Erin Ruffin’s Weblog

Generation Y includes everyone born between 1976 and 2000. They are also called the Millennials, iGen (the Internet Generation), Generation Next, Generation Why, and Echo Boomers.

In Vietnam, 50% of its 90 million people are under the age of 30.

In the United States, Generation Y represents more than 80 million consumers.

In China Generation Y is a force of 200 million, while those just under Gen-Y, 18 years and younger, is approximately 367 million, much greater than the entire population of the United States.

In the Middle East, it’s estimated that 70% of the population is under the age of 30.

In Eastern Europe they are the first post-communist generation.

In Southern Europe they are the first post-dictatorship generation.

In countries discovering new money (South Korea and Greece), Generation Y is the first generation to grow up in an environment of prosperity and stability.

In South Africa, they account for almost a 25% of the population.

Again and again, studies have shown that the most important life goal for Generation Y is to be wealthy and famous.

Generation Y is the most engaged and socially aware generation in history due to technology making it possible to be constantly connected and active. They live in real-time.

Many employers worldwide are finding it necessary to make shifts and changes in the way business is conducted due to demands and work styles of Generation Y.

They demand communities and partnerships.
They reject strong-arm governing.
They want to be coached, not bossed.

They prize honesty and transparency on behalf of the media, employers, and advertisers.
They see through and reject gimmicks.

They want tribes and families.

They work to live rather than live to work.
They love to travel.
They hate cubicles.

They multitask, they email, they text, they make films
start bands
write stories
form communities
share resources

and they won’t hear that “The Greatest Generation” was finished with their grandparents.

The Persians tell me “Tis the same to him who wears a shoe as if the whole earth were covered with leather.”

Is not the richest man the one who makes others richer?
and the noble workers of the world those whose day creates work for more?

Is not the man who walks in utmost freedom the one who unlocks doors?
and the artist the one hanging art then opening the blinds for passersby?

Is not the happiest man the one making others laugh?
and the most confident he who encourages others?

so in the same way
if we are what we pass on to others
what we hold in our hands to those around us
then the poorest of the world really aren’t those who live with pains of hunger 

The poorest man is he in whom others are poor.

For many lessons I’ve learned from people who’s next meal is as much a hope
and been stolen from and damaged by those waited upon with full bellies.

Maybe fitting a camel through the eye of a needle is not that difficult after all.

I got on the subway this morning and slumped into a seat. I was uncomfortably warm in my layers of clothing, jacket, and scarf. It wasn’t actually very cold this morning. I was well over-dressed which is frustrating because that means I end up hot and sweaty in my layers of clothes, even in the debt of winter. Already headfirst in the book I’m reading, I was rudely interrupted by a man in grungy clothes with a distinct unemployed look to him. He was sitting next to me and he asked if he could draw my face. Just like that.
“Can I draw your face?”
“Excuse me?”
“Can I draw your face?” he repeated as if it’s a question I should be used to hearing.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m an artist and you have a striking face and I’d like to draw it.”
I think he’s scamming me. He’s not really an artist, is he? This question, although important, wasn’t the main one floating through my head. I was more concerned with the question of whether or not I should be flattered by a middle-aged, scruffy man on the New York City subway telling me I have a striking face. What does that mean? Honestly, it could go to one extreme or the other, but I have more profound points to make from this little situation I found myself in this morning. I decided it was a compliment.
Although the few New Yorkers on their way to work that witnessed this interaction were probably dying for my response, I cowardly evaded his question, began rocking back and forth and stared into my book. As if I didn’t hear what he said.
This is where it gets interesting.
The man proceeded to lift his pen, a rather large plastic one, to approximately one inch in front of his nose, stare at it as if he’s trying to change its chemical composition by focusing his energy, then he vigorously began to shake it up and down directly in front of his face. I couldn’t help but pry my terrified eyes away from my book to see what this man was doing. Our legs, by the way, were touching. It was unavoidable on the packed-full train.
As this man used every last ounce of strength in his body to shake his plastic pen, directly in the line of energy he was emoting from his intense gaze, the pen lit up. Bright, fluorescent orange. So it’s nothing special. It was probably a free give-away at a children’s toy store somewhere around Times Square that he somehow finagled out of the cute cashier. This man, however, obviously believed that he lit the pen up by harnessing his inner energy and laser beaming it via his stare into the heart of the pen. Right. The pen’s lit up now and he’s ready to put his artistic talents to work (on my face).
After all the work he put into getting started, this had better be a good one.
That’s when I noticed that the only paper he had to create this masterpiece on was a crumpled up day-old copy of The New York Post, which he most likely took off of his subway seat before sitting down just minutes earlier. He proceeded to draw my face in the only clear space he could find on the cover page, which equaled about 1″ wide by 2″ high. Not only the lack of space bothered me about his attempt to capture my striking-ness, it was that my portrait would be settled next to a dot-matrix image of Lindsay Lohan. I was crushed.
It was 8:48am in the morning and I had already encountered my first New York City scam of the day. This man was no artist at all. The doors ding’ed open at my stop and I shuffled out of the subway leaving the artist muse-less. I didn’t feel bad.

When I got into my office, much too warm for late December in my overly layered outfit, I opened my computer to find an email from Cesar Garcia.

Cesar Garcia. Such a commanding name. For those hooked on “Googling” ex-boyfriends or long-lost high school friends (and yes, I did use Google as a verb), the Cesar Garcia I got an email from is not the artist that Google shows the first 5 hits for, nor the amateur actor imdb.com pulls up. I found Cesar Garcia on craigslist.com as I was searching for an apartment, or should I insert-cliché-here and more accurately say, “Cesar Garcia found me”?

He was advertising a beautiful studio in Forest Hills for $700, month-to-month, no fee. I don’t know who wouldn’t jump at this place conveniently situated on Austin Street, immaculate as far as the pictures showed, and from such a sweet landlord as Cesar. Immediately after my email inquiry (no phone number was given), I received a reply stating how he can afford to list the apartment for such a good price. Cesar’s father owned the place and recently passed away leaving it in Cesar’s name. The problem is that Cesar is in Nigeria on a mission to spread awareness about AIDS. Cesar’s main concern as he typed in broken English, is not the money but that he can trust the person to keep it clean and in good condition. This, I assured him, would not be a problem. He gave me a list of bits of information he needed from me, and once again made me promise to take care of the apartment.

This is the “rent application form” (as he called it) that I was emailed:

1)Your Full Name
2)Your Full Address & Phone Number
3)How old are you?
4)Are you married?
5)How many people will be living in the Apartment?
6)Do you have a pet?
7)Do you have a car?
8)Occupation?
9)What is your religion?
10)Are you born again?

I emailed my response, dotting all of my i’s, crossing all of my t’s and only providing my work details. This was good enough for Cesar. He was ready for me to wire the money to him and move in as soon as he FedEx’d me the keys.

Oh wait. Maybe I should see the apartment first.

Hi Cesar,
I would like to see the apartment before I sign anything or send you any money. Please let me know how I can see the apartment first.
Thank you,
Erin

I got this response from Cesar immediately following my email. By this time, it’s approximately 3am in Nigeria. Wow, Cesar stays up late!

Dear Erin,
Ok below is the address of the house and when are you ready to view the apartment?
76-66 Austin Street, Queens NY 11375

And when are you ready to make payment? So that i will arrenge to send the keys and the document of apartment via FEDEX or DHL to your provided address. Get back to me as soon as you get there ok.

From Cesar.

Wait a second, so he thinks by seeing the apartment I mean looking at the outside of the building? How can I see inside the apartment and why won’t he give me an apartment number? Am I being scammed again? There’s not really an immaculate apartment for $700 in Forest Hills, is there? Cesar!

Ok great, Cesar.
Sounds good. Will I be able to look inside the apartment? I would like to see inside the apartment before I sign the lease or send the money. Also what is the apartment number? You only sent the street number.
What is your address to send the money?
Thanks,
Erin

I got the reply. It’s now about 4am in Nigeria and I have let my co-worker, Josh, into the game. “Cesar Garcia thinks I’m stupid enough to blindly wire him money for an apartment I’ve never seen while I wait for him to FedEx me keys from Nigeria?” Right. Josh swears Cesar isn’t in Nigeria at all. “He’s definitely in Queens right now as he emails you. We need to act like we’re going to view the apartment and look for Cesar. If we meet anyone around who looks suspicious, I’ll say “Cesar” and see if he responds to it by turning and looking at me. If it’s him, he’s got hell to pay.”

Dear Erin,
Thanks for getting back to me, well you are quite right about what you said. But all i want is for you to take very good care of my apartment since you are ready to move in. This is the Number of the apartment ok? 76-66. But you can’t view the inside because the keys and the apartment document’s are here with me in west africa Nigeria. If you can send the payment today i will send the keys to your provided address via DHL today ok? It will be easy for you to view the inside ok?

Let know when you are ready to make the payment? So that i can give you details you needs to transfer the money via western union ok..

Thanks
Cesar Garcia

And my reply…

Thank you, Cesar.
I am going to see the apartment this afternoon. Can you tell me the color of the outside of the building so I can make sure I’m at the right place? Also, I would appreciate if you could send the keys to one of your friends or family members in New York so that they can let me in to see the apartment and then I can sign the lease with them. One last thing, I need the apartment number inside the building. (Is it on the second floor, third floor, etc.?).
Thanks,
Erin

Cesar just give it up…

Erin,
When you reach there you will see everything you want see ok? And i don’t prefer to send the keys to my family or friends ok? when you are ready see inside send the payment and get the keys ok.
Thanks,
Cesar

By this point in my life I’ve come to the realization that everyday presents an entirely new set of scams. The taxi driver who forgot it was a one-way and had to go around the block an extra time as the meter click-click-clicks its way up. The deli on the corner that stays open one hour later than everyone else making himself a monopoly and charging double the prices. New York City is full of them. I’m just wondering if it’s actually sadder now that I’m worn-in enough to recognize them. I think I used to laugh a lot more when I didn’t realize the taxi driver just drove me around in circles.

To scientists you meet on airplanes,
and people to whom you must fly in order to see
because boarding a plane in one country on one day
and walking off in another country the next day
(when you’re a little afraid, and you know exactly why, but won’t admit it)
is definitely
a trip worth taking.

This is a story about SNAKE OIL & TIN FOIL
and trapeze artists
and the cigarettes we smoked outside the front door.
By Erin Ruffin

We were both teachers at the same school in a foreign country where foreign actually means alien. He was 39 years older than me, almost a grandpa, with white hair and a bad knee. He was born in America but claimed Scotland. In fact the only ways I heard him speak of America were in unpronounced grumblings or unmitigated yells. I noticed his accent wasn’t clearly Scottish and when I pointed this out (as usual, skipping the filter of mouth step) he very quickly and quietly mumbled that he was born in America then very clearly and proudly said he hadn’t stepped foot in America since 1982 and that was for five days to finalize his papers so he never had to return. He hadn’t been there since before I was born which I think made me more of an American than him and I’m not sure why, but I actually felt a twinge of shame when I realized that.

I chalked him up to being bitter. And a little off-kilter.

But he was a genius. A real grammarian by vocation and degree. I didn’t know there were any of those left save a handful in Oxford.

I first met him, apart from the preliminary niceties in the teacher’s lounge, while smoking a cigarette on the stoop outside the front door of our school. No doubt with way too many things on my mind, I stood there frowning; inhale, exhale; Merhaba! Nasılsınız?; inhale, exhale, ben de iyiyim; inhale, exhale. The yellow door flew open and he stormed out in a fury saying (much too loudly) some words the English language isn’t entirely proud of. I thought the disregard he had for his position as a teacher and the students he ploughed through shouting these vulgarities was quite funny. I laughed in the corner and offered a cigarette, which he accepted. Fidgeting in his pockets for a lighter, his frustrated explanations for this episode escaped between his pursed lips holding the unlit cigarette. It bobbed and jerked up and down with each consonant he strained to pronounce without spitting it out. I smiled; exhale.
“The curriculum at this school is horrendous; it’s laughable. There are mistakes on every page. I can’t teach this. They promised top-notch books, top-notch materials. This is absolute rubbish. These students are getting ripped off. I can’t teach this.”
There’s the lighter.
Inhale, Exhale.
Merhaba, Teacher.
Günaydın.
We flicked our cigarettes and walked back in.

His name was Alain and we co-taught most classes together. He was sad most days but he loved teaching. That I was sure of. He required that we met a few times a week to review all of our students, how they were doing, who was acting up, the romances that were budding between certain students which Alain rolled his eyes at. He split them up intentionally. I let them sit together. Sometimes we would meet before our classes began and sometimes I smelled alcohol on his breath. I never said anything.

When winter crept in I could hardly contain my anticipation for the first snow. Alain told me about the first winter he lived through in Istanbul. They got a blizzard that was unrivaled for years in the ancient city on the Bosphorus. Feet of snow fell at a time barricading doors and roads so the city ground to a halt. He wished I could have seen it; all the clashes leveled out by the white snow that covered the Blue Mosque the same way it covered the Armenian churches. He said some people see snow like the security blanket you kept as a child.
“To some people it means more. I’m not sure why.”

Emily Dickinson understood.

The Snow that never drifts –
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now –

Most of the cafes and tea gardens in my little plot of Istanbul were full of men in the middle of the day. It left me the generic and solitary Starbucks to sit with my laptop and write. Embarrassed but comfortable I sat there during my breaks from class with my head somewhere else and my fingers clenching the keyboard. One time Alain asked me what I wrote about and I told him I was working on a story about circuses. I loved that they were started to cheer up the home front during wartime; the wives and children left at home with little to smile at. His eyes lit up and I knew he had a few stories to dig out.

Alain traveled with the circuses across Europe in the 70’s. Well, it’s not that simple. He married a prominent writer in Scotland. She cheated on him so he joined the circus. He was a performer and sang with the musicians, not as dramatic as the lion tamer, but he did, however, fall in love with the trapeze artist. He said he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful. She, to his dismay, was in love with the elephant trainer, and Alain eventually returned to the UK. He was hired as a teacher for the children of a group of nomads that traveled around England and put on carnivals with rusty ferris wheels and games that promised a stuffed animal with victory. There were few victories, Alain said, who occasionally got roped into running the ring toss. He was without home for two years as he traveled with the carnival. A woman with a ratty black wig, gold eye shadow, and a gold belt sold snake oil and promised that evolution, creationism, and all the other ideas of how we came to be what we’ve come to be are irrelevant. The snake oil that they heated on tin foil cured all ailments including curiosity. If you ask a question that can’t be answered, a recurring question that seemed to haunt you, snake oil would zap your curiosity. It made evolution irrelevant. They seemed overly concerned with the question of where we came from, Alain thought.

He digressed.

Alain used to be a mountain climber. He hurt his knee in an accident, which prevented him from climbing stairs.
Descending was fine, but he couldn’t climb up.
He was restricted to using the consistently inconsistent elevator to get upstairs for class and one day, early for class, we got stuck in the elevator together. There weren’t doors on the elevator and we got stuck halfway between the third and fourth floor; raw cement was eye-level and I remember that because what he said forced my eyes to stare at it.
He’d meant to tell me this for some time, he said, that of all the Americans he’d unfortunately met in the decades that he’s been voluntarily exiled, he thought I stood out. I blushed and he assured me the only reason he could tell me this is because he’s old enough to be my grandfather. I kept listening.
What you have to say should be said.
You can’t hide your heart and love for humanity from people.
Go with that.
And leave Istanbul. This city can’t give you what you need right now.
You need to find the love and adventure that you write about.
You need to go for your very biggest dreams because if I’ve ever met anyone that can reach them it’s you.
Tears welled.
The elevator kicked in and I was instantly standing in front of my wide-eyed Turkish students with my head spinning.

The day I left Istanbul I got a bouquet of flowers and a picture Alain had drawn for me. It was a caricature of himself and in each hand he held a sign. One read “Farewell” and the other “Alain”. At his feet were pools where tears dripping from his eyes had collected. He didn’t hand me his drawing or the flowers. He had another teacher deliver them.

The last time I saw Alain we were standing outside the front doors, cigarettes in hand, smoke and our musings floating in the air around us. He laughed about helping me get my writings published since his ex-wife was who she was, but he didn’t think he had it in him to get in touch with her.
He still loved her.
When he drank he thought about her.
In some conversations he could leave his loneliness and run away to the great cities and empires that have since crumbled like the city we stood in as we talked about them. And sometimes his eyes were empty and he was never there at all. Without knowing it then, I think my heart broke for him.

A few months after I returned to America I got word that Alain, alone in his apartment, had drank himself to death.
His apartment in the middle of the lonely city of Istanbul.
The city of black and white.
Where the snow covers everyone the same way.
And memories are stronger than dreams.

On a flight recently, I had a conversation with a scientist about evolution and I thought about Alain. I thought about his sense of displacement; of not belonging anywhere or to anyone, no claim to home and no sense from where he had come. It left him spinning.
The gypsies in England thought about our purpose on this planet. They talked about how we got here entirely too much, he’d told me. He mentioned that quite a few times.
Find the love that I’ve lost.
Take the adventures I denied and the risks that scared me away.
Say what I can’t go back and say.
Ask the questions I’m too tired to ask.
Because I’m resigned to this prison of mine and outside my window is
black
and white
and seven shades of gray.

This past year has been a blur for me, a whirlwind that I was thrown about in. I came out with some bruises, but they’ll heal. Some things were said, but eventually I’ll forget them. And for the first time on a plane ride on December 12th, my heart settled back into the place that for a year it was suspended over. On the other side of my flight was someone who has reminded me from where I’ve come, and helped me understand where I want to go.
My polar opposite of Alain’s snake oil and tin foil.

So, Mr. Scientist that I sat next to on that flight. When I found out who you were, I was a bit embarrassed at some things I’d said. Maybe I appeared foolish or ignorant. But the more I thought about it, and in accordance with Alain’s orders to me, if everything he said to me was true; then I must recommend to you the following…

Walk into your bathroom and shut the door. With your hand on the light switch, face your mirror. Turn the light off, then back on, off, then on. Watch your eyes in the mirror. Watch how they dilate, then contract, then dilate again; a secret language they have with light and dark. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, nothing you need to do to make it happen. Your eyes just know. A brilliant design.

Watch the tendons on the back of your hands shift back and forth as you scroll down your computer to read this. Watch them move your fingers, clenching and releasing, lifting and lowering. I know it’s difficult to argue with science, impossible maybe. I just can’t believe that this design came from a random collision in the universe.

If there’s nothing more for me to say, then let me end with this. I hope that through your facts and your calculations and your life of teaching and traveling on planes to London, that you never lose the curiosity and wonder of what’s around you. In the blink of our brilliantly designed eyes, it could be gone.

This world of dew
This world of dew
is just a world of dew–
and yet…oh, and yet…
-Issa