watch out for those penguins, though.
One of the things over which I have no control but pretended that I did, is autism spectrum. I’ve finally come to accept that I, like my son and my ex-husband, have Asperger’s Syndrome. It was a traumatic revelation for me. Females, much more than males, are socialized to conform. As a female on the spectrum, I’m better at hiding my utter confusion over most social situations than the boys do; sometimes I even revel in my bewilderment.
I’m all right with one person; I can narrow my focus to comprehend many of the unspoken cues from a single person but I start to feel lost with a small group and a large group is overwhelming. Even with one person, I overthink what is supposed to come easily. For example, in “Parade” magazine a few weeks ago, there was a picture of a person with a tightly rounded mouth and wide-open eyes. The text said that up to half of teenagers had difficulty identifying the emotion portrayed but that “all” adults got it.
So, I looked carefully at the picture. Initially, I decided that the person was angry but, after consideration, remembered that angry eyes are usually narrowed. These were wide open. Open eyes could be surprised but the mouth was wrong. I copied the expression with my own face. As I considered the emotions evoked by my own expression, I finally thought the person might be scared. Fear could result in a tight mouth and open eyes. I turned the page and discovered that I was correct. It only took me ten seconds to run through this difficult thought process but I was pleased to discover that I thought like one of the grown-ups! But, do most adults have to copy the face in order to identify it? I think not. I’m an adult, but one who must analyze carefully rather than simply “know”, almost by instinct.
As a kid, people said I was shy. In retrospect, I wasn’t shy so much as terrified because I could never figure out what people were thinking, the way other kids could. When I decided to stop behaving shy, I still found myself occasionally paralyzed by fear when in new situations. Just as people can decide that pain is sexually exciting (yuck!), I decided that total bewilderment was not frightening, rather, it was fun and entertaining. I conflated my acceptance of confusion with believing that everyone else was as confused as I was. This meant I was “normal” in my confusion.
Being “normal” meant a lot to me. After all, adolescence is all about trying to fit in. Before I gave up my “shyness”, I found the AV club. I didn’t fit in anywhere in my high school but the AV club gave me some measure of acceptance, but the other girls in AV understood the rules of high school girls; I never did. At best, I was invisible to the rest of the high school. I liked it that way. When I started college, I decided that being invisible wasn’t going to work as I had no support group and was unlikely to find one if I was shy. Abandoning shyness. I’ve sought out and found a corps of geeks to join, wherever I’ve gone.
I was willing to accept that I was smarter than a lot of people, I just didn’t think I was that different, particularly in a group of mixed smart people like my geeky friends. I have lots of smart friends but many of them are probably on the spectrum, too. My neurotypical friends generally don’t have the all-consuming drive to read everything they can lay their hands on or to take apart their “toys” to discover how they work. I used to believe that all of the people that I admired for their expertise in one realm were equally knowledgeable across the board (like me). Occasionally, someone would surprise me by telling me that they didn’t know something that I considered common knowledge.
For example, yesterday, a neurotypical friend thought the word “complement”(used appropriately) was “compliment,” merely misspelled. I don’t know what to make of this.
Margaret was surprised but gratified to discover that I could fix her wheelchair when its wheel kept jamming on her. I can’t see why no one else around her was able to do anything. It was simple. All it took was a willingness to figure out how the brake assembly worked, then to loosen (and tighten) a single bolt to make a minor adjustment! I still can’t imagine why anyone who can use both hands couldn’t do such a simple thing.
I was in Walmart last night and saw a woman laughingly purchasing an inexpensive purple tool kit for a Christmas present. She chuckled to her (older female) companion that her daughter had recently moved into her first apartment and would need it. This pleased me, although the tools were crappy and a better set could be had at Home Depot for the same price. It suggested to me that perhaps this mother also experimented with home repairs so maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all!
“Normal” means average - something that the majority of people can and will do. But, if your peer group is not representative of the population as a whole, your ideas about “normal” are skewed. I think my peer group (for almost my entire adult life) has been far above average in most things so my ideas about “normal” have a much higher standard than the average American. Even in this group, I’m not “normal,” although I’ve sought it in social venues and often discounted my gifts in intellectual areas. “Normal” was something that I sought and deeply desired for myself. I never wanted to be the outlier, but I guess I am. AS makes me an outlier, but, according to the people from the Discovery Channel who interviewed me about John, being able to articulate the differences between AS and the neurotypical minds makes him (and me!) an outlier amongst outliers. The main difference is, he had less of a need to fit in. He has reveled in his diagnosis, whereas I agonized with mine.
I’m gradually coming to the conclusion that I wouldn’t change myself, though. I like being a geek amongst geeks. It’s all the neurotypicals who make me insecure.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I think; I require words to help me with visual input. Reading gives me both visual input and words. I cannot go for a single day without reading for a significant part of that day. I read when I’m stressed; I read when I’m at ease. When I’m reading, I fight to stay awake despite sleepiness and forget when I’m hungry. I read the way a glutton eats. I don’t read word-by-word, I read in chunks of text, consuming entire paragraphs, whole and intact, slurping down pages and eagerly looking for more. When I read fiction, I see the action unfold before me, like a cross between a cartoon and a movie with live actors. I hear the dialog and smell the odors. Reading is better than real life, as books are predictable. Oddly enough, it is the people who turn into blurry cartoons unless I actively keep their descriptions in the front of my mind, while the locations, background, and objects remain crisp and lifelike.
I cannot remember what people look like in real life unless I explicitly and deliberately describe them to myself, verbally. It isn't enough to just think a general description, I have to slow down and articulate every word, individually. Real people don’t actually turn into cartoons, but my reading memory of fictional people echoes my perception of real people. The real people all blur together - to me, almost everyone looks like everyone else. If I am confronted by people that I’ve met at the same time, I usually can’t tell them apart. I think in pictures, but I cannot remember the people in them without explicit words to describe their differences. I think this is why I read so much. Books give me the words I need without any additional effort on my part. In addition, the act of reading mediates between the external world and me.
I also think that my difficulty in visual memory of humans underlies why I was “shy” as a kid. I never knew if I’d met someone before and didn’t know how to react to changes to my routine, in addition to not knowing what their expressions meant.
I"m still going to watch out for those penguins, though.
Friday, December 3, 2010
TSA blues
I’ve been thinking a lot about the Transportation Security Administration’s new scanners and “enhanced pat-downs” lately, in relation to my health problems of eight months ago.
One of the reasons why I started blogging was because I almost died on March 28, 2010. That’s the day when my colon ruptured, leading to massive peritonitis and an emergency (temporary) colostomy. A colostomy - even a temporary one - is a wretched thing. Your normal method of elimination is bypassed; you have a surgical hole in your side through which feces pass, to be collected inside a plastic bag that you have glued to your abdomen. Bags come in many styles, but the most common has a “tail” through which you can drain the majority of the waste into a toilet. It would be very rough on the skin to have to change the bag (and its adhesive) a couple of times a day. For me, small amounts of liquid feces oozed out of me and into the bag almost constantly. If the seal on the bag wasn’t perfect - and given the topography of my belly, this was very difficult to accomplish - feces leaked out - onto my clothes, onto my hand, onto anything in my lap, dribbling down my leg, yuck! I constantly smelled like sewage. To add insult to injury, I was allergic to the adhesive so my skin was often completely raw which made achieving a good seal impossible.
Imagine if I had had to fly when I still had the colostomy. The scanner reveals everything under your clothes - like a weird, partially filled bag, attached to my abdomen. By definition, this would be suspicious, leading to a “pat-down.” The bag would have been thoroughly felt by a person untrained in medical issues. Given the precarious nature of my bags, the chances were almost certain that they would have broken the seal. Can you say, “sh!t-storm?” How humiliating! Not to mention unsanitary!
Similar events have already happened to other people. A man with a urostomy - a similar operation to mine, but in his case, his bladder had been removed so the bag replaced it in collecting urine - was drenched with his own urine after a rough examination. He was unable to change into clean clothing for his flight. People with ostomies have been through enough. Why are they subjected to systematic humiliation at the hands of governmental goons?
And what makes flyers think that the gloves that TSA agents wear are any barrier to disease? If a TSA agent fails to clean their hands and change gloves between every passenger, you could catch a serious disease. Imagine that a person in front of you has chlamydia. Chlamydia can be carried on a glove from their genitals to yours. Do you want to explain to your partner that they got an STD because you flew somewhere and got groped? Even nastier, imagine that the passenger before you was recovering from a norovirus (a highly contagious and nasty intestinal infection that survives a long time on surfaces). The gloved hand probes between their buttocks - presto - norovirus on the glove. The TSA agent then pats your shirt - a minute later, you touch your shirt, then wipe your mouth - congratulations, you’re infected. You’ll be sick in two days and down for a week. You'll probably pass this around your household, too. If your immune system is compromised, you might even die!
I’ve got an idea that isn’t original but might gross out the TSA. Everybody should strip down to Speedos or bikinis for the security check. A couple of 20 year olds have already done this - cute young women and handsome young men. What if some less attractive people did it, too - like some golden agers or really fat people? Or someone like me - not just fat but covered with fresh surgical scars! I have no desire to have people look at my less-than-attractive body but I’d rather that than be groped by a stranger with filthy rubber gloves!
I feel much less safe about flying than I did before the TSA started their new policy with worthless scanners and sexual assaults. After all, despite all of the hoopla, the TSA hasn't caught any actual terrorists, just Hollywood starlets with their pot,coke, and pills! The only people who have stopped terror attacks are alert passengers.
All things considered, I think I’ll drive, ride a train, or take a boat if I need to travel. My naughty bits will continue to be the business of my doctor and my current sweetie, not the total strangers of the TSA. And the air carriers can kiss my scars for doing nothing for customers but raising prices and cutting services.
One of the reasons why I started blogging was because I almost died on March 28, 2010. That’s the day when my colon ruptured, leading to massive peritonitis and an emergency (temporary) colostomy. A colostomy - even a temporary one - is a wretched thing. Your normal method of elimination is bypassed; you have a surgical hole in your side through which feces pass, to be collected inside a plastic bag that you have glued to your abdomen. Bags come in many styles, but the most common has a “tail” through which you can drain the majority of the waste into a toilet. It would be very rough on the skin to have to change the bag (and its adhesive) a couple of times a day. For me, small amounts of liquid feces oozed out of me and into the bag almost constantly. If the seal on the bag wasn’t perfect - and given the topography of my belly, this was very difficult to accomplish - feces leaked out - onto my clothes, onto my hand, onto anything in my lap, dribbling down my leg, yuck! I constantly smelled like sewage. To add insult to injury, I was allergic to the adhesive so my skin was often completely raw which made achieving a good seal impossible.
Imagine if I had had to fly when I still had the colostomy. The scanner reveals everything under your clothes - like a weird, partially filled bag, attached to my abdomen. By definition, this would be suspicious, leading to a “pat-down.” The bag would have been thoroughly felt by a person untrained in medical issues. Given the precarious nature of my bags, the chances were almost certain that they would have broken the seal. Can you say, “sh!t-storm?” How humiliating! Not to mention unsanitary!
Similar events have already happened to other people. A man with a urostomy - a similar operation to mine, but in his case, his bladder had been removed so the bag replaced it in collecting urine - was drenched with his own urine after a rough examination. He was unable to change into clean clothing for his flight. People with ostomies have been through enough. Why are they subjected to systematic humiliation at the hands of governmental goons?
And what makes flyers think that the gloves that TSA agents wear are any barrier to disease? If a TSA agent fails to clean their hands and change gloves between every passenger, you could catch a serious disease. Imagine that a person in front of you has chlamydia. Chlamydia can be carried on a glove from their genitals to yours. Do you want to explain to your partner that they got an STD because you flew somewhere and got groped? Even nastier, imagine that the passenger before you was recovering from a norovirus (a highly contagious and nasty intestinal infection that survives a long time on surfaces). The gloved hand probes between their buttocks - presto - norovirus on the glove. The TSA agent then pats your shirt - a minute later, you touch your shirt, then wipe your mouth - congratulations, you’re infected. You’ll be sick in two days and down for a week. You'll probably pass this around your household, too. If your immune system is compromised, you might even die!
I’ve got an idea that isn’t original but might gross out the TSA. Everybody should strip down to Speedos or bikinis for the security check. A couple of 20 year olds have already done this - cute young women and handsome young men. What if some less attractive people did it, too - like some golden agers or really fat people? Or someone like me - not just fat but covered with fresh surgical scars! I have no desire to have people look at my less-than-attractive body but I’d rather that than be groped by a stranger with filthy rubber gloves!
I feel much less safe about flying than I did before the TSA started their new policy with worthless scanners and sexual assaults. After all, despite all of the hoopla, the TSA hasn't caught any actual terrorists, just Hollywood starlets with their pot,coke, and pills! The only people who have stopped terror attacks are alert passengers.
All things considered, I think I’ll drive, ride a train, or take a boat if I need to travel. My naughty bits will continue to be the business of my doctor and my current sweetie, not the total strangers of the TSA. And the air carriers can kiss my scars for doing nothing for customers but raising prices and cutting services.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)