Monthly Archives: August 2009

 
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Disgrace named Scotland


 

Now that is a bunch of you know what. Releasing a murderer on compassionate ground! What about his crime? Did he show any compassion or regard for human life when he committed the cowardly acts? No. 

Al-Megrahi is a criminal and has blood of 270 on his hands and deserves no compassion. I am sorry, but I don't think there is anyone on this planet, with a functioning mind and reasoning, who would vouch for his release.

Come to think of it, al-Megrahi's bosses in Libya control the country's oil resources. According to the Energy Information Administration's website:

"Libya holds close to 44 billion barrels of oil reserves, the largest in Africa. EIA data indicate that 2008 total oil production (crude plus liquids) was approximately 1.88 million barrels per day (bbl/d)."

Is Scotland's compassion another name for its interest in Libyan oil?

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Destination: 7 train


When I lived in the suburbs after college, as soon as we girls acquired more furniture than a beanbag chair and a rickety stool, we hosted supper clubs. One of the more favorite versions of the supper club was the progressive dinner party in which the festivities move to a different person's apartment for each course of the meal. Once I moved to NYC, I rarely went inside anyone's apartment unless it was the home of one of the few individuals whose living space was larger than an average closet. That is, until I joined an unconventional writing group that operates a bit like the progressive parties of my suburban days.

This writing group meets once a week at a different location; sometimes we meet in the back room of a local bookstore or, if the weather is good, we meet at Strawberry Fields in Central Park, but usually we meet in someone's apartment. We write for an hour or so and then chat and eat some snacks. I think at last count there were about 100 members, but only 15-20 show up at any given meeting, depending on the location. Because of the relaxed nature of the group, you can come every week, not come for three months, not write a word while you're there, or offer to read some of what you've written.

If you've followed this blog at all, you'll know that this arrangement perfectly satisfies the voyeur in me. (See the "Getting to Know You" post.) I get to nose around a stranger's apartment, see what kind of knick-knacks they have and if they leave the toilet seat up. It's also given me the opportunity to check out an 1890s brownstone that maintained the details of its glorious past and a hip Soho loft overlooking Broadway and Houston. Oh, and I get some writing done.

The writing group decided to try a noble experiment: have a meeting while riding on the 7 train. As unconventional as it sounds, I liked the idea of having the subway be the destination rather than the means to the destination. The goal is to board the train at the Times Square station, which is the very first stop, so the entire group can pile into one car. We will then write during the ride out to Queens, and on the return trip, members can read their work if they choose. Of course there will be plenty of other passengers on the train, and I've no doubt that some of us will be the recipient of monetary donations.

This reminded me of Johnny Temple's essay about a subway party, though the goal of a subway party is to drink yourself into a somewhat shaky state, then board the train with a gaggle of your closest friends, and basically harass the rest of the passengers until they leave you with the car to yourself.

Now I don't need utter silence to write. I've often jotted notes or written scenes while riding the subway, but the distractions on the 7 train are too much to handle. Most of the stations are above ground, where you'll find the work of arguably the world's best graffiti artists on display. Also above ground, there are the challenges of relentlessly ringing cell phones and general Saturday afternoon din, never mind the stares of New Yorkers as they watch the nutty people all clacking away on their laptops. Most of these people, I expect, will assume that we are filming some kind of documentary or that they walked into the latest version of Punk'd.

Come to think of it, this situation would not be satisfactory at all. I want to be the one conducting the voyeurism, not the subject of it. I know this is quite unfair. One good turn deserves another. So if you're riding the 7 train and come across a group that seems to be lost in thought, please be a good voyeur and keep your stares surreptitious. That's what I would do.

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Reasons to forgive: No. 1


I'm sitting in the campus lan, slightly tipsy at only 11 a.m., thinking about an old friend. It would have been his 22nd birthday today…only he's dead.

"I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant" —Robert McCloskey

There comes a time in everyone's life where they feel the incessant need to explain themselves, over and over, until all explanations recede to the background and transform into a gentle hum that, while still there, is easy to ignore. Why? Do we feel guilty for our actions? Do we regret the choice we made? Are we hurt? Do we doubt ourselves?

I used to believe that the world defined us and that we had little say in the boxes that society dumped us in. However, I soon realized that society had nothing on me — I define myself for myself and that is all that should matter. Society may challenge my own definitions, but I always have the last word. Though, it's never easy to stand up, walled to your own beliefs…especially when the army against you is stronger and better armed…especially when the war is against the people who are important to you…especially when all you want to do is pause the battle and explain yourself.

My counselor once told me that explanations were manipulative. I disagree. Sometimes explanations are crucial for communication — misunderstandings occur all the time. It's somewhat the guilty-until-proven-innocent concept. Then again, shouldn't people who you consider to be close to you know you well enough without you having to justify your every hiccup…?

I find myself at the rock bottom of despair — thinking about a dead friend who considered his friends to be the most precious things on Earth and who I neglected; and the other friend, the one who I did everything I could for regardless of me meaning nothing to him and him treating me disrespectfully. I lost both.

Life is short. Why waste time on people that don't care about you? Why keep trying?

I'm sitting here, in my drunken stupor, searching for reasons and explanations to rationalize the choices I have made in my past. Reasons for why I abandoned my friend when he needed me the most. Reasons why I wasn't there when he was dying. Explanations that would somehow make the other friend forgive me so that he would come back into my life…just to let me know, that all the time I had spent on him was not wasted, and that, in some way, he really did care about me.

It's all nonsense really. The truth is that I was a bad friend who spent the last couple of years chasing a prick (mind the language, but there is no other word that would describe him better). So instead, I am going to think up reasons to forgive myself; and the first reason is that I have learned from my mistakes. Now if only I had the ability to know who is worth my time…Sigh. 

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Inject me with some of them “guts”


Stress has the tendency of making me nostalgic. At times, it is a coping mechanism that aids procrastination, allowing hours to fly by as I meander through the convoluted domain that remembers the things that I didn't even know I remembered. At other times, it is a source for inspiration, allowing me to search for ideas or hope. Either way, it gets me contemplating about "from where's" and "where to's" and "why now's."

What stood out in my recent delve is how much I have changed. In school, I used to be one of those kids that always fought for what they wanted; that included maintaining a position among the best of the class, grade, or group. I label this high expectation of myself "the youngest child syndrome." With my siblings both over five years older than me, it was a mission to keep up. Nevertheless, as a scholar, I refused to stop trying.

Proof 1:

In grade two, my teacher placed me in the B group for writing (lessons on Nelson Script). I had never been in the B group before and I did not want my first time to be the consequence of an imperfect consonant. My reaction was to cry (a common form of protest for seven-year-olds); I made such a scene that my teacher placed me back into the A group and never chanced any further displacements.

Proof 2:

For a particular Afrikaans test in grade five, my class was given an extra mark for neat work. Expectedly, I was not given an extra mark (not caused by my earlier bribery in grade two). My work was neat, except for a question that was written in fine print to fit my rather verbose answer into the given space. I complained incessantly (without the tears) until I had received the extra mark.

I realized that, as a young child, I did everything I had to to get what I wanted. There were no inhibitions, no hesitations, and no limiting regulations. All that existed was passion and drive; two qualities that I now find myself devoid of.  

It's a hard life for the "artist." Life begins with the lack of acceptance — the being-an-artist-does-not-equate-to-having-a-career argument. In high school I had confessed my dreams of becoming a film director to my guidance teacher, and she replied by saying, "You can have your dreams, but they have to be sensible." What followed was a chain of rejection around the reality of my dream. I fought through for the sake of fighting but, as time passed, the dream faded and lived only as a reaction to the disbelief in its manifestation.

The second obstacle is financing. Equipment, material, labor, and education are expensive, more expensive than the potential income to be received in the initial years of being an artist. Moreover, obtaining experience or part-time employment in the field of choice is never easy (especially in South Africa).

The third bubble-buster is originality. Globalization reveals the multitude of people with the same dreams and goals, which makes it hard to stand out and "be someone." We are all talented individuals, we are all unique, we are all a bunch of wannabes chasing the same shadow. Ideas are re-churned every second, and ideas that you believed to be great usually already exist.

The more you know, the more equipped you are with reasons to give up. With an inbox full of rejection emails, a cash balance that's sitting in the negative numbers, and a notepad bearing no great ideas, it's hard to prevent the death of your confidence in your talents. Your dreams become irrelevant in the real world and soon you are behind that desk that you have always dreaded, working a 9 to 5 in an airless cubicle and stifled by the mundane minds of your fellow co-workers: all for the paycheck.

I find myself here, on the brink of selling my soul for financial security. I have grown from a child who believed that dreams should never be compromised to the skeptic who fails to believe in dreams.

This is why I mention my friend, Rowen, who is trying to break into the world of hip hop. He writes, "You may know me from my history as an MC and a comedian, but I guarantee you there is nothing funny about who I am and what I stand for. I may not have the best style of writing, but I write with passion. I may not have the best voice, but I rap with my heart, soul and my mind. I may not be the biggest guy, but I fight hard. I express myself fully and make no apologies for what I say. I am also a firm believer in evolution, pantheism and naturalism. Due to my beliefs I live the life of a hunter-gatherer in a postmodern society. This is who I am."

His work exhibits the qualities that I have lost, and for that I have a profound amount of respect for him. In fear that his passion will also be trampled by the system, I urge you to check out his stuff and offer suggestions on how he may improve or who he may be able to contact.

Maybe one day I will be as brave as he is and venture out into the vast darkness of the real world to strive for my goals, without turning back.

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You know you’ve been riding the subway too long when… # 5


You can spot tourists at 100 paces.** And you don't need evidence of a camera or map to do so.

** The thousands of men and women who pile off ships wearing their sailor uniforms during Fleet Week don't count. That's not a challenge at all.

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How would you like me to change your life?


 

Have you ever wondered if your random actions could change someone's life? Not in that simple, make-someone-smile way, but as a great, life-changing experience; something similar to Pay It Forward without the goal of changing the world. I once shared this idea with my cousin. We were hopping through London central singing "The Glory of Love" at the top of our lungs:

 You've got to give a little, take a little

Let your poor heart break a little,

That's the story of, that's the glory of

Love

…when we passed a couple arguing on a park bench. Well away from the distressed couple, I stopped and asked my cousin if our random passing had the ability to change their lives forever. Maybe they honored Bette Midler with the glory of a second chance, maybe they eternally postponed their divorce or separation and, maybe, just maybe, they ended up happily ever after due to two random strangers singing about the hardships of love while passing them on the day that they sat on a park bench, at the brink of the end. My cousin shrugged off the idea and told me that I think too much. However, it is an idea that has never seemed to leave me.

I thought about it again when a customer had started crying at my cash desk. I had been working part time as a cashier and was explaining to the customer that we were unable to exchange a garment she wanted to return due to some arbitrary small-print policy. She reacted by throwing the garment at me and stormed out of the store crying. I wondered if I had been that "final straw" — the last event after a series of bad days/weeks/months that causes you to break. Did it lead her to some drastic end? Did it cause her to reassess her life? Did it leave her crying for days?

Before my uncle passed away, he had bought me The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom. He was from Botswana and occasionally came to visit my family during the Christmas holidays. He had always brought me a book or CD when he visited. Though I have never finished this novel, it had a huge impact on the way I approach strangers.

In heaven, the protagonist encounters the "Blue Man" who was inadvertently killed by the protagonist. The "Blue Man" explains that we are all somehow connected and that our actions have the ability to alter people's lives forever, and vice versa. Most of the time we will never know how we change people's lives, but we do. A simple insult that passes our lips with no ill intentions can cause a person to subconsciously destroy themselves, while a simple compliment that you give little thought to may cause a person to reconsider slitting their wrists.

Today I gave a bunch of yellow daisies to a random stranger who happened to compliment them. I will never see her again, nor will I recognize her if we do happen to bump into each other one day. However, I would like to think that those flowers meant something more to her. Maybe it empowered her in some way, or maybe it simply made her smile.

 

 

 

 

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Commentary

Haru/natsu (spring/summer)

Finding my way through Japan.


Went hiking near Mount Rokko with the Canadians. Before we were supposed to meet up, Otousan called and I told him what I was doing. “Oh, that’s really good; I used to go hiking there a lot.” I felt a little surge of happiness as the ties to my father tightened and solidified a little more. It was another clue to who he was, from a source that I had never really had access to.

Near the top of the mountain, I rang a huge bell at the shrine in honor of my birthday. It pealed in a low murmuring ring that reverberated in the spring air.

*

 The Bunraku play was The Love Suicides at Sonezaki. Apparently, everyone loves a classic love-and-death story — the theater was packed. The narrator sang the plotlines and the dialogue, stretching the syllables so that they almost seemed pliable. In one of the most famous scenes, Tokubei is hiding underneath the kimono of Ohatsu, his lover, to avoid being seen by his rival. To signal that he is willing to die with her, he presses his neck against her ankle and draws her foot along his neck. Their bodies move slowly, deliberately; his impassive face, white and still, leans wearily against a beautiful vermillion and purple kimono.

*

When he saw me in the café, he had that stunned “oh!” look on his face … not really sure why. It hadn’t been that long. It felt weird for about two seconds, and then everything fell back into place, like nothing had happened. Like we were still just those two transplanted Canadians that had found each other.

How was it still so easy to be around him?

 

On the walk to the izakaya, he referred to our inside joke regarding my failure to siphon money from him, but in the past tense. We watched the flames kiss the skewers of chicken, cartilage, and pork, and listened to the fat drippings hiss in protest as they were turned quickly on the grill. His awkward attempt at using guidebook Japanese only won him a raised eyebrow and a confused grin from the cook, not the draft beer he wanted. He looked at me, sighed, and chuckled as I requested the beer for him.

Afterward, we walked to the Kyobashi train station. I had to go to Starbucks to use the washroom, so we stopped in the middle of the station’s white-tiled walkway, conscious of the negative space and tiny pools of rainwater.

*

Post-dinner, there was lengthy debate over whether to go to the Cavern Club to see a Beatles cover band play, or to Betty’s, a drag queen bar. The lads from Liverpool won out. Ni(shi)no and the vice principal, “Chuck,” were giddy. I laughed at Nino’s excitement, remembering a late afternoon after school when he taught me how to play “Blackbird” on the guitar in an empty classroom.

 

After three sets, we decided to leave, but at the point of departure, Chuck groaned and announced he wasn’t going to go home that night. And thus, the all-nighter was born. Chuck and Nino first headed off to a restaurant for more food, and I went to the post office. Nino left the restaurant to find me, and then we got fantastically lost in the dark, winding alleys of a shotengai. I questioned his status as a son of Osaka, and he laughingly assured me we’d find Chuck. We found him, eventually, and he was disgruntled by our lateness. Nino was extra nice to him. Around 1:30 a.m. we left the restaurant. Inspired by the Cavern Club, the two decided they wanted to wail the night away, paying loving homage to “Strawberry Fields” and women named “Eleanor Rigby” and “Michelle,” swaying and singing famous choruses in tone-deaf, katakana-ized English. I looked at Nino, his face alit and happy, as he stood with Chuck’s arm slung over his shoulder, nodding for me to come with them. I smiled back, and ran to catch up with them.

*

It was loud. I looked over and saw everyone with their noisemakers and bento boxes. The players were really far away, but I could see Tani getting ready to hit. The oen leader was getting ready to start up the cheer, so I picked up my noisemakers and got ready to hit them in time to the syncopated rhythm. With a guttural yell, a voice and body seasoned by years of unwavering devotion, he swooped the enormous Hanshin Tigers’ flag side to side, and we stood up, yelling, clapping, and cheering in unison in the humid summer night.

*

We drove up a long and winding road that led us to Mount Fuji’s fifth station. By then it was pitch black, and I was feeling a bit sleepy. We had to park about 2 kilometers away from the station. Upon exiting the car, I immediately noticed how much cooler it already was.

At the fifth station, Wayne disappeared, sending Linda on a frantic search. While waiting to purchase a big walking stick, a bunch of guys dressed up in colorful felt dragon and monkey costumes ran into the store. A nice American man took a “before” picture of us, and we were off.

There was a part where the trail became flat ground, and we could see Yamanashi spread out in front of us in an awesome and glittering panorama. So pretty.

Onward and upward!

The rest of the climb was a big, black, windy blur. There were spots where the terrain turned traitorous and treacherous. In some parts I was worried that if I stood up straight, I would be blown off the side of the mountain and die a horrific death. We came to a tricky section of almost vertical rocky terrain, which in itself was challenging to navigate, but dim lighting conditions and a herd of descending hikers made for an even more frustrating climb.

Onward and upward?

Then it started to rain.

There were moments when I had to swallow the urge to cry because there was just no time for that. It’s a wobbly feeling realizing that there is no way out. You have to keep climbing, no matter how much you just want to shut down.

 

We reached the eighth station around 4 a.m., soaked, tired, cold, tired, and tired. We found Julia, who had arrived about an hour earlier and had managed to seduce most of the staff with her Drew Barrymore-like looks. “You like ‘Charlie’s Angels’?” “Oh! Yeah, I do …” “You look like!” “Oh. Okay, thanks …!” I fell asleep while sitting on a crate, but was still incredibly cold and dazed upon waking. At that point, I had no interest in making it up the summit. I just wanted to get off Mount Doom, I mean, Fuji …

Around 4:30 the rain stopped, and we headed out, onward and downward. My first glimpse of the view literally stopped my heart. We were above the clouds. It was amazing. I’d never seen anything like it (and probably never will again).

*

i was never good at finishing things.

 

 

 

 

 

my heart feels muddled and heavy.

 

 

 

 

you know those times when you must cry, for your own sake…watashi no tame ni…

 

but I’m at Kansai airport. waiting for my plane … home…

 

*

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New York
Reviews

Sisters of Fate

Lisa See’s Shanghai Girls tells the piercingly painful tale of two sisters’ odyssey from Shanghai to San Francisco.

By Sarah Marian Seltzer

To dismiss Shanghai Girls, with its flowery, pink-tinged cover, as “women’s fiction” or even as a light summer read belies the very serious nature of author Lisa See’s ambitious novel. What starts as an amusing tale about two young women — sisters Pearl and May — frolicking through bohemian Shanghai, posing for paintings in their new silk gowns, and wondering which of them is prettiest, turns sinister quite quickly. The violence that engulfs China with the advent of World War II parallels the violence that they experience when they truly begin to understand their status as women. They are bargaining chips for their father, who has traded them away in arranged marriages to pay off his debts. They are targets for prowling Japanese soldiers. And when they come through these struggles with the scars to prove it, they become workhorses and, hopefully, son-producers for their shared father-in-law in America (they’re paired off with brothers in arranged marriages), although eventually, they form real family ties with the husbands they’ve been bound to on paper.

From escaping the shelling of a fashionable Shanghai street, to crouching in abandoned shacks as they listen to soldiers on the march committing murder, to tossing and turning on their long trans-Pacific journey, to sitting stoically through endless interrogation as they try to enter this country, the sisters endure atrocities and privation. But perhaps the most compelling aspect of their story is its deviation from the “immigrant-family-makes-good” cliché. Try as they might — and they do try — Pearl, May, their husbands, and even a college-bound daughter are never quite accepted into mainstream American society. In fact, as the story draws to a close, they’re being interrogated by the FBI for alleged communist ties, with calamitous results.

See, the daughter of novelist Carolyn See, is a Chinese American herself who has devoted much of her work — including Snow Flower and the Secret Fan (2005) and Peony in Love (2007) — to exploring Chinese culture and history. As we follow Pearl and May’s journey in Shanghai Girls, See tells dozens of historical stories that illuminate the struggles of her characters. One of these stories captures the glamour and excitement of prewar, pre-Communist Shanghai, full of smoky cafés, artists, radicals, and beautiful women. There are also incredibly dark stories about the Japanese invasion of China, the fate of immigrants stalled in limbo at California’s notorious Angel Island, the endless striving of immigrant families once they reached these shores, and the endless discrimination that met them here. There’s even a story about the way Hollywood treated Asian characters and actors (not very well, needless to say).

But the sweeping narrative is anchored by the intimacy of the two women. Together throughout all their trials and tribulations, Pearl and May are classic fictional sisters — both unimaginably close and fearfully jealous. “She’s funny; I’m criticized for being too serious. She has an adorable fleshiness to her; I’m tall and thin,” Pearl, the narrator, explains in her staccato, singsong tone.

She’s convinced that she’s the sister everyone thinks is inferior, the sister who has borne the most burdens over time. After their family suffers a horrific wartime trauma on the road out of Shanghai, Pearl’s resentment of her sister simmers beneath the surface for decades, even if she and May continue to stick together and even adore each other. But in the course of several knock-down, drag-out fights between the sisters, See suddenly, like a flash of light, switches to May’s point of view. “You’ve always been jealous and envious of me, but you were the one who was cherished by Mama and Baba,” May says to her sister in one of the novel’s final scenes. When she speaks, it’s sure to put a wrinkle or three in Pearl’s version of the truth.

Even though May’s final revelation of a long-kept secret is ultimately predictable, the sisters’ dueling outlooks create tension when the plot slows down, and their ability to reconcile and forge on together provides a ray of hope. “Parents die, daughters grow up and marry out, but sisters are for life,” Pearl explains.

See — whose copious acknowledgments at the end of the book confirm her considerable research — arrives at an uncomfortable truth about the American past. America, she shows, hasn’t simply laid out its golden-hued dream at the feet of hardworking newcomers. Those who work double shifts and play by the rules don’t (and didn’t) necessarily end up in the house with the white picket fence, particularly if they look too different or are plagued by cruel stereotypes. But to her credit, See also infuses Shanghai Girls with a positive message about forgiveness and the way friendship and family can help us pick ourselves back up even after the worst has happened.

UPDATE, 3/8/13: Edited and moved story from our old site to the current one.

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Fairness and justice


There lies within me, and, I suspect, within many people, a strong sense of fairness, coupled with a powerful desire for justice. I want the car that goes speeding around me on the highway to be pulled over; I want the thief to be caught; I want the U.S. health care system to treat the rich and the poor equally well; and I want the bad guy to lose. One of the more difficult lessons I learned in my childhood was that sometimes, maybe even often, this doesn’t happen. To paraphrase a cliché, all too often, nice people finish last. Some people learn this early, and learn to let such petty injustices slide, and some internalize such unfairness and burn with it from within.

In this month’s issue, we look at a few such injustices. In Left behind, Stephen Maughan explores the fate of orphans in Romania. Sarah Seltzer reviews Shanghai Girls, in which two sisters face the injustice of war to escape World War II China and eventually end up in San Francisco.

This month’s issue also features a collection of three videos from Belinda Subraman, titled Gardenia petals and ugly art dolls. Finally, Through the Looking Glass editor Naomi Ishiguro shares a few of her experiences in Japan in her piece Haru/Natsu (spring/summer).

Fairness and justice are one of the earliest abstract ideas young children grasp, and were once considered uniquely human concepts. Recent studies have shown that dogs, monkeys, and other animals also understand what is fair and what isn’t. It would seem, then, that the universe has a sense of fairness. It is a shame that it is so often violated, but it is also something we must all learn to accept.

I am a writer/editor turned web developer. I've served as both Editor-in-chief and Technical Developer of In The Fray Magazine over the past 5 years. I am gainfully employed, writing, editing and developing on the web for a small private college in Duluth, MN. I enjoy both silence and heavy metal, John Milton and Stephen King, sunrise and sunset. Like all of us, I contain multitudes.

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Photo Essays

Initiation

South African girls learn how to become women.


Across South Africa, children of traditional families participate in initiation school. Although the duration and content of the programs differ based on regional and tribal beliefs, students wanting to learn more about bush survival and their ancestral traditions attend ngoma. In a rural village in the Northeast, 60 girls prepare for the conclusion of their three-month education — and prepare to return to their communities as women.

[Click here to view the slideshow.]

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