The Irony of It

Anyone who has ever attended Northwestern College (at least in the past 10 years) is familiar with the term "vocare." As burgeoning little freshmen, we were told that God does indeed have a plan for our lives and that during the next four years we, through our liberal arts education, ICLA classes and required chapel activities would begin to discover what that plan was. Vocare, we were told, was not simply a career choice, but the place where our deep passions met the world's deep need. It was a way of life, a calling, a holistic approach to serving God and serving people (and, of course, loving both). We sat in chapels and listened to seniors speak about finding their vocares, about life-changing missions trips, study abroad experiences, and divine direction. We were excited, brimming with naiveté and hope.
And then we, or at least I, reached senior year. And when I did, I still had not found my vocare. There was no divine direction, no evident application for all I had learned in the classroom. I was a writing major with psychology and youth ministry minors and no idea of how I would use any of that after graduation. I had no deep passion. The world's deep needs were too numerous and insurmountable for me to meet. The millions of dollars that Eli Lilly and his foundation provided for NW's Vocare program were wasted on students like me.
Students like me graduate, have a few "life experiences" (I spent 4 months doing mission work/volunteering in England), and then sit at our computers and wonder what to do next. Students like me take jobs in bakeries and restaurants and meat markets. We go into retail and hate it, but we don't really know what else to do, and unfortunately "seeking your vocare" is not a paying occupation. It's sad really, that such an investment (over $2 million) would not have a return.
I want to have a conversation with Mr. Lilly; to apologize to him. I want to say "I'm sorry Eli, but your hard-earned millions have not moved me toward finding God's call on or in my life." I would knock at the door of his palatial home, walk into his sitting room (a room the exists exclusively for sitting), sit down on his overstuffed suede couch, take the cup of tea offered by his adoring wife and have a heart-to-heart over some chocolate chip cookies. "I'm ashamed to admit this," I would confess, "but I have a four-year degree in rhetorical studies and I spend my days reading through lab documents, reformatting amendments to protocols, inserting commas, deleting hyphens and ensuring that "postdose" is one word and "time point" is two.
And then I would take a look around Eli's house. I would see the desk erroneously placed in the room exclusively reserved for sitting, and on that desk I would notice a pen labeled Lilly. I would see notepads for Gemzar, Prozac and Cymbalta. And then I would see a mailing from a company called Chorus and I would start to connect the dots. Because Chorus is the company for whom I just finished reformatting a protocol so that they could begin to test CXV-2333D on the rats that were ordered from Charles Rivers Labs. You see, Eli Lilly is not only concerned with the vocations and futures of young liberal arts students, but also with the toxicity of the compound CXV-2333D and its effects on the reproductive capabilities of the Sprague Dawley rat. The fact is, if it weren't for the reports that were published stating the results of the tests that were run on the rats whose lives furthered the production and success of pharmaceuticals, the students at Northwestern College would not receive $2 million to further their quest for God's call on their lives.
I would turn to Eli, ready to bemoan my empty employment at the preclinical laboratory, but would shut my mouth before the words could escape my lips. We would instead, exchange a knowing look, and I would understand that in Mr. Lilly's eyes, this is my vocare. This is what I do to meet the world's great need.
Eli and I would finish our cookies and possibly sip on another cup of tea. I would thank him for his time as I rose from the couch. And as I moved toward the door he would head to the desk and pick up one of those pens that read "Lilly." He would hand it to me, thinking himself clever for understanding that I am a writer and as such would appreciate the gift of a pen. I would thank him with feigned gratefulness, walk down the drive and get into my '93 Pontiac Grand Am. I would drive back to Kansas City and my job at the testing facility, and as I did I would wonder if the freshmen at Northwestern still came to chapel with hope in their eyes.

Inbox of interest

I am continually amused at some of the things that pass through my inbox and cross my computer screen on a daily basis. Maybe it's because I'm new, or perhaps because I don't think scientifically or haven't spent the past 5-20 years of my life immersed in lab tests and results or blood-bourne pathogen training.
Whatever the reason, I do not cease to smirk at the following:

I've read a lot of protocols and reports. Tox (i.e., toxicity) studies exist to gauge toxicity of a substance. In order to do so, study directors must examine the organs of the animals, which consequently requires that the animal die. I'm used to reading about necropsies, and yet I can't really get past the line "At each necropsy, gross observations will be made..." It isn't that the necropsy bothers me, but rather that I find the term "gross observations" so terribly appropriate. Clearly I was not cut out to be a scientist.

The other day I received this in my inbox:

Hello everyone:

The radioactive waste pickup has been pushed back to Wednesday, 13th October. Please transfer all radioactive wastes (lab waste, carcasses and radioassay vials etc) to the waste collection area (Room 222) as soon as possible. If you have any question, please let me know. Thanks

I was sure to have all carcasses out of my office and in Room 222 in time for collection.

Life passes before my eyes...and my computer screen

It's strange to me how quickly I become desensitized to something like death. When I first started working as a copyeditor for a laboratory, it bothered me to know that countless (or rather carefully counted and calculated) animal lives were being sacrificed on a daily basis. Reading through documents that read "Examined parameters will include clinical observations, mortality and moribundity checks, body weights (for dose volume determinations), and twice daily colonic body temperature measurements (a.m and p.m)," wasn't so bad. It was the "On Day 2, five animals from each dose group will be sacrificed," and "On Day 10, the remaining five animals from each dose group will be sacrificed," that got to me. Sacrificed. Day after day after day.
And then it was my second week of work, and then my third, and at that point it didn't really bother me any more. "Dogs will be euthanized." "Animals will be sacrificed." "Rats will be terminated." That's just the way it is. The portion of the report labeled "Animal Disposition," does not refer to the personality of one's pet, but rather the disposal of the aforementioned study animals. Sad. But true.
The other day I started wondering if this is the same process that occurred during the holocaust. I don't mean to equate the value of a human life with that of a lab rat, but the desensitization to death, the way that what was once disturbing has become routine, the tattoos and cage numbers, it all seems a bit creepy. But maybe my perspective is being influenced by my reading of the graphic novel Maus in high school; a piece of literature in which the Jews in concentration camps really are depicted as animals of the rodent variety.
Day after day the tests continue. The reports come in flash up on my computer screen. I read them. I edit them. And off they go, evidence of tests that have been run, and animals that have been sacrificed. I keep telling myself this is contributing to science, that it's allowing for less harmful pesticides and safer drugs that may save lives. But once in a while I think I'd rather be ignorant of what it takes for a substance to be FDA approved.

Going Parking

During both of the four-month stints that I spent in England I acquired a number of habits - drinking tea, using the phrase, "Cheers", spelling color with a "u" and recognize with an "s," letting my voice rise when asking a quetion, and taking long walks in the park (usually on the left side of the footpath). Ever since England I can't seem to get enough green space (slightly ironic seeing as the US is so much larger and younger than the UK and as such ought to have more available green space). In the past few weeks I've been on a quest to discover the parks of Kansas City.

After spending most of the day in front of a computer, I find my eyes and spirit are hungry to see something natural. During my lunch breaks I drive to the Overland Park Arboretum and fill up on peculiar flowers, tri-toned leaves, a strange assortment of "outdoor art pieces," winding paths and man-made water features. It's a visual snack that ties me over until after work, when I "go parking".

My first stop was Roanoke Park, which is just off the interstate that takes me to and from my job everyday. I was hoping the open green space would be good for walking, thinking and exploring. Turns out that most of the park has been dedicated to frisbee golf. I was not deterred. Despite the fact that I had no disks to speak of and was still sporting a trench coat and heels, I trapsed across the course, hoping I wouldn't be hit by the post-college crowd. Aside from disk golf and a baseball field, the only other feature of the park was a playground, complete with slides, swings, a merry-go-round and large plastic climbing features. I sat down in a swing and decided to read for a while. As I did a little girl with short blonde hair came up beside me. She looked me over, sat down in the swing next to me, left my world and returned to her own. A handful of children ran up to the play area and began climbing the large plastic features. I watched them for a while and tried to remember what it was like to play with such single-mindedness.

The next day I pulled off at Rosedale Park, which is more of a hill than a park itself, but green and covered with trees, so still acceptable. I followed the road round and up the hill of Rosedale, passed the Rosedale Elementary School, and found myself at the Rosedale Memorial Arch. That's where I met Jim. He was wearing an old pair of jeans, a faded blue button-up and a baseball cap. His face and hands were tanned and wrinkled, evidence of years and experiences past. I had been taking notice of the 34-foot arch, dedicated to the Rosedale residents who served in the first world war, when I turned around and Jim caught my eye. He wasn't looking at the arch, but was faced toward the city. "Real nice, isn't it?" he offered. Then, with a wave of his hand, "Come over here." I approached the picnic bench on which he was perched and joined him in standing and considering the trees and taking in the skyline. "Not many people come here," he remarked, "but it's a real nice spot. Far enough away from the noise, but you still see the city itself. I know it's not much compared to them big cities, but it's a city in the Midwest and that's something special." Jim went on to explain that he'd been coming to Rosedale for years. "I got a relative's name's up there on the memorial. I like to come out and pay my respects. And it's such a peaceful place." He was right about that. Removed from the city, uphill a fair distance from the busier streets, Rosedale is something even I might call special. "I get off work and I just like to come here." Jim told me a bit about moving around the states, traveling to places where he could get blue-collar work. He had returned to Kansas City to settle for a while, and today was just another day. "It's even prettier in the fall when them's leaves get to changing," he said as we looked out at from the table. "I'm sure it is," I replied, wondering if I'd see Jim again later in the season. "It was a pleasure to meet you, " I said. "My name's Amanda." I shook his hand, hopped off the picnic table and headed back toward my car.

The following week I continued to seek out parks - Loose being one of my favorites with its elaborate rose garden and duck-peppered pond. On my first visit there I came across three different photographers and their respective subjects. The first was pretty evidently doing an engagement shoot. The couple posed for a shot on the bridge over the pond, they unnaturally sat down in a patch of tall grass, and as they gaze into each other's eyes I wanted to roll mine. I'm sure there were the classic hand-holding shots, and several attempts to capture the perfect kiss. If I weren't so jaded I probably would have found it sweet. The second photographer was shooting a girl who looked to be about 16 and was dreadfully underdressed for the fall weather. I'm surprised she could sit in her skin-tight black micro mini skirt. But sit she did, on the high-backed oak chair with plush teal cushion that was pulled from the back of dark SUV. And if that the chair in the park and the girl in the cap sleeves didn't seem out-of-place or just a little ridiculous, add to it a small brown purse dog, strategically placed on the teenager's lap. I'm ashamed to admit I followed them for 8 minutes, before rewrapping my scarf and returning to my car.

On the weekends I like to run along the rivers (both Kansas and Missouri), or as close to them as I can get. While I was training for my half marathon I found the smaller of the two riverside parks presented on Google. I was following the path that I thought would take me to the larger park when I ended up at the Isle of Capris, a casino located along the Missouri River. I'd never been to a casino before and was a bit hesitant to enter in my racerback and shorts, but I was rather loss and after 6 miles of running I really needed to use the bathroom. I walked in, crossed the plush carpets and was overwhelmed by the flashing lights and perpetual movement. I took in my surroundings, located the bathrooms and then found a security guard and asked for directions. That part of the quest didn't prove very successful. I exited the building and after another mile or so of misguided jogging, returned to the route I'd taken to get there.

I've also taken to running along the country roads after work. It's the best way to make the most of the limited daylight. At first I was reluctant to drive 30 miles to and from work each day (putting over 300 miles on my car each week), but after running alongside horses and ponds, large sprawling houses and miles of open space, I'm quite happy to have some time out in the country. It's not the fields of Iowa, but it's close enough to feel like home.

I'm not sure what I'll do when winter comes and the weather keeps me from long hours outside. Perhaps I'll invest in warmer running gear. Or I may just find a coffee shop with a good view and large windows.

Another way to pepper my resume

I like animals.

I'm no dog lover who sports a golden retriever t-shirt, takes my purse poodle to work, or has an "I love shelties" coffee mug; and I don't have plans to acquire a large (as in more than 2) cat population when I'm middle-aged and still living by myself, but in general I'd say I appreciate the furry friends that most people call pets. If it smells alright and isn't too high-strung, I'll pet it on the head. I may even become affectionate. But if it smells funky, makes too much noise, gets hair all over my furniture or slobber all over my face, I'd rather not get too close. (I tend to feel the same way about men.)

Acknowledging my lack of animal affection, I told the nice man from Medix staffing agency that no, I am not an animal rights activist and as such I did not feel I would have a problem working for a non-clinical laboratory (aka. animal testing facility). I tend to think I have a relatively "thick skin" where things like lab testing and animal science are concerned. I enjoyed high school biology. I did all of the labs and dissections and was more or less amazed during our cytology unit. (Now, I did almost pass out that time I shadowed a nurse, but I attribute that to the combined smells of left over scrambled eggs, dirty dressings and rotting tissue - not my squeamish nature.) I even intended to take A&P while I was in college. So, when I was asked if I would be comfortable working at a facility where animal testing is conducted I didn't really think much of it. I was more concerned with the fact that the job would require commuting 30 miles (each way) and being chained to a desk 8 hours a day, five days a week.

During my second interview I met with the document management manager and two of the principle investigators/scientists, one of whom grilled me on my realtionship with animals. I think a crazed PETA member slipped their way into lab employment at some point, making the company suspicious of anyone without a substantial scientific background. I assured the man of science that, no, I am not a member of PETA. I do not attach human attributes to most animals, and though my family does indeed own a dog, I realize that Cody is no more human than the crickets I've been smashing in my basement. (I say these things, and assure myself that they are logically true, but my less empirical self feels otherwise.)

My third interview was actually on site, where I met with the president of the company (he's British - I confess this swayed my feelings about the job, significantly) and a few of the head scientists (they're not British, but one of them is Indian, which is acceptable). I represented myself rather well, assured them that I had no affiliations with animal protection agencies, attempted to convey a sincere interest in pharmacokinetics, and was offered the job four hours after I left. I'd like to say it was my impressive resume (which is smattered with "odd jobs" and "life experiences") and my winning personality that earned me position, but I'm pretty sure it was their desperate need for a copyeditor. I, with my four-year degree in Writing and Rhetorical studies (thank you NW for creating a major that I have to explain to everyone), am far more than qualified.

Monday (the 27th) was my first day on the job. I got a parking permit, a nifty little retractable name badge, and my very own cubicle. I haven't done a lot of "decorating," but I did throw up some photos within the first week. They remind me of the outside world (there isn't a window in our office), the exciting places I've been (to which I'd like to return), and the people I care about (and intend to speak with during my lunch break).

As I walked by Cube Row (the hallway in which all the lab techs are stationed...when they aren't in the lab, that is), I peaked over the green barriers, and noticed something rather strange. Alongside the family photos and nature calendars were posters showing the anatomy of the Beagle dog. I shrugged it off and introduced myself to the coffee station. During my grand tour of the facility, though, a disturbing wave washed over me as I passed large photos of disections, canisters of biohazardous material, and display board featuring the gross (you've got that right) necropsy of a Wistar rat. Maybe I should just keep to my cube.

But staying in my own little corner did little to keep me in blissful ignorance. It's my job to read and edit lab protocols and reports. I can't not know what's going on behind closed doors.

The rat studies didn't really phase me. Though the 44 pregnant females were going to be euthanized at the end of the study, it's all in the name of better pharmaceuticals and less hazardous chemical compounds being released into the world. I could even deal with the NHP (non-human primate) studies; many of which are done in order to track how long a compound stays in the body. It's the Beagle studies that really got to me.

All of the dogs used in our studies are Beagles (which also happens to be the nickname I have for my little sister) and have been selected as a breed that is docile in temperament and manageable in size. A number of our studies are done on "naieve" Beagles, which means that the animals haven't taken part in previous studies or life experiences. The animals are raised to be lab animals and don't know any other existence. A number of them (usually the ones that are going to be around for a while) come "debarked." I didn't know it was possible to debark a dog the way you declaw a cat and I was rather alarmed at the thought (even after the new vet assured me that the animals were fine). Some of them are tripped out "telemetered" Beagles, that have been surgically enhanced and are capable of automatically transmitting data. Having a telemetered dog is preferable to using jackets or tail cuffs, which "may cause distress to the animal" (but apparently surgery and large doses of toxic chemicals do not). On the upside, telemetered dogs are expensive, which means they usually get to stick around longer (for multiple studies) before being euthanized.

After my first week of work I called my mom and asked if I could talk to our dog. Suffice it to say, I do what I can to avoid the animal rooms.

Take a walk with me

Welcome to Kansas City, Kansas, home to many an immigrant, refugee and social service worker. Also, home to taquerias, paleterias, osunas, barbecue restaurants, bars, liquor stores (it's illegal to sell wine/liquor in KS grocery stores) and a Mexican Sun Fresh. The only thing it really lacks is a WalMart and a decent coffee shop. Also, a Target, or any place to purchase shoes. The character makes up for it.

Delicious, or "deliciosa" rather. My sister and I bought bread here . It was wonderful.
The pastries are lovely. I imagine they taste good too. 

No, it is not written in English on the other side.

This is the paleteria (which is an ice cream store, and so much more).
In two weeks I went here 3 times. The tequila nieva is to die for.

Cheapest gas in my neighborhood.

Typical little home, likely inhabited by an immigrant family
(I say this based on the people I saw and food I smelled as I walked by)

I don't know what Zumba is in English, much less in Spanish.

This building (and the one below) are perhaps my favorite in terms of external decor.

The quincinera dresses are the best items in the shop (see photo below).

A block of houses, typical to the area.

St. Peter's steeple. A sign that I am almost home!
(Always welcome, but especially after a long run)

St. Peter's. It's right across the street from my house. I love it.
The bells chime when school starts and when it's time for mass or prayer.
I might attend mass one of these days. It's been a long time.

This building is right across the street. I'm sure it used to be some kind of general store before it was turned
into apartments. Earlier in the year it suffered a fire and was condemned. I was snooping around the other day and
discovered that the deck and upper level are still accessible. Walking through a gutted out fire-damaged building was eery. I have an inclination to sit on the roof someday and drink wine or hot tea with a couple of friends. 

This sign (and the former gas station to the left of it) are just across the street from St. Peter's.
The place seems rather nostalgic and drips of the 1960s. I love it.

The Street Where I Live Part II: Technologically Inept

Sometimes I am over-ambitious and try using links and photos and awesome things in my blog posts. It is a mistake. I spent an hour on the one previous to this (perhaps because I was also trying to watch a movie and eat lunch, but still). I will try to keep this simple: Photos and captions. Full stop.

My personal entrance to the house (from the outside)

My personal entrance (and only window) to the house (from the inside)

The bathroom (which didn't make the first blog post)

My car and its parking space out front (the driveway is cray steep and treacherous)

The street where I live

My across-the-street neighbors (I do not know them)

The meat market (the back of which touches our backyard - fresh beef anyone?)

Though I do live on 14th Street (and all mail sent to me is addressed that way), when you see this sign you take a left in order to get to my house. Why? I'm not sure. I think the street is only called "Wilson" for about two blocks.

Some street corners in KCK (and other parts of Kansas City) are labeled with lovely letters that match the decor of the Plaza, which most clearly evidences the Spanish architecture that can be found in the area. KC is a sister city to Seville (or Sevilla) in Spain. Grandview is one of three names given to the street on which I live.