Freaks & Geeks: High School

I’ve been watching Judd Apatow’s series ‘Freaks & Geeks’ over the last two weeks. There aren’t that many episodes so I’m trying to savour it a little bit and not rush through the series as I usually do with delicious Television that is witty, true to itself and extremely entertaining.

The cast has some very familiar faces who were unknowns at the time. James Franco, Busy Phillips, Seth Rogen, and Jason Segal make up part of the main crew of “Freaks” we are interested in, and there have been some amazing Cameo appearances by the likes of Jason Schwartzman (who at quick glance doesn’t even seem to be credited on imdb.com) and David Koechner to name a couple.

The series is set in 1980, and the fashion, posters, and music are flawlessly selected. The acting is natural and the production values are great. All around, I love this show so far. But the High School experience these kids are suffering through is not the one I had to deal with.

I started High School in January 2001 – a full 20 years after Freaks and Geeks was set (We called it High School even though it was Year 7 and we started in January because I was living in Australia then.) I attended a private school in one of Sydney’s nice wealthy areas. My year group was probably 120 people, with 7 classes. We learned German, Latin, French and Japanese and at the end of that year had to choose three electives (one of which had to be a language.) It was a pretty nice school with teachers that cared deeply about us, and with more after school activities than you would ever need. If you loved something, you were nurtured in it, and you were encouraged constantly. I left Sydney at the end of year 8 and moved to Hong Kong where I attended an International School. When I graduated in 2006, I was part of a year group that number 40 students.

To say I always attended educational institutions that had involved teachers would be a HUGE understatement. It was hard to fall through the cracks basically.

And that’s not to say that there wasn’t bullying or that there were times when we struggled, of course there were. But the teacher to student ratio was always good. And although we thought our teachers were pretty uncool (except for the cool ones…obviously) we did respect them. We were taught to stand when our teachers entered the room. I wore a uniform every single day of my lower, middle and high school education, and I wore it with VERY strict rules attached to it. I always had a blazer, my top button always had to be done up, no rolled up sleeves, no piercings, hair at shoulder length or longer had to be tied back.

What a contrast to the world of Freaks and Geeks. And, as it turns out to my boyfriends experience.

As we watched some episodes together, the Canuck BF kept saying “it’s so real. It’s so true” as the bullying, the slamming into lockers, the awkwardness and the disparity between the Jocks/Cheerleaders and the Geeks and Nerds lengthened. No school I ever attended had cheerleaders, we had girls sports teams. And sure we had the “cool kids” but they weren’t all untouchable.

Is it a North American thing then?

I recently watched the re-make of 21 Jump Street with Channing Tatum (YUUUUM) and Jonah Hill (have half jewish-babies with meeee!) and one of my favourite lines from the movie came from an early scene where Tatum and Hill stroll through the car park on their first day of “school.” Tatum – built like a 1980′s Jock is pointing out the different groups he identifies, the Jocks, the Goths, the nerds and instructing Hill on how they will become cool. He points at a group of hipsters and metrosexuals and says “I don’t know what those are.”

I think High School has changed (obviously) since 1980, and the High School I left behind 6 years ago, and that the Boyf left behind a decade ago, is different to what it is today. I’m led to believe there are lots of choreographed musical numbers just like in High School Musical. Smartphones, millions of social networking sites, pretty much all learning material migrating online…High School is a different beast.

Being an Expat Brat was a unique experience in itself in High School. I never really smoked pot (why would I when I could go into a 711 and buy alcohol without getting ID’ed), I never wrecked my parents car or had them teach me to drive (in what? We lived on an island compound resort that didn’t have cars…only golf buggies), I had a fake ID at the age of 14 – and we did use it to go out, but the bouncers really didn’t care what the spoilt white kids did, and never looked too closely (my fake ID was a scanned copy of my passport which I had edited in Paint so…).

My tiny International School didn’t really have cliques. There was certainly a divide between the Expatriates and the Hong Kong Chinese kids who attended. I was a Drama Freak, a Girl-Jock, Head Girl of my school (in Year 11), a loser and a rebel (as rebellious as you can be when your parents trust you enough to let you have a boyfriend sleep over, and are too cool themselves that they are home drunk after you.)

I was always a big fish in a small pond, and while I suffered at the hands of bullies (inevitable when you move schools frequently and with teachers who can’t be everywhere at once) I was never pigeonholed by anyone for long.

It’s therefore with voyeuristic fascination that I watch Apatow’s show. Is that what my life would have been like if I had gone to a public school in North America? Or Australia or England? The characters in the show seem to struggle with totally clueless parents and teachers. I definitely felt as though my parents “didn’t get me” but it grew for more of an angst ridden “waaaaaaaaah” feeling, than from actually thinking my parents and teachers were totally disconnected. I think the adults in my life were pretty with it considering they were a generation that didn’t have cell phones or internet growing up.

I wonder what High School will be like when my kids go through.

Here it is

It’s Thanksgiving in America this weekend, and while I am not American, nor do I live in America (North of the border YO!) I think it’s an important time of my life to take a deep breath and think about what is important and to say THANKYOU Universe and Science and World for letting me take my little gulps of air and to have blood thrumming all over my body in this thing we called life.

Because someone I know kind of died yesterday.

I didn’t know this person so well, he was a friend of my Mum’s and I met him and did a play with him when I was 14 years old. I knew him as a backdrop to my adolescent self-obssession, and later as an adult, as that guy who always posted a word of the day on Facebook (dang Facebook wall cloggers!)

And though I am saddened for my Mum who is sad, and I quietly mourn the loss of anyone who passes away at a time when they are too young (47), I am not a Sympathy Vampire, intent on packaging this loss to gain attention for myself, or make a statement about how this affects ME ME ME. I just note his death as a time to reflect and to take stock in a busy world.

Thank you…

Sometimes I think I’m not normal. Does everyone spend as many hours in their own head obsessing about things like I do? Do people beat themselves up as much as I do, for the passing of time and the apparent non-achievements they think should have come more easily by now?

Does everyone have this restless demon rolling around inside their ribcage, and a voice in the back of their brain that constantly cries “run away! What’s over there?! Look at all those people doing more fun stuff than you! Flee, jump, swim, out out OUT! What would Tina Fey do??”

Or is it just me?

I think it’s safe to say that most of the time I put on a very confident exterior. I just seem to get on with things. I move countries. No big. I settle in wherever. Whatevs. People have used the word brave to describe me before..

But the ugly truth of the matter is that I am a roiling rack of insecurities, fear and uncertainty. I second guess every single move I make, and it is exhausting. There is no harsher critic than yourself. And I have begun to realize that perhaps that level of  self-criticism is too hard to deal with on a day-to-day basis. Maybe it’s my oldest child syndrome forcing me to be an overachiever, or the small child in me that was bullied badly in those early years who made a vow one evening in the bathtub (I’ll show you, I’ll show all of you! I’ll get so famous and then I’ll pretend I forgot your name!), but enough is never enough. Up until this point I have never been working hard “enough” I have never made “enough” money, it’s never quiet as bright and sparkly “enough” I’m not thin “enough”.

I’ve come to realize that people don’t often talk about painful things, or things they think will put them in a lesser light. The population is afraid to look weak, or maybe we’re all just Keeping up with the Kardashians. And as a result, everybody secretly thinks they’re sucking way worse than everybody else.

That they aren’t “Good Enough.”

And that’s how I feel sometimes.

Like when my visa was screwed up, I felt like I hadn’t been prepared, and when I couldn’t get it fixed and felt like a goldfish lost in the ocean, I felt like I was failing at life. As the dollars in my bank account dwindled, and my stress levels rose, I wondered how all the other 24-year-old wannabe’s out there were doing it.

Because no one ever said to me “You know what Paris, this week I feel like I’m really fucked and sucking at all this reality.” And so I thought, “oh, it’s just me that sucks then.”

The truth is, I’m less financially secure than I have ever been in my life. I’m finally getting some TV experience and I love it, but after applying for hundreds of jobs, there is still nothing paying coming my way. I have two degree’s behind me, and I’m starting to think I should have taken four years of work experience over the higher-learning. I wonder all the time about whether I should pack in this North American adventure and head for the hills (aka either of my parents houses). I’m trying to decide if I’m making any progress, or if I’m a seagull trapped behind a glass door, continuously bashing its head against a barrier it can’t see and the thing it craves.

I’m thankful for:
My Family, who are far away, but who I love and who I miss. The older I get, the more clearly their cracks and lumps and bumps become apparent to me, but the same goes for me, and they seem to still like me anyway.

My boyfriend and my friends-wherever they may be in the world.

My ability to read and write, two of my greatest loves in this world.

Being healthy. That’s a big one, one that I know you are supposed to be thankful for, but which I never truly appreciate.

The safety I enjoy by being an Australian Citizen, for the ability to live in countries of my choice, and live in peace.

It’s not a long list, and it’s not detailed. But for richer or poorer, those are the things that matter to me. I could specify, and I have private lists that go on and on. But those are the main things, and even when I am staring down the barrel of a potentially stressful few months, or stuck inside my own head over analysing the little things and driving myself crazy, I remember (somewhere in the recesses of that other part of me that is actually pretty practical and on top of things) that I will be okay. And that my life is a tiny blip compared to the age of the earth and the stars.

End Rant.

Pick a fight, any fight

Yesterday I had a conversation with someone who described me as Confrontational and always looking for a fight, someone who is always ready to stress about something.

Now this person actually likes me (apparently), and that hurt my feelings. They didn’t say it to be hurtful, and they were surprised that I had never thought of myself that way (Oh GREAT, now I’m so totally un-self-aware too?)

My family has described me in the past as someone who needs a project or some kind of thing to obsess over (my Mother has used an analogy of one of those Meccano cars…build it up, tamper with it, break it and have to fix it again. An interesting and disturbing analogy when you look at my life and relationships.)

But someone who is Confrontational? When I think of that word to describe someone, I think of a Jersey Shore character getting up in the face of some bouncer because he won’t let her skanky ass into a club. Of some tattooed guy roided up who stalks the streets waiting to get into a rumble.

Dictionary.com describes confrontational as:

con·fron·ta·tion·al

 [kon-fruh n-tey-shuh-nl, -fruhn-] Show IPA

adjective

tending toward or ready for confrontation: They came to the meeting with a confrontational attitude.

Do I think of myself like that? No. Do I go out to seek confrontation with people? Walk around with a confrontational attitude? No. I’m not the guy in the lift my friend Bryanne and I had to deal with last week (possibly high on some kind of scary drug, took a step into our personal space and eyeballed us because we looked at him weird? and then he shoulder-charged the guy waiting to get into the elevator ready to get physical.) I’m not in waiting to start drama.

Yes, I have a low tolerance for stupid people of which I have met a few in my time. And yes I will verbally pick them apart at the end of a day if they got under my skin (they don’t always, there is a certain amount of stupidity and general difference of upbringing/culture you can write off). That’s how I de-stress. I’m not holding a long list in my mind of people I hate, snarling and cackling and leering at my list with cold-hearted joy. I’m not out there shaking my grizzly witches hand in their face telling them how I feel. I’m letting out frustration so that I don’t punch them in the face when I see them the next time (don’t act like you’ve never wanted to punch someone you know in the face really hard with no explanation). It’s about venting, and then moving forward.

I’m sure there are things I do or say that irritate people, and I’m sure behind closed doors, those things are held up to the light and discussed. And I don’t really care. That is human nature, is it not? To discuss and shape with language and understanding the world around you?

If I thought someone had gotten totally the wrong impression of me, then I might be upset about it, because I actually do love people and try to be a good person. Those that know me know that I am a loyal and staunch friend. Sure I have my special brand of insanity, but we all do. Even the quiet ones (actually I hear those are the ones to watch).

I approach life with the attitude that when I meet someone they are a potential friend and they get 100 points on my scale. That doesn’t change unless they do something that makes me think otherwise. I know that there are a lot of people out there who come at life and friendships from the other direction, everyone starts at zero until they do something to prove otherwise.

Maybe my way seems like a glass half empty kind of approach, with negative points added to my opinion rather than the other way around. But as a result of this level playing field I have adopted when meeting people, I have been described as warm, generous and welcoming. I generally hit it off with people quickly, and even if it’s not love at first sight, there lingers an appreciation for the effort I put in to be nice to everybody. There have only been a couple of instances in my life where there has been an immediate negative reaction from me towards other people, and I can honestly say that in those cases there has been underlying issues on the other persons behalf.

This person has an intense infatuation with the person you are dating and views you as an obstacle to their happiness, that person isn’t interested in making new friends and snubs you immediately, another person has heard all about you and has made up their mind before you have even met.

We’re human.

I get it.

But as someone who has moved around a lot and found herself to be the new kid more times than not, my attitude has always been to welcome new people into my life. Sure, you won’t be best friends with everyone, but that doesn’t stop you from being present and pleasant in whatever social situation you find yourself in.

So back to being confrontational…

I actually hate confrontation. On the verge of it, my heart pounds really fast and my stomach shrinks. Don’t get me wrong, natures adrenalin pumps through me if it has to, but I could count on one hand the confrontations I have had in the last six months. 3 of them have to do with the recent visa issue and one was recently at a concert when a middle-aged woman told me to:

“Fuck off and go back to Yorkville” at a concert when she threw herself in front of me and stomped on my friends toes. She was clearly high on coke. We were at an Australian band’s concert and she was suggesting (with her insult) that we were petulant rich girls from the swankiest area in Toronto. I told her I was from Australia actually, and had known the band from my university days so she should watch her manners. She flipped me the finger and said “welcome to Canada”. I didn’t stop shaking until we were at the subway station.

What a wuss.

I spent a significant amount of hours watching the sixth and seventh season of ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ yesterday with my friend Kate, and while both of us felt our brain cells dying, it was interesting to watch the drama and confrontation that unfolded in each episode. I worked on a reality TV series, so I know how much of each issue was manufactured. No normal person can live at a height of intense drama and conflict, not like that, not really.

I also have been thinking about Kim Kardashian since I was told I was confrontational. KK is extremely loud and drama swirls around her life. That is what she is famous for (along with a GIGANTIC ROUND ass and a sex tape she made years ago (I think, who can even remember?)) and people still love her (even if you love to hate). People think she’s beautiful and she is worth millions of dollars.

So…….

What am I trying to say?

At least my life aint boring?

Well MAYBE.

End Rant

Oh Greg, Agent 3229

Yesterday I had a very…loud ….conversation with a man named Greg who works for the Canadian Immigration and Citizen department.

As you may or may not know (I’m going to go with…”MAY” considering I’ve spoken of nothing else since my Visa was discovered to have a mistake on it. Friend: “Hi Paris how are you?” Me: “My visa is fucked.” Boyfriend: “So anyway the weather has been nice.” Paris: Yeah so my visa…. Roommie: Can you go get some toilet paper…. Me: VISAAAAAA) my visa has been fucked because of a mistake made by the immigration officer who processed me 15 months ago when I landed in Canada.

Well. It has been a fun adventure over the last two weeks, let me tell you. First off, I discovered the mistake on my visa when I was terminated on the spot at the retail store I was working at (Retail: We’re sorry, you aren’t legal to work for us, we’re going to have to ask you to leave. Sorry. Nothing personal. Me:….WHAT?!) and since then it has been a magical mystery tour of calling numbers that lead to people who have NO idea what they are doing, sobbing, writing emails to people who tell me to call the numbers that lead to people who have no idea what they are doing, weeping and rocking hysterically in a ball, waiting for the mail or some kind of answer, looking at the funds in my bank account dwindle, and basically working myself up into a frenzy of self-hatred, tears, hatred-for the Canadian Visa people and many other fun times.

Two weeks seem like a long time when you are sitting on your arse staring out the window, adding to the usual what-the-fuckery that goes on in your mind.

People tell me I’m impatient. Huh. I don’t see it.

Anyway.

Monday I finally used different words to Mary, Agent 5465* and LO and Behold, she says that she will file a complaint for me. WELL! Why we couldn’t file a complaint 2 weeks ago I’ll never know, but the long and the short of it is that yesterday afternoon, a man named Greg called me from the complaints department.

Oh dear Greg, oh dear for you.

Greg and I did not start off on the best of terms. His motivation was to let me know that there was NOTHING he, or ANYONE in the organization could do because, as he suggested, the mistake should have been flagged 15 months ago when I was first issued the visa. And in his most condescending french-canadian accent, Greg asked me why had I not noticed the visa issue mistake before?

My motivation was to get this voice on the end of the line to ACTUALLY listen to what I was saying, and realize that I am a semi-crazy person at the end of her wits.

Oh dear Greg. Oh dear.

If Greg had spoken to me last week, when I was still snivelling into my scarf and being all, WOE IS ME! I probably would have taken Greg’s tongue lashing and gotten off the phone quick smart with a shrug of the shoulders and a “Oh well, I did what I could” attitude.

Unfortunately for Greg, I was recently scolded quite severely by my mother (see blog post below) who quite simply told me to remove my thumb from my bottom and do something the fuck about the current situation.

Because I am equal parts terrified and in awe of her, she somehow managed to kickstart the dragon that lies curled within us all.

And I went apeshit at Greg.

This man, whose nine-to-five is to deal with enraged people like me, who pays his bills and puts a roof over his and his families head and fills his car up with the protests and swearings and rantings of people like me, got to hear me rant and rave and exclaim like the lunatic I secretly am.

I asked him, in less coherent and polite words than I am using here, how exactly, a sleep deprived (36 hours travelling + 12 hour time difference) 22 year old from the other side of the world, who had never been to a new country by herself (okay I lied but I wanted to sound a little more pathetic to add credence to the story) who put her trust in a Government official, employed by his agency to correctly dole out visas and who had never seen a Canadian work visa in her life, was supposed to know what a mistake on her visa would look like.

I then asked him, in less coherent and polite words than I am using here, why *I* a citizen of Australia, a member of the same commonwealth Canada falls under, was being treated like *I* had done something wrong and why *I* was forced to suffer financial and emotional distraught.

Old Greg was silent for a few seconds.

And when I asked my dear friend Greg if he was still there, he hoarsely replied, “You are right.”

Then Greg put me on hold for a few moments and came back later saying there was still nothing he could do, but that he was going to personally see to my case and expedite it any way he could.

Well thanks Greg. That’d be neat.

Because I have a wonderful Boyfriend who doesn’t want me to starve to death/turn to cash in hand jobs like Prostitution, he had already been looking around for some information about other options. A convoluted friend of a friend (you gotta love that famous Jewish community thing) works as an immigration something a-rather and told him that another option for me may be to drive to Buffalo “circle the pole” and when coming back into the country, simply ask the border officials to re-issue my documentation.

I asked my new friend Greg about this on the phone, he was CLEARLY taken a-back. Said that, he was legally not allowed to condone any such thing, and just to let me know that our conversation was being recorded. However, in his PERSONAL opinion, in no way related to the CIC, he had heard of people doing it and that it HAD worked for them. He was not legally allowed to recommend or endorse it, but of course to him, it seemed like a speedy and timely solution to my problem.

Well fuck Greg, why didn’t you say so in the first place?

I’m not raising my hopes up at this stage, because unfortunately I am too disappointed by the visa bureau at this stage. But guess who’s going to Buffalo this weekend? We’ll go get us some lunch at the Cheesecake factory and then try and get the visa that I deserve and that all government databases say I should posses. I hope it works.

Regardless, I’m looking forward to my next call from Greg.

*Agent names have been changed because I wrote them down somewhere and can’t find them.