Ketchup psychology

A little round up of this past week BU merriment, and exceptionally, more English than French. Solely because English has blissfully less accents than French and I still need practice with the treacherous Spanish keyboard of my new laptop. Also, never mind my weird sentences. I've been hard at work re-reading Little Women, Good Wives, Little Men and Jo's Boys to cure a little spell of homesickness and prepare what I expect will be a delightful visit to Concord, Massachusetts, and its immortal Orchard House.

Let's start with my greatest satisfaction from last Monday, when after raining, it very litterally poured. The thi time's the charm and I FINALLY found my size of snowboots at Marshall's, without any hot pink rubber or extreme fur involved.  I was so happy that I changed my soaked booties for my new dainty darlings as soon as I had paid for them. Now I have dry feet that feel like they're being cuddled every time I take a step. Also, I bought a second pack of socks and felt grand. Now indulge me: don't my boots remind you a little bit of American Girl Marie-Grace's?

Now, dear reader, I can't blame you if my little snow boots story did not enthranced you. But you might laugh more heartily at this one. Wednesday nights are among my favourite for after flute ensemble, I usually end up having dinner with Dylan and Emily at the Late Night Kitchen, the only American restaurant I've seen so far that cooks crêpes on both sides (some dining halls, unfortunately, seem to think this is a loss of time. Needless to say, the result is utterly bizarre.)

So, friends and good food are bound to create lively conversations. Gender, children litterature, linguistics all went through till Dylan decided to demonstrate the trainwreck dilemna using a bottle of ketchup and three glasses as children playing on a napkin-traintrack. It's too bad I didn't also take a picture of our poor waitress when she saw it. But we were too busy dying of laughter.

And to finish it all: Americans have the curious habit of writing your name on your order, an then generally yell it to a crowd of standing people waiting for their orders, usually Starbucks coffee. I've been pegging at an outrageously desperating final paper on youth with disabilities inside the US Juvenile Justice System (I'll limit my rant here to say that it's a good thing the US haven't signed the Convention on the Right of the Child like everyone else with decency on this planet, because they're in violation of at least 23 articles out of the 47 functional ones, including article one, who defines children as anyone under 18 years of age. Let all my readers know that a ten-year old whose mother waved his right to have an attorney is currently emprisonned in Pennsylvania, charged with murder, and will be tried as an adult. His name and picture are all over the media, because everyone here prefers to do a sensationalist article than respect a minor's elementary right to privacy. A TEN YEAR OLD, apparently with mental health issues. And don't tell me this kid is too damaged to ever come back into society. It's society's role to protect minors, including protecting them from themselves. If society fails, then it should shoulder the consequences, because laws and judicial infrastructures, and schools and mental health services, are all created by responsible adults. If a child becomes (allegedly) a murderer, is denied due process and universal rights, and is locked away like a wild animal, who truly is to blame? I'll tell you: the most damaged persons in this story are the adults around him. They failed him. They are the fucked up ones. We all are, for letting such things happen in our society. It's time we look at the problem instead of conveniently hidding children behind bars. There, rant over.)

So, I got a bit carried away, but that's ok. Some things need to be said. Anyway, it's freezing in the library (after a few hours, I type with my gloves on...), so instead of taking a dinner break at the dining hall, I went to the George Sherman Union food court, which is closer. I ordered a comforting portion of mac and cheese. Now, I've given up on even telling people my actual name is Mathilde. One knows in France, this name is so common it's annoying at times. The last time I was the only Mathilde in a classroom was first grade. The year after that, we were three. And at the Conservatory, I'm proud to say, at one point, 7 of us studied flute with the same teacher. This bad. But here, people just stare blankly, so for convience's sake, if I don't intend on actually knowing the person or talking to them ever again, I'm Matilda. Even that I sometimes have to repeat, but Thursday, the adorable cook from Cheesology took it to a whole new level:

Happy Sunday everyone!