el cinco de mayo, 2012

Taken from my mandatory REFLECTIVE JOURNAL of the Culture Class I had for the MPH Program at CSU-Northridge.

"Contrary to popular belief, Cinco de Mayo is not Mexico's independence day. Mexican independence is celebrated Sept.16.

"Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican army's unlikely victory over the French forces of Napoleon III on May 5, 1862, at the Battle of Puebla.

"Mexico had trouble paying back war debts to European countries, and France had come to Mexico to collect that debt."

Since I'm not Mexican and since I don't drink, I don't do much celebrating. El cinco de mayo, however, is the birthday of my g*dson. So, it's an easy date to remember.

I've been tossing stuff into the culture box. I can spin yarn on just about anything I've experienced. Then I came to a realization of how vastly differently my culture is translated and practiced.

Maternal grandmother stayed at home, prayed, tended animals, and did subsistence farming.

Maternal grandfather was usually home three or four days a week. He was a conductor on Metro North.

Paternal grandmother worked in a sweat shop. One pattern on one fabric was all she did. The only thing that ever changed were the pattern sizes.

Paternal grandfather was a baker. He abandoned the religion in reaction to the atrocities of WWII.

I live "in the land where palm trees sway." I don't miss my seasons. I know what snow, wind chill factors, frostbite, and slush are.

I also know about heavy rains, mud, mosquitos, humidity, congestion (in all senses of the word), and an inability to find a quiet space that's undisturbed and tranquil.

For the first twenty-five years of my life, it was almost guaranteed that there would be rain on my birthday. I can literally picnic here.

I've adopted California dreaming from a continual/continuous exposure since 1986. I remember I-5 and I-10, and the freeway to Las Vegas.

And in San Francisco I remember the LRVs (light rail vehicles) that I referred to as the KLM lines (an allusion to the Royal Dutch Airline), the MUNI buses, the Market Street street cars from around the world, and the cable cars. I lived on Hyde Street between Jackson and Pacific. The cable car turned down Jackson heading north on Hyde towards Fisherman's Wharf. Passengers would see me get off and literally cross the street to my apartment. I always imagine how jealous they might have felt.

A woman would watch me and then tug on her husband's sleeve. When she'd get his attention, she would point to me and say, "Look Henry! There's a real San Franciscan. I can't believe we were standing right next to one. Imagine, right in a trolley in Frisco."

And the passengers would shout in chorus, "IT'S NOT A TROLLEY; IT'S A CABLE CAR. AND IT ISN'T FRISCO; IT'S SAN FRANCISCO. FRISCO IS A CITY IN TEXAS!"

Captain's Log [SUPPLEMENTAL]

Southerners love to relate stories behind everything in their lives. Yankees do and can too. My hippie checking account has been steadily active since 1979, the year I opened it.

Why? What? Huh? Back in the days before ATMs, people either carried cash or went into a bank. I was no different. Since I lived outside the City, I used a neighborhood bank. I would often find myself at a job in Manhattan and be in need of funds. So, I decided to open a passbook account and use the funds of the account to cash my checks. The savings account had a $50 minimum balance requirement which seemed incredibly high for interest that was less than 5%.

The bank was across the street from the main library and just two steps from Grand Central Station. A teller had noticed these odd transactions (check cashing for $7 or $8) and suggested I look at their checking accounts.

"I'm sure I could not afford your bank's fees," I said. "Your spokesman is Eli Wallach. That must cost a pretty penny."

"We offer free checking," she said with a smile.

"Yeah, with a CD, right?"

"No. No fee. As long as you keep a savings account with at least $50 in it."

Banks have come and gone. Chemical Bank in New York, Security Pacific Bank, Crocker Bank, Hibernia Ban in San Francisco, Home Savings of America, even the Bowery Savings Bank.

But this Emigrant Bank seems to remain untouchable. I travel back east enough times to warrant keeping it open.

Of course, much like with my freezer defrosting story, there are many who probably have no idea how to balance the checkbook.

The check design has also remained the same throughout the years.

I spent my Saturday night calculating 3 ANOVAs for a clinical test I was doing. Cook seemed interested and asked me to explain it.

"I took four doctors who had patients with a diagnosis of hyperlipidemia. I then ran comparisons between three different statins. The purpose is to determine if there is a significant variance between prescriptions of simvastatin, lovastatin, and rosuvastatin.

"Wow, that sounds real [sic] boring!"

How does one reply to such a declaration? "The study itself is not all that important. What is important is knowing HOW to run the tests, and to be able to see what the results are, and to be able to interpret the findings."

I'm sure your curiosity has gotten the best of you, and you are dying to know the answer.

For the 20mg statins, we reject the null hypothesis with a p < 0.01. With the 40mg statins, we retain the null hypothesis with a p > 0.05. When we combine the two different doses, the null in once again rejected at 0.01.

My method of random selection raises eyebrows. I use a deck of cards with the royal pictures removed. For letters, I write each one in an individual raffle ticket. I shuffle the cards and shake the paper sack that is filled with the raffle tikets.

I believe in the importance of randomness. I also smile when coincidences appear between my friends and me.

One of the first Californians I met left New York City the year I was born. I knew where her last apartment in New York City was.

A friend from college and I recently connected on F A C E B O O K after 30 years away. Her baby boy was born on my mother's birthday. In addition her parents were married the date I was born. She was born nine months later !

My sister-in-law was born on my grandmother's birthday (although in different centuries).

When I worked as a travel agent, I was asked to cover a desk that was in another office. After taking a reservation from LAX to Sacramento, I asked the traveler for his name. I paused (he had an odd name). "You know what? You're probably not going to believe this, but I knew someone with your exact same name."

"Really?"

"Yes. But that was long ago and from New York."

"I'm from New York.!"

"He was from Scarsdale."

"WHO IS THIS???"

This was another voice from around 1982 (whom I hadn't seen in 20+ years). I didn't even know he was in California.

"Oh yes. I've been living in the Valley since before it became 818."

That covers my daily reflection(s).