"…spend their weekends trying to live exactly as Indians of the North American plains did over two centuries ago. They recreate tepee encampments, dress in animal skins and furs, and forgo modern tools, using handmade bone knives to cut and prepare food….Many feel an intense spiritual link to Native myths and spirituality, and talk about 'feeling' Native on the inside."  

Michelle Geslani

Efforts to secure their release are underway. CNN is now reporting that the UN Security Council has agreed on tougher sanctions against the rouge regime.

"The five permanent members of the U.N. Security Council have agreed on a resolution that would expand and tighten sanctions on North Korea, two senior Western diplomats at the United Nations said.

The members — the United States, China, Russia, the United Kingdom and France — reached agreement while working with Japan and South Korea."

If you would like to show your support for the captured journalists, visit LiberateLaura or this Facebook group.

For background information on events surrounding their arrest and the trial, Global Voices has an excellent post by Jillian York.

Bhumika Ghimire

The cool quiet of my car is blessed solitude before my workday.  The drive to Portland begins in darkness and silence.  I don't turn on the radio — just listen to the roads and freeways.  Although it's still warm, day and night move toward the balance of September's equinox.  By the time I walk onto the ward, bright sunlight filters through the Lexan windows onto worn hospital carpet.

Which is to say that that September 11^th starts pretty much like any other September 11th.

Most of my patients are just coming to life.  By the time they venture from their beds and are marginally awake and dressed, I know the rudimentary facts.  In a series of coordinated suicide attacks, two jets have pierced the World Trade Center's Twin Towers in New York City, a third has crashed into the Pentagon, and a fourth is down in rural Pennsylvania.

I obey the human imperative and call family in New York, but the lines are down or busy or there's no one there to pick up.  A flat electronic voice politely tells me all lines are busy and suggests I place my call again later.  The ward manager wants to pray with me.  I'm not a believer, but this morning I need a binding ritual.    

In the usual scheme of things, a disheveled shuffling line of patients stops by the clinical desk to pick up their medications on their way to the community room; then breakfast and a morning news program, followed by the first group session of the day.  There's an eerie inevitability to what happens next.  In a moment someone will turn on the large-screen television.

In the course of eight hours, we — two nurses and three therapists — watch together as an endless loop of video crazily replays itself and the Twin Towers collapse and rise again and again in a bizarre demonstration of death and rebirth.  We're mesmerized by the spectacle, the upturned faces of New Yorkers, mouths open to receive burnt offerings — the ashes of family and friends.

The most delusional of our patients incorporate the television images into their illness; they smell burned flesh and hear screams that we refuse to imagine.  They watch without the filters we take for granted.         

A young man sits up close to the television, close enough to distort any coherent image.  "There, watch that body explode," he yells.  He's somewhere between terrified and excited.

The young man's hair winds into a dozen or so thick blond Rasta plaits.  Dark stubble sprouts like newly mown lawn on his drawn cheeks, and his arms and legs are dotted with old or healing needle marks. 

He's a literature and philosophy major at a small private college in Portland, the domain of the scions of educated well-to-do parents or talent large enough to earn a free pass.  His heroin use masks the paranoid delusions and auditory hallucinations of his psychosis.  He's on 3East in the middle of his first relapse — a month after he stops his medications. 

He'd felt fine.  He had a new girlfriend and wanted to lose the weight he gained from his meds.  He wanted to devour her, fuck her dusk to dawn.  Normal desires.  And the meds interfere with all of it, disrupt everything, not just his delusions. 

Now he's up all night and can't study.  He's restless and his approach has an edge — sometimes mean and off-putting.  His interpretation of reality differs from mine.  He's twenty and has embarked on what will probably be a lifelong struggle with schizoaffective disorder — a combined thought and mood disorder.

Another man, this one middle-aged, puts his arm around his college-aged peer.  His face falls into easy creases and jowls.  He's protective, coming through a vegetative depression — the kind of smothering mood disorder that holds you to your bed.  With the help of ECT — electroconvulsive therapy — and medication, he's fully awake.  His hairline retreats, the remainder grays, ambivalent on how to grow old, but he's clear eyed and animated.  His relentless depression, now lifted, provides new insight.  The two men share a room and are fast friends.  They sit together at meals and in groups.  The older man attempts to impart wisdom that's eluded him in his own life: you have to take your meds. 

Both men — in fact, most of the male patients — wear athletic shoes without shoelaces, ward policy.  During groups, a row of shoe tongues loll to the side like panting dogs.  This morning, no one leaves the community room to wash or dress; pajamas and bad breath are the order of the day.  Schizophrenia and major depression are untidy illnesses, and more so on September 11^th.

Part two next week.

Evelyn Sharenov

Forget for a second that it is a conservative magazine and the fact that most Republicans have outright spoken against Ms. Sotomayor for that supposed "racist comment" she made way back when. I think seeing this cover on any magazine would seem somewhat of an outrage. Why does she look Asian? Why is she dressed like Buddha? What's up with that title? If I didn't know better, I'd say the whole thing is straight-up racist.

According to my Mac dictionary, a caricature is defined as: "a picture, description, or imitation of a person or thing in which certain striking characteristics are exaggerated in order to create a comic or grotesque effect."

Now, I haven't been following every step of Ms. Sotomayor's career, but I don't think I've ever seen a picture of her and thought, "Wow, she sure looks Asian." On the contrary, I don't think I've ever thought that at all. Is the only way for her to seem validly "wise" to be artistically manipulated to look Asian?

The mere fact that they titled it the "The Wise Latina" seems to imply that Latinas are usually not wise. If you want a good title, you need to catch the attention of passersby. And by doing so, you need to employ a somewhat ironic phrase.

Personally, I wouldn't title an article about an adept basketball star "The Good Athlete," because that's boring. You want some jazz, some pizzazz. A little bit of an unexpected juxtaposition. For instance, about that basketball star…I might say "The Poetic Athlete" because that's a fairly uncommon mainstream stereotype. So here, National Review writer Ramesh Ponnuru came up with this juxtaposition-y title, as though "wise" and "Latina" have no business being in the same sentence, which doesn't sit very well with me.

Many critics, from Salon to AngryAsianMan have discussed their utter confusion and condemnation of the cover. According to Salon, Rich Lowry, editor of the National Review, said of the cover:

"Seems kind of self-explanatory…she has characterized herself as a wise Latina, so we ran a caricature of her in a pose associated with extraordinary equipoise, peace and — yes — wisdom…"

Thanks, Lowry. I think we get what you're trying to say here, but the idea behind actually doing this cover is definitely not as clear-cut or self-explanatory as you might think.

But are we reading too closely? I've been known to rack my brain too seriously over certain things. Could it be that Ponnuru simply penned a straightforward title? Is it possible that it is all just as innocent as Lowry makes it seem?

Michelle Geslani

In its 20th year here on the East coast, the festivities also included a flag ceremony, Thanksgiving mass, street fairs with food and merchant booths, and a cultural festival where artists and performers gathered to entertain audiences. 

The Philippine Declaration of Independence happened in 1898 and essentially proclaimed the sovereignty of the Philippine Islands from the colonial fists of Spain amidst the Spanish-American War.

(However, this didn't seem to mean anything to both Spain and the United States, as both countries chose not to recognize the Philippines' independence. The country was later ceded to the U.S. in the 1898 Treaty of Paris by Spain because of debts and assets lost. Colonized by the U.S., it wasn't until 1946 that the country was granted freedom.  Even then, it was more of a smokescreen than anything else because America continued to poke, pry, and occupy the Philippines decades after this. It's a long, tragic, and for the most part, unknown history of struggle and resistance, but really worth looking into…)

At this year's commemoration, the DAMAYAN Migrant Workers Association, as part of their "healing health program" called Lunas, operated a health fair with free services like blood pressure, cholesterol, and dental screenings and doctor consultations. DAMAYAN is a non-profit grassroots organization based in New York that promotes and protects the rights of Filipino domestic workers.

The fair was funded by the New York Women's Foundation and primarily exists to serve those domestic workers, who are mostly undocumented and uninsured. Among these migrant workers, health and sickness are concerns which most of the time go unattended and uncared for due to their legal statuses here in the States.

According to a recent DAMAYAN survey of 208 Filipino domestic workers, about 88 percent do not receive health insurance and 67 percent do not receive paid sick days. (FYI: There are about 11 million overseas Filipinos in the world; the U.S. State Department says America has a population of about 4 million.) In addition, cases of domestic worker abuse within the Filipino community are commonly seen. 

DAMAYAN also supports the statewide call for a Domestic Workers Bill of Rights, which would grant protection from "lawless environments" of long hours, low pay, and both physical and mental abuse. For more information on this campaign, and how to support it, visit this website. 

I identify myself as Filipino-American, and while I view Independence Day as a historical marker, I think it's more important that the celebration enabled the unifying of a community. Strength is in numbers, and the more that we know about ourselves and one another, the more aware we will be of the triumphs still necessary to attain.

Michelle Geslani

This past April, I was fortunate enough to be involved in the filming of an instructional documentary workshop (directed by Andrew Shemin) that taught me about the relationship between actors, audiences, and their nervous systems. I was one of four NYU Educational Theatre graduates working as an experimental actor in this workshop facilitated by BioArt Theatre Laboratories founder Madeleine Barchevska.

Although I have two degrees in theatre, I have to admit I was pretty nervous when I was told that I would be participating in an acting workshop that would involve working with science and my nervous system. 

"What in the world does science have to do with acting?" I thought. 

While I was in conservatory, I had done some pretty freaky, intense acting techniques that included Strasberg's method: like imagining I was in saunas to the point where I was ready to pass out or drinking invisible martinis to "drive my behaviorial action" in a scene. My anxiety level rose as I prayed we wouldn't have to engage in transcendental meditation where I would have to leave my body and watch it do a scene with a fellow actor.

To my relief, this was nothing of the sort. Ms. Barchevska was very kind and calm, unlike the "Mommy Dearest" acting teachers I've experienced in the past. Her BioArt technique focuses on human perception and innate social skills. If an actor can effectively use her nervous system, she will successfully be able to connect and engage the nervous systems of her audience. Many of the exercises that Ms. Barchevska took us through brought us to a place she calls "neutrality." I've experienced a state in my body similar to this as a dancer, only it was called "being in your center." Imagine how useful it would be to achieve neutrality in our daily lives, whether you are a savvy business person, teacher, performer, or just someone in a relationship. Ms. Barchevska taught me that effective communication comes from a calm and neutral place, not out of the common societal hustle and bustle reaction — what she quotes as the "fight or flight" response. It is no wonder so many of us are running around with unhealthy stress levels affecting all areas of our lives.

After our two-day shoot, I felt extraordinarily calm and collected. It was a sense of control that did not have tension, but a deep sense of peace and fulfillment. I felt like I was able to "just be" without going haywire with my worries and concerns about the past and future. In acting, they call that "being in the moment," which is the aim of every performer.

I find Ms. Barchevska's work valuable to the teacher, artist, and student. While applied theatre is the vehicle to social, individual, and community change, learning about the engine or our nervous systems while driving this process of change is key to effective communication, healing, enlightenment, and experiencing pure enjoyment from this creative process.

If you are interested in learning more about this work, please visit Ms. Barchevska's website at http://www.bioarttheatrelabs.com/.

Marisol Tirelli Rivera

A couple of months ago my mom's friends from Tennessee were touring New York for a few days. I met them for lunch and spent most of the time giving them subway directions to the fifty-two sites they had on their checklist for the following 24 hours. Their next stop was Chinatown — not so they could eat or buy silly souvenirs — but so they could say "We've seen Chinatown."

Mere steps from the entrance to the West Fourth Street station, we encountered a slice of life, New-York style. A toothless, bedraggled man, who had a sixth sense that they weren't from ‘round these parts, asked for some money. He was, for the most part, harmless but did get in their personal space (and being from a more rural area, their personal space is about ten feet more than a New Yorker's). Despite my attempts to keep them moving forward, they stopped and began a conversation with him which only served to egg him on. When I finally wrangled them underground, they were concerned.

"Are you going to be okay?" they asked.

Oh, I'll be okay, you "I ♥ New York" t-shirt-wearing, unzipped-purse-carrying, white-sneaker-trotting tourists, but you won't if you keep staring at complete strangers.

If you've ever visited New York and thought you blended in so well that you passed for a local, I'm here to tell you that you didn't. We spotted you a mile away. In fact, you might be following all of the standard local protocols: no eye contact, no chattering on like teenagers, and, for the love of God, no shorts. But still, you're not passing. It's got something to do with presence and an uncertainty, I guess.

But this is not a bad thing. My mom's friends later reported that they thought the New Yorkers were incredibly nice. "We only had to glance at our map on the subway and several people would offer directions." I've witnessed this myself, although it's less about generosity of spirit than it is a love of New Yorkers to be able to tell people where to go.

Then I take a trip to Tennessee, and the shoe is on the other foot. The locals look me up and down and know I ain't from around here. What is it? My dark clothes? My near-galloping pace? We pile in the car to drive to a diner a distance shorter than I walk to the subway station. Then we stuff ourselves and drive home again. I feel slothful, but a few more days of this and it becomes old hat. I can easily fall back into my old habits of living in the suburbs. I might be willing to trade being an outsider for the smoothness of living in a less densely packed town. Life is so much easier here — from laundry to getting around to taking my dog out.

But then where else, except New York, would I be riding the 4 train and see one woman wearing a surgical mask, another one with a t-shirt that reads "Friends don't let friends get mullets," and my one of my favorite musicians, Delta Dave Johnson, belting out the blues on his guitar and harmonica from his wheelchair?

Jacquelin Cangro

It has come to my attention that if I want to find a boyfriend I need to move to the suburbs. Why, you ask, when I live among a city population of eight million? Let me explain.

Recently I was surprised to learn of two friends who had met their beaus the old-fashioned way: in person. What makes their stories even more remarkable is that they both met their boyfriends while riding the train, specifically the Long Island Railroad and New Jersey Transit.

Their experiences reminded me of Cliff Bond's essay which I'd published on The Subway Chronicles website last year about his chance encounter with the woman who would become his wife. He noticed her sitting on a bench waiting for the uptown 1 train, sucked it up, and mesmerized her with dazzling small talk. This seems to be such a rare phenomenon these days, I chalked up his experience to random luck or fate or (insert your choice of cosmic who-ha) and forgot about it.

I'm sure plenty of people have first spied their significant other across a crowded subway car, but, and this is key, you have one shot to work up the gumption to introduce yourself. The father of your children could easily get off at the next stop while you're still figuring out if you would sound like a total loser to say, by way of intro, "Is this an express train?" (Of course the answers are, yes, it is an express train, and yes, you do sound like a loser.)

There is less pressure on the suburban commuter trains. Since these trains run on a specific schedule, most people catch the same train every rush hour, so you end up commuting with the same group day in and day out. We all know "subway schedule" is considered the definition of oxymoron, though I will say that through some strange force, I'll occasionally find myself seeing a very cute guy four days in a row. The entire time, I'm thinking, How can I break the ice? I know. I'll ask him if this is an express train. Then, as if in a payback for my waffling, I don't see him again for three months, after which time he's wearing a wedding ring.

So, for all of you who aced the analytical portion of the GRE:

If a NJ Transit train leaves Secaucus at 8:27 a.m., traveling at 20 miles per hour, and I am on a 2 train leaving Grand Army Plaza at 8:31 a.m., and the cosine of the hypotenuse equals the square of the moon in the seventh house only when the year of the rat is divided by the sound of a tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear it, when will I intersect with the man of my dreams?

A. The day trying to get from the West Village to Alphabet City doesn't involve three train transfers, a pedi-cab, a surly car service driver, and hiking boots.
B. When you stop looking. That's when you'll find him. (Thanks, Mom.)
C. When someone can actually understand the conductor's announcements.
D. When a woodchuck could chuck wood.

(You didn't think I would leave you high-and-dry without an array of multiple choice options, did you?)

Jacquelin Cangro

 The Wall Street Journal says

"California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger and the state's chief accountant Tuesday warned lawmakers that they have until June 15 to close the state's crippling budget deficit.

If they miss the deadline, the state will run out of cash by the end of July, said state Controller John Chiang. That means Californians could see a repeat of this past winter, when officials delayed payments to welfare recipients, private contractors and local governments to keep the state solvent amid a budget impasse."

 

At San Jose Mercury News, Thomas D. Elias calls the state to "dump state programs." He says that the heavy burden of state programs is dragging California behind.

"Some basic items are now on the chopping block. One proposal would eliminate the Healthy Families program that covers 942,000 children in families barely above the official poverty line. Do this and the state risks epidemics of diseases like measles and mumps, onetime scourges now kept in check by vaccinations. Do this and emergency rooms — which by federal law cannot turnmost patients away — could be swamped. It's uncertain who would pay them for their work. Don't pay them and widespread hospital closures may ensue. "No analysis (of this) has been done," conceded state finance director Mike Genest."

 

Most Americans, at this point in a recession can offer a very valuable suggestion to California government and politicians — don't spend if you can't afford it. As simple as that.

Bhumika Ghimire

How did a natural beauty like Niagara Falls become so tacky? And how is it that despite that tackiness it still holds a charm?

Driving our minivan down Clifton Hill, Canada’s first tourist trap after the American border, I’m cringing at the Louis Tussaud’s Waxworks (a knock-off of the knock-off) and the giant Frankenstein holding a burger. What I see is carnival craziness. What I’d rather see is a national park with picnic tables, a few deer, and maybe a parking lot where families can pile out of their cars and take a photograph of the falls.

But – driving our minivan down Clifton Hill, Canada’s famous street in the Niagara region, I hear a chorus of "ohhs" and "ahhs" coming from my Hungarian in-laws who are stuffed into the passenger seats behind me. They’re saying things like "wow," and "beautiful" in Hungarian while the cameras are snapping and the DVD recorder rolling.  It’s excitement compressed into a small family vehicle.

And it’s contagious. An hour later, my new husband and I are walking down Clifton Hill with his parents. Muscle cars are parading past, lights are blinking and spinning with color, and we’re laughing at the camera while posing beside the world’s tallest man…and even though I still think it’s one of the tackiest places on Earth, I also can feel the excitement and fun that thousands of couples may have felt on their honeymoon.

I suppose Niagara depends on the eye of the beholder. It isn’t my first choice (or my second, or my third, or even my twentieth) – but it has been fun to share in the excitement of others.  It seems that despite myself, I might actually enjoy my honeymoon.

In The Fray Contributor