Something Borrowed, Part 1

A certain topic has always thoroughly intrigued me. Hopefully this first post, somewhat based off of some notes I jotted down to myself sometime back, introduces it properly.

In April 2011, Ian presented to me a statistics problem, the full implications of which did not strike me until just this moment. The problem goes like this: 100 identical boxes each contain a prize, of varying amounts. Not a single value of any prize is known to you. You are permitted to open each box one by one and view the prize it contains, at which point, you may either accept the prize and stop opening boxes, or reject the prize, toss it aside, and never go back to it. How do you maximize your chances of receiving the highest prize of the set?
After applying some fairly advanced calculus, the final derivation is simple. Dividing the total number of boxes by e, you end up with a value for a "test set".
In the case of 100 boxes, we round the value to 36. This is the number of boxes that you will open, but always reject. Make a note of the largest prize you discovered, of these 36. Setting this prize as a relative value marker, you would start to go through the remaining 64 boxes, and blindly accept the very first prize that exceeds the marker. If you follow this strategy to the letter, you end up with a 37% chance of choosing the highest prize in the entire set. Not just a relatively good prize.The very best one.

It was initially Ian's idea to relate this concept to dating, in terms of finding your "soulmate". Of course, this is assuming that the value of people can be quantified (though, what can't be quantified to an economist?)
This also ignores the fact that people sometimes do return to their ex-lovers, although perhaps this better allows you to hedge your bets.

Katherine also listened as he presented us this problem as well as its application, and she had the very sensible response of intrigue, followed by amusement.
Unfortunately , my mind is unable to measure ideas by their appropriate amount of emotional value.
For a while I agonized over the solution, constantly trying to conceive of a scenario in which the methodology would work, while knowing that I'd feel awful if I ever actually came up with one.

It finally hit me. Arranged marriages, as they exist presently in India, seem to replicate this phenomena very similarly. The advent of capitalist systems and set salaries, combined with ultra-modern Indian matchmaking websites, have enabled people to quantify a potential spouse's worth in a manner that suits them. The time limit during which one plans to marry, and by extension, the number of people they will have the time to meet can be reasonably estimated. Finally, going back to any rejected matches is far less likely in this case, than would be a reconciliation with an ex-lover.
This really seems to me to be the same thing, as long as you have the courage to give up on what seems like a good match. And in a country of 1 billion people, young men and women often do so wantonly.

Here are the bullet point conclusions I had jotted down:
1) The arranged marriage system boils down to a set statistics formula;
2) This may have something to do with why the divorce rate in India is so low;
3) Contrary to the commonly-held belief by many Indian families that arranged marriage is based on compromise and a restrictive realism, from this perspective, the system seems to be wholly designed for you to find "The One".

My feelings towards arranged marriage have always been loosely analogous to those of a gay person towards heterosexuality. It is a concept with which I am all too accustomed to and fully accepting towards, as long as there is no coercion involved, but it's not a lifestyle I, personally, could ever conceive of becoming a part of. This metaphor becomes clearer with the realization that most of the adults I have ever become close to, participated in this at some point in their lives.

In the next post or two I want to tackle my feelings towards not only arranged marriage, but the intriguing idea of marriage in general.

Cause and Effect

On Thursday I attended my first LSAT class. I went with a prestigious company known to only hire instructors who scored in the 98th percentile of the exam, or higher.
She seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Rather than just chucking the scantron sheets at the students right away, our instructor made sure to shake our hands as soon as we entered the room, introduce herself, and allow us to do the same. She talked for a few minutes about how the class would work, some phone numbers to have on hand-- the usual headliner items. In this vein, she gave us some information to put the test's importance into perspective. We learned that law schools have an index numbering system they use to rank and evaluate candidates, and that an individual's LSAT score influences about 75% of their ranking.
With a quick side glance, I could see the immediate effect that this statistic had on the room. Everybody sat up a little straighter, pulled in their chair a little closer, raised their heads slightly higher in order to face the petite blonde.
Of course she had to stress the importance of this test, it was her job. Not just as charity, but to stir up some anxiety as well-- heaven forbid any of us feel confident enough after taking this practice exam, that we were to withdraw from the class! So, that was to be expected.
But I guess she got a little overzealous in her cause, because, next thing I know, this happened.

"So, that means you guys had better take this class seriously. How are you going to get married otherwise, right? ... I mean... if you don't do well on the test, you can't get into a good law school, and if you can't get into a good law school, you'll have to marry someone ugly or dumb, and later when your kids complain about being bullied in school, you can tell them it's because you didn't study for the exam!"

I grinned slightly and shook my head. Apparently, this was an inappropriate reaction, as I was met with a wide eyed look from the instructor and a quick "What?" in an eerily matter-of-fact-tone. And then she moved on. If anyone else around me also found this to be riotously silly, they weren't showing it.
I let my expression melt into theirs and let it stay that way all the way through the exam.

I have always striven to excel academically, in whatever I wished to pursue, without thinking twice about whether the idea of that success, in itself, could possibly be a bad thing.
Is this how LSAT scorers in the 98th percentile are supposed to think, though? That your ability to pass a standardized exam would not only decide your life partner, but form the basis for your persona? Is this perspective one that law schools would wish for their best students to find acceptable, even if only as humor?

Some people say that the ideal that a nation ought strive for is a meritocracy. And I do think, that so much of the allure of a first world country like the US lies not only in the potential for success, but in the programmatic nature of this success. "If/ then" statements start to become a road map for happiness here.
"All you have to do is obtain a shiny degree from one of these schools, and then you're guaranteed a job at one of these companies, and then if you keep working 60 hour weeks you'll eventually fall into this income bracket, which will assure you of that retirement home, who's sure to pick out the perfect casket for you! So, anyway, yeah, that student loan is probably a good idea."

This sounds wonderful to someone who may have never had an outside shot at these material comforts. It does amaze me, that, in a few tens of thousands years, humans have been able to rise from an anarchic state of nature to eventually create a mechanized process that ensures their daily survival.

But then at some point, their children grow up believing that life is always going to be a giant paint-by-numbers. That if you eat an apple a day, wash your face with this soap, finish all of your spelling homework, and brush your teeth every night before going to bed, you're bound to be healthier, smarter, sexier, happier. Certainly, you're entitled to a better standard of living than your predecessors.
Call them spoiled brats, but this the vision of their future that scores of middle-class Americans are raised to understand. And for so many years, it was one which at least seemed to be within their grasp.

So then, what of the so-called outliers? Those people who are unable to follow these steps, or are unwilling to, or those who do but who never get the expected results?

Are they just supposed to accept that someday, their kids could turn out to be too ugly or stupid, and may complain of being bullied at school?

Too Old

Each time I've gone over to Quinn's house, his five year old sister, Jillian, welcomes me right at the door. She presents her Barbie dolls or latest outfits to me. She recounts what she made in school, which friends she chose to spend time with, and wants to know if I would like to play with her, too? No matter what, she is always genuinely interested to see what I am up to the entire time I am there.
Quinn apologizes each time: "She never comes to my room when it's just us at home-- it's only when you're around that she's like this."
For a minute it seems like I completely understand what's going through her head. Then I realize that I don't have an actual answer to the question that is being implied. The exact mix of curiosity, admiration, and envy that girls her age often have for girls in their late teens is very easy for me to remember, but almost impossible to explain. I can very closely relate to the feelings that she experiences, but I couldn't tell you why she, or I, ever felt that way. What makes teenage girls so worthy of the unpretentious respect that only a young child can give?
I'm not really sure of the answer to that, but my six year old self did. I had my whole life planned out. I was going to fall in love at 16 or 17, get all A's forever, and get married at 22. And after that, I thought I'd figure it out.
Nope. Nope nope nope.


Anyway, a few weeks ago, I turned 20. When I woke up the morning of my birthday, I couldn't help but quickly calculate how much of my life I had left. About 75% to 80%, I figured (god willing), which seems unfathomably long to me.
Usually on my birthdays in previous years, I've found it hard to accept that I was as old as I was. Like I had to pause for a while last year before telling people that I was 18 rather than 17, and the year before, 17 rather than 16, and so on and so far back, as long as I could remember. This made birthdays in themselves exciting for me, so I could think about how much older I've gotten.
Not this time, though. I feel 20-- I've felt 20 for a very long time. Now, it feels like my age has fallen behind me and it just so happened to catch up.  I assumed that it was because 20 was a nice, round number and somehow easier to process. But there was something more to it.

See, it's not that I just felt physically older. It wasn't merely that I realized one morning that I now actually do prefer Diet Pepsi to Regular, as I had previously sworn to never do (though that realization admittedly did come as a shock). 
No, I realized that this sense of fulfillment came from the fact that for such a long time, I didn't have any self-conception of myself beyond my twenties. 
So, instead of the anticipation that filled me for the few days following my birthday, each morning I couldn't help but wish that time was running backwards instead. I know that I have matured and have probably become a better person over the past few years, but that maturity has come at a price.


The Deepta from a few years ago would have been confident enough to take on whatever is bound to come to me during these next few decisive years, without any fear or anxiety. But now, I know better. That there is no "plan", that there never really was any "plan" over which I had any full control. Whenever I try to envision and dream about what lies ahead for me, it does as much good as trying to invert my eyeballs to see what's behind the back of my skull. I would try to brush these feelings away, and keep them from bothering me, but for a while they kept coming back in hordes, to the point where I stop dead in my tracks and wonder why I was doing what I was doing at that moment, at all. 


Of course, most young people have majestic visions of their inadequacy every once in a while, but these had never manifested in such a way for me, to the point where I would question each and every decision. 
Only senior citizens who have the time to self-reflect upon many years of experience are supposed to mourn themselves this way. Not robust, bright-eyed, twenty-year olds. 


+++
I started writing this the day after my birthday, but couldn't bring myself to actually post until I felt like I had some kind of resolution. Last night though, I was reading a compilation of the personal diaries of one of my favorite writers, Anton Chekhov. Something he said in reference to a particular novel, was eerily relevant to this dilemma.  "You are right in demanding that an artist approach his work consciously, but you are confusing two concepts: the solution of a problem and the correct formulation of a problem." 


I decided that I'm on my way to achieving the latter, so I finally hit "Publish".

Notes on American Tourism

I have been accompanying my uncle and aunt, who have come here from India, on various tourist spots along the East Coast, including Niagara Falls and NYC. For the past few years, I have been visiting these places fairly regularly, on similar pretenses. As a result I have been able to see the changes that have occurred over time. I also get a new perspective on these places depending on who I go with.
This week, we took a tour bus to Washington D.C from Edison. My uncle and aunt got seats next to each other up front, and since the bus was only about three-fourths full, I took the liberty of occupying the single row of three seats in the back. In front of me sat an older man wearing khakis and a Las Vegas baseball cap, flipping through a Reader's Digest and occasionally whispering something to the woman he was with.

Soon after we got onto the highway, he turned around towards me timidly. "So, are you one of 'em Mexicans?" he asked, squinting at me as if further scrutiny of my appearance would give him some extra clues.
Note that neither the question nor the manner in which it was asked, surprised me too much.
Politely, I told him, no, I am Indian, hoping I wouldn't have to further clarify, from India, as I have had to in the past.
He apologized sincerely for his error and said that he was a visitor from New Zealand. He asked if I had ever been to India. I said that I had been since I was a child, for a month most summers, that it was almost like a second home to me. He replied, "We feel the same way about going to England, even though our ancestors came to New Zealand generations ago." I asked him if the States felt very different, and how.
"Well for one thing, it's very multicultural. Not that there's anything wrong with that of course. But it's just so much... in your face. Everything's bolder, brasher, over the top here," He pauses and sighs, shaking his head. "When we came to New York, we took one of those sightseeing buses with the tour guides. The things they try and make history out of. It's all rather lightweight." He rolls his eyes. Having just been on one of the same buses two days before, I had to laugh and commiserate with him.

But I've never felt saturated by NYC even having had to sit through the tourist routine many times. I think that it's not only because I expect the flashiness, but because in a way, the city sort of defies history. I once thought it inappropriate that they would build memorial towers in the spot where the Twin Towers once stood, and that they should leave it to be the hallowed Ground Zero instead. But in the context of the city this decision actually makes sense. New York doesn't dwell in history-- it creates it. Even 42nd street, which defines Manhattan's image for millions of tourists today, is a fairly modern transformation from an area once notoriously laden with brothels and criminal activity. Little Italy has shrunk dramatically as Chinatown has ballooned and threatens to overtake all of Canal Street. On my most recent visit, I went to the top of the Rockefeller Building for the first time . From up top you can see Manhattan bulging at the margins marked by the Hudson and the East River, choking Central Park in the middle. Sure, the city has plenty of history, but it takes pride in constantly overriding it. A lot of the appeal has always been about the lights and the extravagance and the burgeoning crowds.

But that wasn't my reply to this man. Instead, I gave my gut reaction to his statement. "Yeah, I actually feel the same way about Niagara Falls." He looked confused for a moment, but nodded when I added: "No, the Falls themselves are beautiful. It's the spectacle they've created out of the area that bothers me."

I think the first time I visited Niagara I was about 6 years old. My parents would know, they can never forget that day. We were walking along the edge of the Falls, I stopped to tie my shoe for a moment and when I looked back up, they had disappeared into a crowd. They found me within an hour, but the ripples of anxiety they had for a while afterwards overpowered any of my lasting memories of the Falls.

When I came back a few weeks ago, I was immediately put off. I don't know why. Maybe the mystery surrounding it that I saw as a child was now gone. Or maybe it was just easier to pick out everything unsavory about the place. I really do think it's changed significantly though.
I also kept thinking back to my week-long nature voyage across the West coast a few years back. And the thought of placing a marquee board screaming "FREE SOUVENIR AT VISITOR CENTER " where you could see it over the Grand Canyon, like they had done here, was repulsive, and actually frightened me a little bit.
We bought tickets to see the IMAX movie and entered the theater, which looked like my local United Skates of America. The movie, too, hasn't changed since the 80's. The depiction of the Native Americans of the area was really cringe worthy, as they had the actors grunt and point rather than give hem even a few lines of dialogue. It also made it seem like the tribes just vanished the minute the French soldiers came trekking along. In fact, until this time, I had somehow subconsciously assumed that this was actually the case. I don't know why. How could I think that French soldiers would be able to chase away anybody?
Of course, the native people did stay around. Until, in the 1950's, the U.S. claimed eminent domain over the area and sent the tribes off packing, one of which returned a few years back to collectively own the Falls' local casino as the Nation of the Seneca. A happy ending, indeed.

Apparently the Falls have been a tourist attraction from the moment they were discovered, and even some of Napoleon's family came to visit once. Though it is of course, still famous world wide, I couldn't imagine some foreign diplomat coming to America now and being shown the Falls, first thing. Maybe it is all of the constant commercial tourism for hundreds of years, all of that old- style decadence which makes the area appear so kitschy now.

Paradoxically, though, that flashy commercialization, which seems to me a sign of decay, might be what Niagara actually needs to survive at all, at the cost it's been running at.
I realized this soon after coming back from the Niagara trip. The uncle and aunt I mentioned earlier are visiting their daughter, my cousin, and went with her for a while when she moved to California. We had all gone to Niagara together, and they were going to leave for California a few days later.
My cousin was looking at various tour packages for the West Coast. My father suggested to her that they go to Disneyland. I thought that given the option, they should try to see the Grand Canyon instead. "Your parents didn't grow up with Disney characters-- they just won't have the background to be really interested," was my reasoning.   My dad disagreed. He said that Disneyland was more congruous with the image that visitors generally have of America. That "natural beauty" just isn't what we're known for. As usual, he was right.

We asked my uncle what his thoughts were, and he immediately opted for Disneyland. "The minute any of my friends come back from the US, everyone always wants to know if they were able to see Disneyland," he told me. He hadn't heard of anyone who had gone to see the Grand Canyon.
Don't get me wrong. I happened to be in Disney World for my birthday last year, and it was awesome. I'm probably just naive, but somehow it had never occurred to me that the Disney empire could even be more well-known than the Grand Canyon. I do believe that, now, though. Wikipedia says that each year, the Canyon gets about 4 million visitors, the Disneys get 15 million each, and the Falls get 20 million.

On one hand, it might actually be better for the Canyon if relatively fewer foreign visitors come by-- I mean, there's a reason that there are no restaurants or hotels too close by, and that allows people to appreciate its beauty.
On the other hand, I realized my distaste for Niagara is the same distaste that New Zealander was trying to express with his quip about New York. I don't think either of us actually dislike those places by themselves-- they are what they are. It's just that if those are the kinds of places which are supposed to represent the US, then the faults we see in them are more symptomatic of the country at large. I think that in some ways, America is decaying in exactly the same ways that Niagara has. But that problem becomes so much clearer, much more glaring, when you're looking at the plastic cutlery strewn all over the lawn of a national park.

Obligatory First Post

I wasn't sure how to explain what this blog would be like. Then I remembered a first entry in one of my personal diaries from a while back that would do this perfectly.

------
Sunday, June 27th, 2010

"My first diary was more of a burn book, a compilation of my writings in my most vulnerable state. Writing in it was a decent outlet, but I was plagued by the fear of someone finding it and reading even a single page (for every stroke of my pen on each page was vindictive). This fear didn't come from fearing any punishment, but more from disgust at my own crassness and extremely low-level thinking. Somehow the worst part of thinking that someone else could read the book was the notion that those words were actually representative of myself, even though most of what I wrote was very different from my true thoughts on a day to day basis.

Eventually the negative energy associated with the book outweighed any foreseeable benefits and I abandoned it." (Side note from me now: At any rate, I threw it away, or at the very least, it's traveled to the same hypothetical space that my Other socks have.) 

"I started a new diary, and keeping my old mistakes in mind I mentally laid a few ground rules for myself. The idea is that I am a complex person with multi-dimensional thought patterns and simplifying them to a few strings of expletives neither raises my own esteem nor helps me learn anything. Instead, discovering why certain thoughts came about and examining my own thought patterns not only makes for interesting reading in the future but helps me about the way I operate. In its purest form, I want my writing  to represent me, the author, create a concentrated form of my personality, a form that can clarify my views to the outside world and most importantly, to myself.

I do not know if I have been achieving this but I can say that I am putting in an honest effort."

------

I think I did, too, right up until the end of that summer. Then came my first semester of college, during which I experienced not only the disarray to be expected by any 18 year old first confronted with adulthood, but also a fair dose of personal tension. I just didn't have the physical or emotional capacity to write as much as I needed to, at the very time in my life it would have been most helpful.

But since that time I've written even less, and with no good excuse. I hope this blog will change that.