Dogs On The Hill

In DC, we have this place called Eastern Market, which is kind of a farmer's market/flea market hybrid. Yuppies love it. On a sunny weekend, this is a popular spot for young people who live on Capitol Hill--let's call them Hillers--to come out and walk their dogs. And if I've learned anything from two years in DC, it's that there are few things a Hiller likes to do more than talk about the breed of their dog. This is not to say, of course, that they don't discuss other things--gluten free bread, eating sustainably/locally/responsibly/etc., and $200 ties are all riveting and worthy conversation starters. But when it comes down to it, there's nothing that quite gets a Hiller's blood flowing than talking shop about dog breeds.

Before we continue, it's important to note that Hillers treat their dogs better than most developing countries treat their humans. Most dogs on the Hill answer to names straight out of the genteel south like "Dylan," "Madison," and "Carlton." So when you think about it, it makes sense that Hillers like talking about breeds so much. A name like Dylan just begs for at least some exploratory discussion about labradoodle-schnauzer bloodlines.

So even though I don't have a dog, I think all this exposure has unconsciously influenced me a bit. I'm in Taiwan now visiting some relatives and after dinner, my uncle brought up the fact that they recently started raising a dog. As my uncle packed up the leftovers, the conversation went like this:

"Well, I better save these for the dog."
"You guys have a dog now?"
"Yes, we just got one a few months ago."

Having had these conversations with Hillers before, I recognized that this was the point in the discourse where I was supposed to inquire about the breed. It was only appropriate, I assumed, for the conversation to flow this way. So I asked:

"Oh yeah? What kind?"
"A black one."

I'm usually not one to make arbitrary comparisons between particular elements of two cultures, but I think this way is better.

White Chicks

I have a student, let's call him Daquan.

Daquan comes into class every day loudly singing whatever song happens to be in his head at the moment. This can range from the merely annoying ("How low can you go, how low can you go, how low can you go") to the fairly inappropriate ("Girl you gone think, girl you gone think, Imma make you think, Imma make you think, make you think I reinvented sex").

Today, Daquan walks in bopping his head and belting out, "Making my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass, and I'm homebound." I stop for a second, realize I recognize the song, and then realize that it's Vanessa Carlton's "A Thousand Miles." I find this funny.

I force a straight face and ask, "Daquan, where did you learn that song?"

Still humming, he replies, "I heard it in a movie."

"Which movie?"

"White Chicks."

Of course.