People rarely travel on foot in the sprawling suburbs of Ottawa, unless they’re newly arrived immigrants, who don’t own a car.

It takes a lot to put the people of Ottawa into a bad mood. They shovel driveways in temperatures well below freezing, and they don’t mind. If an ice storm tears down the power lines, they cheerily start up their emergency generators and go right back to doing whatever had occupied them before. After enduring a long, dreary winter in the nondescript Canadian capital, when most of the snow has melted, locals rejoice, don shorts over goose-pimpled, raw-pink flesh and celebrate the advent of spring. If the temperature happens to dip into the low 30s a few more times, no one complains.

Because in Ottawa people are nice. That was one of the first things I noticed upon my arrival 15 years ago with my family from Czechoslovakia.

The second thing I noticed was that Ottawa didn’t have any skyscrapers. The huddle of 10-story governmental buildings and the empty, immaculately clean streets that made up Ottawa’s downtown proved sorely disappointing for someone expecting the bustle of a New York or Chicago. I was hungry for all the American clichés: soft drinks, wide, busy streets, oversized cars and greasy hamburgers. What I got was a watered down Canadian broth.

On the other hand, the people were so nice and cheerful, I wondered if they were trying to compensate for the blandness of their hometown. Unlike Czech parents, Canadians don’t spank their kids when they throw tantrums in the middle of the street. And shopkeepers don’t scowl the way cashiers in Prague’s supermarkets usually do. Instead, they bare their shiny white teeth, give each customer a highly personalized smile and say something kind like “have a good one” or “please come again.” Of course, having virtually no knowledge of English, I didn’t understand any of these courteous phrases or anything else that was being said around me, for that matter. Words melted into one another, and sentences sounded like mystical incantations, sing-songy and drawn out, unlike the harsher tones of my native language.

At nine, I hardly shared my mother’s thrill about leaving the then-still-communist Czechoslovakia for a democratic country. Where she saw clean sidewalks, well-stocked shops and tidy rows of cute, identical suburban houses, I saw only disappointment.    

I initially consoled myself with the belief that this was all just temporary. We had come for a two-month visit to see my father, who had spent the past year working as a visiting professor at the local psychiatric hospital.

A week later my mother asked me what I would think if we were to stay in Ottawa forever. I said I wouldn’t like it.

The parliament building, which houses Canada’s federal government, is the city’s main tourist attraction. It was one of the first places we visited in Ottawa.

Fake vacation

At first, I found our vacation only mildly depressing. It had stopped raining, and the weather became warmer, but the trees that lined the city’s tidy boulevards remained bare.

Eventually, we moved into a newly-built apartment in one of the city’s suburbs. The beige wall-to-wall carpet smelled antiseptic like my grandfather’s Russian car. The walls were bare and blinding white. My fears were momentarily lulled by the newness of it all but I began to panic when I realized that it was official: we were staying. Temporary had become forever.

Only several years later did I learn that the vacation had been just a pretext for gaining permission to leave Czechoslovakia. Our home country was still in the throes of the communist regime — this was 1989, six months before the Velvet Revolution — and emigration was illegal.

Casually, as though they were telling me that I could no longer spread butter on my toast, my parents informed me that we might not see our friends and relatives for a very long time. No one knew when — if ever –— we’d be allowed to return to Prague.

In any case, I had more pressing matters to worry about: English, above all else. The closer it came to the beginning of the school year, the shorter my nails got. I tried to approach the situation rationally. I knew for a fact that I would never learn to speak the language, so I tried my best to mentally prepare myself for a life spent in mute isolation, surrounded by well-meaning, forever-smiling Canadians.

Nice girls don’t punch

Why did those Canadians have to smile so much, anyway? At school kids smiled at teachers, and teachers smiled at kids. They all smiled at me. I answered by giving them a by-now-well-practiced look meant to convey confusion or at least to spare me the effort of trying to piece together a semi-coherent response.

Some cultural differences proved harder to comprehend than others. Take the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, for instance. It took me months just to wrap my mind around the concept of eating spongy white bread smeared with a mixture of salty brown goo and sweet pink jelly. Or cereal. What was the trick to eating it quickly enough so that the flakes wouldn’t become soggy? All the food tasted quite strange, in fact. And for a while, my normally ravenous appetite left me altogether.

At school, being something of a curiosity, I got plenty of attention from my classmates, so my visions of isolation didn’t materialize. But the attention I received as a foreigner didn’t keep me from feeling isolated, as when my teacher assigned me a reader one grade level below. The cover of the ugly green book depicted clowns tossing around inflated balloons. Compared to the other kids’ readers, it looked impossibly childish, and, limited English proficiency notwithstanding, I was disgusted.

But it didn’t matter because most of my English lessons took place outside the classroom anyway.

I learned the language by appropriating new phrases, just mimicking the sound of other people’s speech without distinguishing between the different words. I roughly knew what each new phrase meant, such as one of the first sentences I learned: “Have a nice weekend.”

But it took me a while to adapt to the culture of niceness. During school yard games, for instance, when I kicked a boy in the shin after he destroyed a sandcastle that I had built with the other kids, a few of the girls took me aside and explained that this was bad. It wasn’t nice to kick boys in their shins. Not having the linguistic skills to argue, I just nodded dumbly.

Mute agreement soon became the way I dealt with most situations. During school lunch break, when no one wanted to be left turning the end of the skipping rope, I would do it, mostly because I couldn’t argue my way out, but also because it was the nice thing to do.

Being nice was becoming addictive. It meant you didn’t have to explain anything, people approved of you, and they generally left you alone.

Eventually, the language situation improved, and the culture gap shrank. By the end of the year, my family and I were beginning to feel settled, and I was promoted from the green clown reader to a far more sophisticated looking one with a black and white cover. Yet even though I no longer relied on niceness as a protection mechanism, somehow, it stuck.

I learned to add the tag “How are you?” after every greeting. And when boys destroyed our sandcastles, I didn’t punch anyone. Instead, I ran away screaming with all the other girls.

In short, I had become nice.

Ottawa’s ByWard Market is by far the most colorful part of the city.

You can take the girl out of Canada …

It would be four years before we returned to Prague for a visit. Friends and relatives had been sending us excited letters about the first free elections, about shopping at Tesco and not having to wait in line for shopping carts, about buying oranges and bananas every day of the week. We saw photographs and postcards of Prague — the same cobble-stoned streets lined with crumbling historical buildings, but now those buildings were covered with colorful ads for cereal and hamburgers and dishwashing detergent. It looked cheerful, I thought — even reminiscent of North America. But it didn’t look like home.

We went to Prague in early June when everything looked fresh and new. The grass in parks, the billboards lining the streets, the shelves in supermarkets — they all formed a colorful, albeit confusing, collage. But after a four-year absence, I couldn’t find my way around the city. Even more confusingly, although I spoke Czech fluently, I was finding it difficult to communicate with Czechs. When, for instance, after paying, I would tell shopkeepers to have a nice day, they regarded me with uncomprehending suspicion. I was distraught by this at first and began to feel that maybe, just maybe, I had become too nice for my own good.

I spent the two-month visit counting the days until my return to Ottawa. But then, back in Ottawa, oddly enough, I found myself nostalgic for the rude shopkeepers and the harsh, careless drawl of the Prague accent.
.
Over the next few years, I traveled back and forth — physically and mentally — between the two cities. In Ottawa, I sometimes felt like a Czech tourist, considering the friendly manner of the locals to be annoying and insincere. In Prague, meanwhile, I was pegged as the perpetually-smiling Canadian.

There is a Czech saying: however many languages you speak, that’s how many times you are a person. Sometimes I wonder if, instead of being about Czech appreciation of multilingualism, the saying is actually a warning about fragmentation. Since I left Ottawa, at age 19, I haven’t been back since. It takes a long time to recover from niceness.  Sometimes, I still have a relapse.

In The Fray Contributor

(Rich Tenorio)

The following is the transcript of the annual meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of the Homosexual Agenda (AAA-HA!), at the presentation of the Tinky-Winky Agenda Teamwork award, presented by RuPaul to Dr. Dobson of Focus on the Family, in recognition of his outstanding service as an Undercover Agent of Homosexual Propaganda

[Cheers, applause]

[RuPaul] Thank you. Thank you.

Today I am honored to present Dr. James Dobson with the Tinky-Winky Agenda Teamwork award in recognition of his ongoing efforts to portray America’ s Homophobes as ludicrous, spiteful, clinically paranoid semi-morons. Soon, thanks to efforts like his, America’ s homophobes will have worked themselves up to such an absurd frenzy of paranoia that their antics will be the fodder for late-night comedy and reality TV alike.  

Imagine it: Homophobe Factor where buxom young homophobes face challenges like sitting through gay-friendly programming while wearing gender-inappropriate clothing! Watch them squirm will be a national pastime!

[Whooping, ebullient cries of “You go, girlfriend!”]

But before we continue with the award ceremony, I have been asked to make an announcement. Will the owner of the Fred Phelps inflatable doll that was found in the back room please reclaim it directly after the ceremony? Mr. Phelps could not be with us tonight, as he is busy furthering our Agenda by harassing schoolchildren and updating his godhatesfags.com website linking the tsunami tragedy to God’ s wrath over homosexuality. Mr. Phelps should be acknowledged for his tireless work at portraying Homophobic America as a bunch of spittle-spewing freaks. It is nice to know that he is here tonight in spirit-and evidently in latex-though, not in body.

Now, to the business at hand. Dr. Dobson, please come to the stage to accept your award.  

Dr. Dobson jogs onstage to the tune “You Sexy Thing” by Hot Chocolate.

RuPaul  We at AAA-HA! would like to present you with this Tinky-Winky Agenda Teamwork award in everlasting gratitude for your efforts on our behalf.  Let me point out that this is no sanitized Oscar. This Tinky-Winky replica is anatomically correct for your pleasure. We have gone the extra mile in creating this just for you-please note the removable pink feather boa which can make a stunning addition to anyone’ s wardrobe. The entire thing is machine-washable. We have done all this because we could not have asked for a better partner and look forward to a long and profitable future with you in our ongoing Compulsory Homosexuality for America’ s Next Generation (CHANG) program.

Dr. Dobson — by the way, I loooove the sequin pasties you’ re wearing! Did you wax your chest especially for us? Can I touch? Thank you.

Ahem. Excuse me; I’ m getting a little flushed. But, I’ m here to present this award, not fondle the honoree. So, Dr. Dobson, in presenting this award, we wish to acknowledge your important contribution to advancing the Homosexual Agenda by launching patently pernicious attacks on innocent cartoon characters in the tradition of Jerry Falwell’ s fabulous flap over Tinky-Winky, the “gay” Teletubby.  

Dr. Dobson reaches for the trophy, but RuPaul dangles it just out of reach

Before I give this to you, though, I have to ask the question that I am sure is on everyone’ s mind this evening: How did you know that SpongeBob would present such a ripe opportunity to expose the hypocrisy of our enemies, Traditional Families?

Dr. Dobson Well, RuPaul, as you know, I’ m a doctor. And I knew that when I singled out SpongBob Squarepants, who is of course a sponge, for trying to brainwash the nation’ s children into accepting the Homosexual Agenda, Mr. Squarepants’ hermaphrodism would ultimately come to light.  

RuPaul Of course! Everyone knows that sponges are hermaphrodites, and if Mr. Squarepants portrays hermaphrodism as a normal and acceptable lifestyle-how could you not speak out against the Hermaphroditic Agenda? How could you, church-going and morally-upright Heterosexual that you are, not denounce such a thing?  

Dobson Exactly! And when I saw that Mr. SquarePants would be participating in a children’ s video dancing with Clifford the Big Red Dog and Barney the Dinosaur to the to the tune, “We Are Family”, I immediately set about calling the video sinister, exhorting people to express their “shock and outrage” at the appalling message. And of course, everything went exactly according to plan.  Homophobes everywhere reached for their phones to make piously outraged calls denouncing the cartoon characters and their nefarious influence on children. It’ s only a matter of time before they start campaigning against the unnatural lifestyles of sponges! I hope to announce someday soon the nationwide homophobe boycott of dishwashing for its apparent link to aberrant sexual behavior.

RuPaul Well, you are just a genius, aren’ t you! But lest we forget how far we’ ve come, we should acknowledge that our alliance has not always been smooth sailing. Things didn’ t always go so neatly according to plan. Do you remember your idea to put anti-gay marriage initiatives on swing-state ballots?  

Dobson Yeah, we’ d have to say that backfired. The glorious irony of talking about family values “marriage promotion,” then turning around to outlaw gay marriage was too subtle for our enemies, Traditional Families. Unfortunately, they seemed almost eager to overlook that inconsistency, and rather than cowering in their homes, too embarrassed and confused by their own hypocrisy to show their homophobic faces in public, they turned out in droves to enact anti-gay initiatives.

RuPaul Still we must persist-and we will prevail! Of course we expect minor setbacks like these in a program as grand and far-reaching as CHANG. I know I speak for everyone here when I say how glad I am that even after the marriage debacle, we decided to give you the benefit of the doubt! People will be laughing about your SpongeBob brouhaha for years to come!

Dobson I appreciate that, but I’ d like to give credit where credit is due — I wasn’ t the first to suggest targeting Mr. Squarepants. Alan A. Sears, please stand up.  

[The crowd erupts in wolf whistles as Mr. Sears rises, clad in a studded leather dog collar and latex pants.]

RuPaul Of course! Mr. Sears of the Alliance Defense Fund [shouts of, “Yeah, baby!”] Mr. Sears was the first to see that Mr. Squarepants was a ripe target for our plot as early as last summer. Thank you, Mr. Sears. You make take your seat.  

Unfortunately for Mr. Sears —  and why you, Dr. Dobson, are onstage today accepting the Tinky Winky Agenda Teamwork award — the timing was not quite right. You — you somehow knew to wait until the We Are Family video came out.  What made the video such a good tool?  

[DD]  Two words, RuPaul: “Tolerance and diversity.” I know, at first you weren’ t sure you wanted to unmask them for what they were, “buzzwords for homosexual advancement”, as I called them. You kept asking me, “Why should we risk exposing the truth?” But calling that phrase, so upright and innocent-sounding, “pernicious propaganda” was right-on in portraying the paranoia of Homophobic America. Thanks to our brave forbearers, the PC Police of the 1980s, “tolerance and diversity”are standards of American values as unassailable as mom and apple pie. When the homophobes come out frothing against those values, they appear loonier than the ’ toons they’ re attacking.

RuPaul Well, you know what they say, Dr. Dobson: “Just ’ cuz you’ re paranoid, doesn’ t mean they’ re not out to get you!”

[uproarious laughing from the audience]

In closing, I’ d just like to say it takes a special man to expose the Hypocrisy of the Homophobes as artfully as you, Dr. Dobson, have done. We may never fully understand the vision you had that Joseph Chambers lacked when he attacked beloved muppets, Burt and Ernie. Or why even the Tinky-Winky kerfuffle lacked the staying power of your Spongebob sputterings. Even Fred Phelps’  diabolical diatribes have failed where you succeeded most beautifully-though as far as I know there is not a line of Dr. Dobson inflatable dolls. But we’ ll work on that!

Until that time, Dr. Dobson, please accept this Tinky Winky Agenda Teamwork award.  You, above all, deserve it.

In The Fray Contributor

Killing for fun may not seem like a social norm, but it is in Minnesota. Recently a nationally syndicated comic strip, “Zippy the Pinhead,” recognized this. One of Zippy’s friends, who was considering a run for the presidency, remarked, “I eat meat occasionally. But I can’t see hunting and killing as a pastime.”

Zippy replied, “Well, we just lost Minnesota.”

Similar conditions obtain in Wisconsin and New Mexico, where my stories take place. I have heard gunshots on opening day and discussions of this activity at church.

Thomas Lee Boles cares for Marena, a fawn residing at the Alameda Park Zoo in Alamogordo, N.M.

Marena

When I lived in Alamogordo, New Mexico, I had the very special joy of hand raising a fawn. I named her Marena, after a doe in the novel “Bambi” who prophesied peace between humans and animals. Though I was unemployed, nearly broke, recovering from a nearly fatal illness, and still facing difficult surgery, I wouldn’t have traded that experience for anything.

Marena was a mule deer (the species is named for their large ears) brought to the Alameda Park Zoo by someone who found her wandering along a highway alone. I had already made friends with the zoo’s two adult mule deer, whom I named Bambi and Faline, and, through them, with the zookeepers and director, Steve Diehl. Bambi had given the first warning that my appendix was about to burst, so we all knew something very special was going on.

Marena was the happiest baby I have ever known, always full of life, love, and joy.  When I came to visit, I called out, “Marena! Where is my little sweetheart?”

There came the sound of tiny galloping feet (all four of them could have fit on the palm of my hand, with room to spare) and an eager voice calling, “Meh! Meh! Me-eh-eh!” To say that her tail wagged would be a gross understatement.

Like a dog greeting her dearest long lost friend, the whole animal wagged, from head to toe. She fizzed, like champagne.

Once I suggested to Steve that Marena wanted me to come in at night.

”At night!” he exclaimed. “Why ever at night?”

”She nibbles my ears,” I explained. “You know what that
means.”

As another friend said, in a deep, throaty voice, “Hey, baby, whaddaya doin’ tonight?”

One day, as I was feeding Marena, a family stopped to watch, and began asking questions. Soon the conversation was like one of those scenes in Family Circus when the word balloons float free, not attached to anyone in particular.

Meanwhile Marena finished her bottle and began to run and play, returning occasionally to be petted and bestow kisses upon me lavishly. A pattern emerged in the conversation. The man kept repeating, “She’s so docile! She’s so docile!”

As they left I heard him say, “I don’t think I’ll ever eat venison again.”

Thomas Lee Boles and a doe, Sugar, share a close moment at Fawn-Doe-Rosa in St.  Croix Falls, Wisconsin.

Sugar

When I moved to Minnesota in December 2000, I mentioned my experiences of deer to several people at church.

One person said, “You’d like Fawn-Doe-Rosa. You can go into the yard with the deer; they eat from your hand.”

”Where’s that?” I asked.

”Near Taylors Falls.”

In the middle of the worst winter in about 10 years (even the natives were impressed), I went looking. I drove all the Minnesota approaches to Taylors Falls, and found no Fawn-Doe-Rosa.

That was because it isn’t in Minnesota. It’s across the Saint Croix River, in Wisconsin.

It was closed until May 15.

I awaited that date as eagerly as the Christmas when I got my Lionel train. Presenting myself at the entrance, I bought my admission and some feed, and began getting acquainted with white-tailed deer. I did this every day off, all spring, summer, and fall, until the place closed for winter.  As in Alamogordo, I watched for sick or injured animals and humans doing things that they should know better.  (Deer are not riding animals, like horses.)

One day I found that my money was no longer any good. Admission and all the feed I could give away were free. Not only that, there was a party for my birthday.

In my second summer, a fawn appeared with an odd malformation of the left ear. The tip was bent over and welded, as it were, to the inner lining. I called her Lop Ear, but soon had good reason to change that to Sugar, and look eagerly for that peculiar ear.

My mom once said my dog loved me because “You were the one who got down on the floor with her.” So I began sitting on the ground among the deer. I saw that they groomed each other, and even their babies. Seeing the fawns return the favor, I realized this is more than sanitation: it’s love.

One day in June there presence appeared behind me, and felt the same touch on my hair. In the most profound delight I have ever known, I grew very still. Suddenly, there were two more waiting in line — and one was Sugar.

She began doing that every day, and washed my hair better than I ever did. She was very thorough, sometimes working half an hour at a time, yet incredibly gentle. But if she sees another deer do that, she flies into a jealous rage and beats him up. Even the queen of the herd, who started all this, isn’t safe.

One day someone asked, “Do you have a name for this animal?”

I answered, “I call her Sugar, because she’s my sweetheart.”

A picture of a bottle-feeding session with Marena adorns the cover of my book, Deer Diary.  A picture of Sugar’s ablutions is at BookCather.com, and will be on the cover of my next book, Deer Companions.

Anyone who thinks all this doesn’t challenge a Minnesota norm should consider what happened to our former Governor, Jesse Ventura, when he spoke up for Bambi.

In The Fray Contributor

Making Grogue (a type of rum) is a tradition in Cape Verde. Villages take great pride in their distilleries, which use antiquated equipment and centuries-old techniques.

Click here to enter the visual essay.

“Shinta, shinta!“ Nha Olivia commanded.

I sat.

I wasn’t tired, but in Cape Verde, guest-host interactions follow exacting rules.

She left the room.

Scuffling noises came from under the table, but I refrained from investigating. I waited. I was learning that all things reveal themselves in time, if you are patient. A nose poked out from under the lace tablecloth. I stamped my foot.

Two piglets shot out from under the table heading in different directions. One barely touched the ground as it sped through the courtyard. The second one miscalculated and ran into the kitchen where my hostess was preparing food. Within 30 seconds it shot back through the room following its accomplice’s route, tailed by a five-year-old girl paddling its butt with a switch.

I took out a film canister and filled it with pebbles, turning it into a makeshift rattle. The girl watched me closely.

Ten minutes later my hostess, Nha Olivia, came back into the room.

Embarrassed that she had caught me playing, I composed myself. Adult males do not play. But instead of noticing my impropriety, Nha Olivia scolded the young girl and tried to get her to give me back the rattle. I insisted that it was a gift.

The Peace Corps had selected me to live and work on Santiago, the largest island in the Cape Verde archipelago. Even though Santiago is the home of Cape Verde’s capitol city, Praia, most of the island is struggling to develop. Villages lack infrastructure. Electricity, plumbing, and waste management are uncommon luxuries. When I moved to remote Rincon, I expected to suffer a lot. However, the lack of amenities was not the biggest hurdle in adapting to my island life. My difficulty was in learning a new approach to social situations and a new understanding of the importance of family and friends.

When it was time for supper, Nha Olivia began clucking at me and I pecked for a thread of meaning in what she’d said … something about the food.

“Katxupa … (clu, cluc, cluck) … Forti pa bu … (clu, cluc, cluck).”

She set the large bowl of Katxupa (a corn stew of beans and vegetables or, on special occasions, pork or tuna) on the table and looked at me expectantly.

I hated asking Capeverdeans to repeat themselves. After a year of struggling with the Kriolu language, simple conversations should have been easy. At the age of 32, I had been reduced to poorly constructed subject-verb-object sentences.

I stammered, “(Uh …), Kuze ki bu fla-m?” (which I hoped meant, “What did you ask me?”).

She smiled and calmly repeated the question a little louder, as though I were deaf rather than incompetent.

This time, I got it.

“Katxupa will make you strong,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Ayan.” I responded with bashful laughter. She spooned out a bowl full of the stew and left the room. In Cape Verde, it is polite to leave a guest to eat alone, one of many customs I never got used to.

My struggle to adapt in Cape Verde taught me to see in a new way. My ideas of what constitutes “normal” or “beautiful” changed. I learned that the issues of which colors grate, what sounds clash, or what body functions are publicly acceptable — all depend on who and what surrounds you.

Learning the steps

My lack of language ability in Cape Verde kept conversations focused on practical matters — fishing, farming, child-rearing. My friendships were largely restricted to men. When men get together, the conversation is about one of three topics: soccer, fishing, or mind-numbing grogue (a homemade rum produced in Cape Verde).

The only times Capeverdeans deviate from this pattern of gender-segregated socializing is for dancing and sex. Having no girlfriend, I opted for the former. In Cape Verde dancing has a nearly spiritual importance. Children dance the Funana (a sexy two-step) by the age of two. Simply turning on the radio is usually enough to get two or three people out of their seats.

A good dancer automatically commands respect. In my village the best dancer was a gay man. Although gay men in Cape Verde are traditionally shunned, this man’s dancing prowess made him incredibly popular, especially with women. He was invited to every party.

My attempts at dancing, however, always sent two or three people to the floor laughing and clutching at their sides.

So I practiced. Eventually, I improved. Girls who had previously left me mid-song on the dance floor, laughing as they walked away, were now hanging around for a second song. I started to feel like I was fitting in.

The stark landscape of Cape Verde is spiced with lush Riberas (canyons) that provide water, shade and fertile farm land.

Choosing the right partner

One of the fundamental rules of cultural adaptation is honesty. If you don’t understand, acting like you do will only get you in trouble.

My first meeting with Ciza was a good example of this. I first encountered her on my way home from teaching at the high school. She and her daughter were the only other passengers in the flatbed truck. Dressed fashionably in a tight-fitting top and trendy jeans, she was wrapping her long straightened hair in a scarf when I boarded the truck. She was a beautiful change from the usual fishmonger co-passengers. It was difficult not to stare. Fighting back my anxiety, I introduced myself. We tried to chat but could barely hear each other over the flapping wind.

“Abo, bu mora na Rincon?” I asked, hoping to find out if she too lived in Rincon.

“Kuza?” she looked at me with a confused expression. I repeated my question louder.

“… Ooh, Sin.” she confirmed, nodding her head up and down in case I didn’t hear. Then she asked me the same question. “E bo?“

“Ayan. N mora ku Maria Tavares,” I answered, explaining that I lived with Maria. The wind was furious.

“Kuza?” We continued on like this for the hour-long ride.

I struggled to keep the conversation going. I asked what she did for a living and about her little girl, but I had trouble concentrating on her answers. Every time she looked at me, her large brown eyes whipped my thoughts into dizzy spirals. Luckily, by the end of the trip she was asking me questions too; wanting to know where I was from and why I had come to live there.

When I got home I asked one of the boys I lived with if he knew who she was. He said that she lived nearby and the father of her child was living in France with a French girlfriend and might not come back.

When I mentioned that I was interested in meeting her, Maria (the mother of the family I lived with) grabbed my hand and marched me over to Ciza’s house. I felt odd storming the home of a girl I barely knew, letting an elderly lady serve as my matchmaker. It was not the kind of dating game I was accustomed to in America.

We were greeted at the door by Nozhina, an older woman living with Ciza. After a lively — and to me, incomprehensible — conversation between Nozhina and Maria, Ciza came into the room. I blushed. Luckily, Maria did most of the talking. I stood by as they chatted for about twenty minutes, and then Maria took me back home. It seemed, at first, like nothing had been accomplished on our little visit, but slowly it became clear what Maria had done.

Maria explained that I was now expected to Txiga with Ciza’s family. In Cape Verde, if you meet an acquaintance’s family, you are expected to visit them as often as possible. This visit may only be once or twice a year, if you live on opposite ends of the island, or as often as once a week, if you live close. This type of visit is called a Txiga in southern Kriolu — and can be the perfect opportunity to strike up a romance. Maria was a genius!

I worked hard to uphold my end of the responsibilities, stopping by once or twice a week to say hello.

In time, I discovered the Txiga had a few drawbacks. Normally, Nohzinha would harass me till I had eaten two bowls full of Katchupa, even if I wasn’t hungry. Additionally, as soon as I arrived Ciza would often steal away to prepare something for me to eat. While she was in the kitchen, Nozinhia would make fun of my bad Kriolu and occupy me with chatter. As a result, Ciza and I never had time to talk.

Frustrated, I asked my friend Emiliano, a local who was better schooled in such matters, what I should do.

Emiliano decided to intervene by becoming my second matchmaker. He suggested that we go to the beach on the other side of the island for an afternoon. He told me he would arrange an outing for that Sunday with Ciza and one of her friends. But he insisted that I keep everything quiet and not tell people where we were going. I went along with his plot.

On Saturday night, I was ready for the rendezvous. But my fast paced island romance fell out of step. Emiliano told me that the outing was canceled because Ciza didn’t want to insult her ‘mother-in-law’ by going on an outing with another man.

MOTHER IN LAW? I thought I had misunderstood. Since I had heard that she and her boyfriend were estranged, I was puzzled. I asked Emiliano where this mother-in-law was.

“Oh, I thought you knew,” he said, “Nozinhia is her mother-in-law!”

I was mortified that I had spent weeks sheepishly calling on Ciza only to spend most of my time socializing with her husband’s mother. I ended my visits.

Forgiveness took an unfamiliar form. About two weeks later I was sitting in front of the house when a shadow fell over me. I looked up to find Nozinha towering over me.
“Ingratu!“ (ungrateful) she spat out. For an instant her face was a mask of menace.

“Me? What do you mean?”

Then her grimace melted, and she grinned, showing all of the teeth she didn’t have.
“It has been two weeks since you stopped by. And I find you playing here! Come on, we are going to my house right now.”

She dragged me to her house where she fed me Katxupa and we listened to the radio. I had been so focused on my unsuccessful dating that I hadn’t realized my greater social accomplishment. I am sure that Nozinhia knew what my intentions had been but we never spoke of it. In all the confusion of trying to learn how to date Capeverdean style, I had accidentally made a close friend.

In The Fray Contributor

Although Video News Releases, or VNR’s, seem to have been around at least since the early 90s, their use seems to have increased in the last five years. Sure, President Clinton, a savvy marketer, used them. But we shouldn’t underestimate President Bush’s skills in this area, nor should we suppose that the blurred line between objectivity and advocacy — as evidenced by Karen Ryan, Alberto Garcia, Mike McManus, Maggie Gallagher, Armstrong Williams, and Jeff Gannon — was somehow unintentional.

While I’ve watched with bemusement, awe, and just a bit of outrage over the years as print advertisers have perfected the art of mimicking news, a syrupy sweet “article” extolling a new diet has nothing on a seemingly live news broadcast extolling everything from government policies to Chevrolet trucks. I balk at being expected to discern advertising from reporting when the former is being read by T.V. reporter Tish Clark Dunning as part of her regular broadcast.

The long festering problem was exposed to the world at large in last week’s New York Times article. Both corporations and the government have cottoned on to creating advertising clips that fit seamlessly into regular news reports. Distribute one of these clips via Reuters without it being labeled too clearly, and voilá, free advertising in the guise of news. Sometimes reporters even help by reading the script themselves.

If you like drug war conspiracy theories, the trouble could be said to have its beginnings back in 2000, when The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws (NORML) filed suit with the Federal Communications Commission, complaining that the Office of National Drug Control Policy (ONDCP) was smuggling anti-marijuana messages into news broadcasts. At this point, it appears that video news releases were still just a twinkle in the ONDCP’s eye. Having been authorized by Congress to buy discount advertising time from the networks, ONDCP came up with a brilliant idea. They offered stations the advertising time back if they would insert their own anti-drug messages (approved by the government, of course) into regular broadcasts.

In its slap on the wrist ruling, the FCC referred back to the Radio Act of 1927, which required sponsors to be identified, and admitted that “the basic purpose of such requirements has not changed since that time: ‘listeners [and viewers] are entitled to know by whom they are being persuaded’” (insertion in original text). However, rather than focusing on the “the news networks are liars” issue, they focused on Section 317 of the Communications Act of 1934, which says, “All matter broadcast by any radio station for which service, money, or any other valuable consideration is directly or indirectly paid … shall … be announced as paid for, or furnished … by such person.”

In the ONDCP case, the FCC limply declared that “sponsorship identification is required and we caution the Networks to do so in the future.” However, they apparently were not too worked up over the issue since they imposed no sanctions. Their reasoning relied heavily on determining what networks had received in return for allowing the government to rewrite their scripts, a rather complicated tradeoff, the “complexity” of which seems to have befuddled the regulatory agency.

“What then,” one might ask, “would be wrong with just perpetrating a simple old fraud on the public if no ‘service, money, or any other valuable consideration’ is paid for it?” Thus, in my retelling, was born the ONDCP’s next brilliant idea, the Video News Release, otherwise known as the “prepackaged news story” or “covert propaganda.” These labels were given by the unpopular-with-the-administration Government Accounting Office. The GAO, earlier this year, gave the thumbs down to the ONDCP on its VNR’s produced and distributed since 2002. Oops.

However, President Bush doesn’t quite agree, and got the Justice Department to overrule that other department. (It should be said that the current Comptroller General, David M. Walker, was appointed in 1998 for a 15-year term, and hence probably is not as concerned as Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez about what Bush wants.) Anyway, the Justice Department issued its own guidelines that, according to Bush, say VNR’s are fine,“so long as they’re based upon facts, not advocacy.” As contributor Andrew Blackwell details this month, reporters hired by the government don’t necessarily doctor the news. They do go out looking for a certain type of news — that which is supportive of the American position — while avoiding other types, a process combining fact and advocacy. A process which would be seen as biased in a journalism ethics class, but which the Justice Department seems to suggest is not only not illegal, but does not, in fact, exist. In the Justice Department’s book, fact and advocacy are apparently diametrically opposed.

So, according to the Justice Department ruling, as long as a government agency “provide[s] accurate (even if not comprehensive) information,” even if it smuggles that information into a news broadcast that does not identify the government as the author of the “news,” everyone is good to go. Our tax dollars at work.

Since nothing is going to happen to government agencies or the companies like Medialink Worldwide who create VNR’s, the focus has to be on the news agencies who never learnt about plagiarism in school. Shouldn’t they be embarrassed to be the government’s shill without getting anything in return?

Perhaps there is still time before the Senate votes on The Broadcast Decency Enforcement Act of 2005 (The Janet Jackson-inspired bill that ups the fines paid by stations broadcasting material deemed “obscene, indecent, and profane,” yet to be agreed upon by both houses, continues to float around D.C.) to elaborate a bit on the bill’s definition of decency.

So humor me, Michael Powell, before you step down as head of the FCC. Assume fact, truth, and authorship to be considered sacred ideas, and profanity “marked by contempt or irreverence for what is sacred.” Would it be too far a stretch to find that, whether or not a station receives moola or moola-substitute, it is wrong and indecent to broadcast fake news?

If the FCC doesn’t act, we can rely on news directors’ discernment in these matters. In The New York Times’ March 13 exposé, David M. Winstrom, the director of Fox News Edge, is quoted as saying “If I got one [a VNR] that said tobacco cures cancer or something like that, I would kill it.”

If not reassured, I recommend investing. Medialink Worldwide’s stock price has risen 20 percent since December.

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Nicole Leistikow

Sunday night’s Academy Awards proved that we’ve come a long way in the so-called culture wars. There was a time when Clint Eastwood cut the cloth of the perfect liberal boogeyman. In 1971, The New York Times film critic Pauline Kael famously called Dirty Harry a “medieval fascist” for his unrepentant pursuit of vigilante justice. Eastwood’s characters saw the world in Manichean terms, and his movies’ plots were simple-minded conflicts of Good vs. Evil — a storyline the Bush Administration is fond of imposing on real world conflicts.

Fast-forward to 2005, and Eastwood — a lifelong Republican — has become the bête noir of conservative pundits like Michael Medved and Rush Limbaugh, as well as the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, which has called Eastwood’s Oscar-winning Million Dollar Baby “morally offensive.” The film’s “permissive depiction of euthanasia,” the USCCB claims, “will leave Catholic viewers emotionally against the ropes.”

Now, I don’t claim to know why Catholic bishops watch movies, but I do know that great art does occasionally challenge our ethical and moral sensibilities. Oedipus Rex, for instance, involves the prickly issues of patricide and incest. Same goes for a lot of Shakespeare’s work, which could be skewered by twenty-first century Republicans for portraying for all kinds of acquaintance-assisted suicide.

None of this matters, of course, if you are the moral arbiter of all that is good and just in America like Wall Street Journal columnist Michael Medved, who spoiled the plot of the movie because, as he claims, “There are competing moral demands that come into the job of a movie critic. We have a moral and fairness obligation to not spoil movies. On the other hand, our primary moral obligation is to tell the truth.”

The truth being, evidently, that Dirty Harry has become a puppet of liberal Hollywood.

Still, this self-righteousness is nothing compared to News Max columnist Ted Baehr, who called Million Dollar Baby a “neo-Nazi movie.”

Take that, Pauline Kael!

What the controversy over Million Dollar Baby really underscores, though, is a paradox in the ascendancy of the Religious Right since the last election. While religious conservatives from James Dobson to Jerry Falwell have amped up their cultural critique of everything from the Super Bowl to SpongeBob, they have yet to accomplish one single victory in culture wars. The sound and fury of the Religious Right may get rural voters in Alabama to the polls in November, but let’s face the facts: Religious conservatives are never going to change popular culture.

That’s because, as Thomas Frank demonstrates in What’s the Matter with Kansas , they’ve built an entire political strategy based on false martyrdom. As Frank writes:

[The Religious Right’s] voters toss a few liberals out of office and Hollywood doesn’t change …They return an entire phalanx of pro-business blowhards to Washington and still the culture industry goes on its merry way. But at least those backlash politicians that they elect are willing to do one thing differently: They stand there are on the floor of the U.S. Senate and shout no to it all.

Still, as the 2005 Academy Awards proved, Americans — even those who consider themselves apolitical — love to watch transgression. The transgression may be sexual (e.g. ABC’s Desperate Housewives or HBO’s Sex and the City) or moral (e.g. Million Dollar Baby) — sometimes it may even be a conflation of the two — but it always appeals to viewers across the aisle. In fact, it’s only when the transgression is overtly political, as in Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11, that the culture industry gets cold feet.

Right-wing politicians and pundits who think a Republican-dominated Congress and second Bush Administration will change the tenor of Hollywood or prime time TV are either self-deluded or using rhetoric to manipulate their religious base. The latter is more likely since Republican presidents since Ronald Reagan have been chirping on about “moral values,” only to spend all of their political capital on economic policies like tax cuts and Social Security privatization.

Next time a conservative Republican politician pledges to clean up the crassness of American culture or some such nonsense, someone in the media — just for once — should stand up and say: “Go ahead, make my day!”

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The writer
Russell Cobb, InTheFray Assistant Managing Editor

Russell Cobb

“I don’t feel like the Xanax is working anymore,” I lied.

“You’re on an extremely high dose, but if you need more, I’ll up the dosage,” my shrink replied in disbelief, shaking his head.

A smile began at the corners of my mouth but I held it in; he couldn’t know the Xanax was my only source of joy, of pleasure. I was now on six milligrams of Xanax a day, twice the recommended maximum. I had long since moved up from the blue, football-shaped tablets to the slender white pills known as bars. Also a psychopharmacologist, my psychiatrist prided himself in his knowledge of drugs and dosages, yet I was playing him for a fool. I left his office clutching the prescription in my hand, hesitant to put it in my pocket, hesitant to let it out of my sight whatsoever.

It was a beautiful day. Staring across Fifth Avenue into the park, I was jealous of all the people seemingly having fun: Women pushing baby strollers and carrying their Louie bags, and men strutting around in suits. I wished I could be like them. I wished I could be “normal.” Instead, I was wearing dirty blue sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, and sneakers. My hair was greasy as all hell since I hadn’t showered in who knows how long. I usually didn’t go outside. I usually didn’t get out of bed. But for my monthly prescription of Xanax, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do.

The subway home seemed to take forever; it always does when you’re waiting for something extra special at the end of the tunnel. I couldn’t go to the pharmacy on my block because I once broke into a psychotic rage, accusing the pharmacist of insinuating that I was a crackhead after I’d finagled another prescription just days after filling the original. After popping the entire bottle in only a few days, I told my doctor the Xanax fell down the drain after I sat it on the sink. It was a sorry excuse.

I’d simply have to go to a pharmacy down Queens Boulevard, also known as the Boulevard of Death. I used to be an uppers girl, but that grew tiring after a while. Because of my bipolar disorder, I could get pretty high on my own brain chemistry. I preferred to take my daily maximum dosage of Xanax around 5 p.m., a few hours after I woke up. My depression killed me; I could not stand being aware. After taking the Xanax, I would return to my dream world for the remainder of the day. That was definitely better than being awake. Lying there, in that bed, in that dark room, in my dirty apartment. I stopped telling others how I felt. No one understood anyway, and I doubt anyone really cared. “Get a job,” “Go back to school,” and “Clean the apartment” were phrases I couldn’t bear to listen to any longer. What “they” failed to understand was that I couldn’t do anything. I was surprised every time I arose to take a shit, rather than simply doing it in bed. It was more than depression.

I threw up when I was forced to listen to my mother talk about how well her Prozac was working for her and how I just needed to find what drug would work for me. I wish I had her “depression.” Well, Mommy, I’ve been on every medication there is and none of them work for me. I vomited when I saw the Zoloft egg jumping around the television screen, talking about not feeling like “your old self.” I say “Fuck off” to my mother and the egg, and to my boyfriend, who is an uncaring bastard, to other family members, and even friends. Once they’ve been bedridden for five months, showering every other week and eating nothing, then I might take their well-meaning advice. I waited the obligatory half-hour to get my prescription filled, took 10 milligrams, and proceeded to slip into unconsciousness.

July

“Baby, please get up. It’s Fourth of July — let’s go to the beach,” my boyfriend urged. I remained motionless under the blankets with my eyes closed and thought about how much I hated him.

“You love the beach.” Reid was always pleading with me to do something, while reminding me of my interests. Rarely did I care to appease him. But that day, I tried. “We’ll smoke at the beach. Don’t get all ‘Xanied-out.”

“Your weed sucks,” I replied, which to him was the ultimate insult. I decided it was useless to shower since I was going to the beach. I really could care less that my legs were hairy, but drew the line at leaving the house looking like a French woman. When I looked in the mirror I saw my eyebrows were crying out to be waxed.

“Reid, I can’t go, I look like shit.” Whining had become the permanent tone of my voice.

“You look beautiful,” he yelled from the other room. Shut up, dickhead, I thought. I was infuriated since he hadn’t even looked at me.

I yelled, “Don’t say that to me. I look like shit!”

“You’re always beautiful. Hurry up!” I got incensed at him, yelling at me to hurry up, and since I hated him, I spat in his face when he entered the bathroom.

“Alexis! You have to control yourself!”

The notion that I could control myself was humorous and a foreign concept. Self-control was impossible even with the aid of numerous mood stabilizers, anti-depressants, anti- psychotics, and anti-anxieties. I felt nothing but intense anger. What caused this, I didn’t know, but I kept it at bay with Xanax.

Reid took me by the hands to comfort me, but I took everything out of context and felt, irrationally, that he was going to hurt me. We often took our constant fighting up a notch to physical confrontations. I began to scream for him to get off me, mixing in profanities at every available opportunity. I reminded myself of The Exorcist, and although I knew I was acting crazy, I didn’t know how to stop. My emotions, my mind, and the physiological aspect of my brain were all working on different pages. If I had been living with anyone else, I would have probably been committed to an institution. But Reid knew how much I despised mental hospitals, and he didn’t have the heart to admit me. Not yet at least.

After I had plucked my eyebrows to death for nearly an hour, I was ready to go. As soon as we arrived at Long Beach, I wanted to return to the apartment. The sun, the people, everything was too much for my tired brain to comprehend. I dragged myself out of the Honda Civic and languidly pulled myself to the beach. As Reid was setting up various blankets and towels, I retrieved a water bottle from my beach bag and shoved 8 milligrams of Xanax down my throat, relieved that in about 20 minutes I wouldn’t know what the hell was going on.

I opened my eyes to Reid, and was surprised to see he had a terrified look on his face. He was yelling at me, but I was foggy from the Xanax and everything took a few moments to register. Where was I? Unlike the bedroom, it was sunny and people were staring at me. Shit, I was at the beach.

Finally, I could distinguish Reid’s voice from all the ones chattering in my head. He was asking me what I took, but I was too exhausted to answer. “You have sauerkraut stuck all over you.” I slowly sat up and looked down. The sauerkraut had dried to crust in the sun and was stuck to the corners of my mouth, my chin, my chest and my hands. How did I do this? “You were eating a hot dog, I fell asleep, woke up, looked next to me, and there you were, looking like you were dead. I couldn’t wake you up.” Reid led me to the ocean, and we cleaned the crusty sauerkraut off my body together.

September

I had various corners pressuring me to attend school. I knew I was in no state to return, but I obliged. By now I had coerced my doctor into upping my Xanax to 8 milligrams a day. To the average person, 3 milligrams is the maximum, but I kept asking for more and the prescriptions kept coming. He was a very giving person, as he was seeing me for free. Usually the doctor charges $500 for 45 minutes. I couldn’t attend the full first week of classes. I scheduled an emergency appointment with my doctor. “I’m having trouble, a lot of trouble — it’s practically impossible. I can’t get out of bed for anything,” I explained. “It’s the depression part of the bipolar. You have a severe mental illness. Perhaps you shouldn’t have gone back to school. You really should consider returning to an institution. If you came to my hospital, I could keep a closer eye on you. I also think it’s time for you to consider electroconvulsive therapy for your condition.”

“Maybe at the end of the semester, but I need something now. I’m failing out of school. It’s my senior year.”

“Alright, I’ll give you a prescription for Adderall,” he said, with slight hesitation. “But once the semester’s over, you have to do something about yourself.” I left his office that day, and now I wonder why neither of us made the connection that I couldn’t get out of bed because I was on such a massive amount of Xanax.

I didn’t want to discontinue using it, but I secretly wished he would have forced me to stop. I thought I couldn’t get worse, but my descent into prescription drug addiction had only just begun. I didn’t know what I wanted. I was going on my ninth month in bed. I didn’t necessarily have the desire to get out yet, but I definitely didn’t like being confined there.

I didn’t know what I wanted; all I knew was that we had tried every single one of the “new generation of medications designed for mood disorders,” and none of them worked. He talked electroconvulsive therapy up like it was a miracle, and a miracle is what I needed. Too bad I didn’t believe in them. No one knew how deep and scary my depression had grown; even more frightening was the thought of the mania destined to come after.

By keeping myself drugged up, I could stave the mania off — the voices, the visions, and everything else that accompanied it. Suicide was a constant thought in my mind, but I didn’t want to hurt those around me, so I continued lying in bed and taking a shitload of Xanax.

It was only slightly after 2 p.m. when I got home from the city. I had a few hours until Reid was off work and about 20 minutes until my prescription was ready. I won’t lie and say I had the best intentions concerning the Adderall, but I didn’t let myself admit what I was about to do, until after I picked the drugs up from the pharmacy and was standing in front of the kitchen counter with a spoon in my right hand and the bottle of Adderall in my left.

The idea occurred to me as soon as my shrink mentioned the stimulant. I flirted with Ritalin my freshman year of college. My suitemate supposedly had Attention Deficit Disorder but didn’t want to take her medication. After a few months of living there, a friend and I discovered a stockpile of the uppers in her nightstand drawer. These came in handy on the eves of paper due dates and after long nights of partying. But the first time I tried coke — with coworkers in the now-deserted Pacific Sunwear on Sixth Avenue — well, that high turned the Ritalin into a long-forgotten fifth grade playmate.

I had heard Adderall was like cocaine without the bloody nose and headache. I poured all 30 of the 15-milligram pills onto the countertop. I placed one blue tablet away from the others, covered it with a spoon, covered the spoon with my hand, and pushed down. Immediately the pill morphed into light blue powder. Using a maxed-out Visa and a rolled-up dollar bill, I proceeded to push the blue powder into a fat, straight line, and then sniffed it up my nose.

There was no burning sensation, no chemical smell. I was in love. I walked through the dining room to the living room futon, and waited to feel something. I’ll give it 10 minutes, and then I’m sniffing more, I thought to myself. The first change I noticed was the total absence of sound in my apartment, except for a barely audible thudding. Relaxed on the futon, I spread out and no sooner than I had lain down, I was back at the kitchen counter.

This time, I’ll do three at once, I thought. After three, I waited about five minutes, then snorted two at a time until they were gone. I didn’t set out to do them all, and I couldn’t believe I had just sniffed 30 pills in a matter of minutes. But I hadn’t felt this awake and energized in months and found myself laughing out loud. I ran to the bathroom, looked at my reflection, and laughed some more, not knowing what was funny but loving the sound of my laughter. I was giddy feeling these emotions, like seeing a lover after months apart.

I knew this joy was fake, simply a byproduct of the pills labeled Amphetamine Salts, but I embraced the joy, happy to experience the forgotten emotion regardless of where it came from. I had no conscience to listen to, and instead concentrated on the thudding sound which filled my ears. As I curled up on the couch, I realized the sound was my own quickly beating heart.

Two weeks later, I had my next appointment with my shrink. In the waiting room I was calm and collected, but I was on a mission. The mission was to get a higher dosage of the Adderall. Like all addicts, I was a good liar. “I only took the Adderall for a week because it didn’t do anything helpful. I still couldn’t get out of bed. You have to do something, I’m failing out of school.”

The desperation in my voice was not a lie; I needed more Adderall, and there was a chance, however slim, that he would not provide it. As though he were a well-trained dog, my doctor replied, “You must not be on a high enough dose. I’ll double it to 30 milligrams a day. You start with that, but I’ll write the prescription for 60 milligrams a day — that way if 30 doesn’t work, you can try 45, then 60.”

I was shocked, I was moving up from 15 milligrams a day to 60? This was too easy; my doctor was either an idiot or a drug dealer. Both possibilities worked to my advantage.

December

I had been speed-balling on prescription pills for over three months, and didn’t know up from down. I somehow received three C’s and one D for the semester, although how I managed that, I was not sure. Two of our friends lost their jobs and apartment and moved in with Reid and me. It was then that I began to care about my “problem.” While alone in the apartment I could act like as a big crackhead because nobody could see me. But with Lynn and Dylan staying home with me every day, I realized I needed a change.

This need crystallized one night when the four of us decided to eat KFC for dinner. Having refrained from taking pills for a couple of days, I wanted to reward my good behavior and snuck off into the bedroom while Lynn and Dylan were gone and Reid wasn’t paying attention. I took my Xanax out from the bureau drawer and dumped the remainder of the bottle’s contents into my hand. Seventeen bars fell out, equaling 340 milligrams. My tolerance was ridiculously high, and I wondered what effect such a high dose would have.

Out of nowhere tears began rolling down my face as I realized what a pathetic life I led. And how pathetic my options were. I could admit myself to a hospital and get treated like shit from all the staff because once you were in there, you were crazy and nothing you said mattered to anyone. Reid would visit me on visiting days, him in regular clothes and me in my thick socks with the rubber gripping on the bottom, a thin cotton hospital gown, and a paper robe; or I could pretend I was Frankenstein’s monster as I received electric shocks to my temples.

I tried not to feel sorry for myself, tried to realize people had it worse, but that was no comfort. I felt all my dreams for a future fading away. I thought I would never get better, get out of bed, or do anything worthwhile. I simply wanted to be left alone.

As I heard the front door open, I poured the Xanax down my throat and got into bed. I heard footsteps thumping on the wooden floor of the hallway and wiped my face on the pillow. Lynn came into the room. “Lex, are you going to eat with us?” She was so sweet and caring. I loved Lynn, so I got up and followed her into the living room, all but forgetting I had just taken a shitload of Xanax.

Following my friend down the hallway was the last thing I remembered. Then I heard laughter, guys laughing and Lynn’s voice urging me to get up. I opened my eyes and lifted my head. Lynn was standing next to me with a wet towel and Reid and Dylan were sitting on the futon, attempting to hold back smiles. I tried to get up and couldn’t work my legs. I felt my head falling; I was passing out.

I woke up in bed, with Reid sitting up next to me. “Do you remember what happened last night?” he asked. I tried unsuccessfully to shake my head. I couldn’t remember anything about anything whatsoever. “You passed out in KFC with your food in your mouth and almost choked. You looked ridiculous — you had mashed potatoes all over your face.” Feeling immense embarrassment I rolled over and passed out again. Within a few days I was out of the fog and out of Xanax and Adderall. I had a friend with serious Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and a Xanax/Oxycotin addiction. She started letting me have some of her pills and my addiction continued.

In early 2004, I traveled home to California to visit my family; my trusty Xanax came along with me. Bored in Galt, with absolutely nothing to do, I took a large dose one night and passed out. In the morning, I discovered my younger sister had tried to wake me during the night and was unable to do so. I had scared her. This instance was the first time I had ever felt remorse at taking the drugs; sorry for myself, yes, but remorseful, never. That was the end of my Xanax addiction.

Once I got off the Xanax a lot of things changed. I was able to remember yesterdays again. I could get out of bed. But when the depression hits, it’s hard and fast. A bullet from a Glock. If I were presented with the same set of morbid circumstances, I am not sure I would do anything differently. This is not a story of recovery; it is simply a retelling of some of the events taken from six months of my life.

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In The Fray Contributor

Downtown Sana. This picture captures the traditional Yemeni architecture – tall, brown buildings frosted with white trim – that dominates the cityscape.

My ears rang with an intensity that I had only experienced when walking out of a rock concert. I kept my finger on the trigger anyway. Aiming for a boulder that rested on the rock-strewn mountainside about 100 yards away, I missed wildly, sending clouds of dirt and debris into the sky. I wondered whether my hearing would ever recover. As I was learning, an AK-47 is painfully loud.

My adventure had begun earlier that afternoon when a friend, Osama, who also happens to be an officer in the Yemeni Special Forces, invited me to go out shooting guns with him in the countryside. I had been living in Sana, Yemen’s capital, for about two months on a summer fellowship to study Arabic. His offer was a kind gesture, and I needed a study break, so I figured why not.

Before I left, friends offered words of caution; others flat out told me not to go. I wasn’t so worried. The target practice itself was smooth-sailing, no problems. It was after we started packing up the guns, that things became dicey.

Why worry?

As an American in Yemen, the potential exists to be the object of an attack, but I never personally sensed any danger. I was told on several occasions, “No one would ever hurt you here. If they did, the government would capture and kill them.”
  
Quite the opposite, I found people to be very friendly. While disdainful of American politics, most Yemenis that I spoke to still tended to hold favorable views of America, in terms of its people and culture.

In contrast, to most Americans Yemen conjures a kaleidoscope of scary images, likely fueled by such movies as Rules of Engagement (2000), which shows the United States embassy in Sana being overrun by civilians, including women and children, brandishing semi-automatic weapons.

To be fair, Yemen has witnessed attacks targeted at Westerners over the years. In 2000, Al Qaeda militants rammed an explosives-laden dinghy into the USS Cole in Aden, killing 17 American sailors. In the 1990s, kidnappings were common. About 150 foreigners were abducted from 1996 to 2000, though only a few were harmed. The rest were treated well and returned safely. The intent was to pressure the government into meeting the kidnappers’ political demands.

Stepped terraces on the road to the Red Sea from the capital receive substantial rainfall. The cool temperatures high in the mountains give way to stifling heat as you move closer to the coastal plain.

Divided loyalties

Outside of Sana, the government’s control has historically been tenuous. Even those born and raised in the capital still profess loyalty to a large extended family that has roots in a particular village. In the countryside, most people still look askance at the military and police, preferring to resolve things on their own. The government recognizes this dynamic, and consequently, grants localities a wide degree of autonomy, in return for the communities recognizing the state’s authority.

Guns are simply part of the equation. There are an estimated 60 million small arms in the country, whose population is only 20 million. While weapons are typically confiscated at checkpoints leading into the capital, in villages and towns, it is a common sight to see men, old and young, walking around with an AK-47 slung over their shoulder. I had never seen anyone come close to firing these weapons. I began to think of them as an accoutrement, no different than a cell phone.

That afternoon, Osama picked me up in his Toyota Land Cruiser along with three of my friends. After passing a military checkpoint on the outskirts of Sana, we traversed a mountain pass. We drove for about half an hour along a nicely paved road through a valley as villages whizzed by. Rock walls neatly divvied up small farms. The lush greenness contrasted sharply with the barren, russet mountains that sloped upwards on either side. The diesel fumes, blaring horns, and hollering storekeepers of Sana felt far away. I sighed, content to get away from it all.

In one village, which consisted of about a dozen small homes and a corner store selling cigarettes and soda, we turned onto a dirt road. After rounding a bend, we came upon an outcropping atop a ridge. Getting out of the car, we took a look at the shallow ravine before us and the gently sloping mountainside a few hundred meters away.

“How do we know that we won’t by shoot someone by accident,” I asked.

Osama paused and then replied, “I’ll shoot a few rounds into the air. If someone’s out there, he’ll fire back.”

It seemed like a reasonable plan. Besides, the area was practically bare, except for some low-lying shrubs. If there were someone out there, we would know.

Five minutes lapsed, no response. So Osama, I, and my 20-something friends who were also studying Arabic for the summer in Sana, started taking turns shooting, one at a time using one of the two guns that Osama brought. Ian, a college student from Austin, Texas, endeared himself to Osama immediately since he also owned an AK-47 back home and collected other guns as well.

Fernando, a Muslim convert from California, became practically deaf right away. Words of encouragement, like “Nice shot, Fernando,” were met with puzzled looks, hand motions, and “What!?”

The last foreigner was Vincent, who was from France and had lived elsewhere in the Middle East, most recently Kuwait. He may have been the most enthusiastic among us, taking shots from about every conceivable position — down on one knee, standing up, from the hip, walking side-to-side.

I had met Osama the first week that I was in Yemen when a friend, a fellow student at the language institute, invited me to tag along to chew khat  — a mildly stimulating leaf that is a staple of any social gathering — at Osama’s house. Educated at the Royal Sandhurst military academy in England, Osama speaks fluent English and owns an extensive hip-hop collection. Only in his late 20s, he has risen quickly through the officer ranks.  

In some ways, he embodies the schizophrenia that many Yemeni elite display. When talking politics, he speaks with a moderate voice, impugning extremists, recognizing the common beliefs that bind Jews, Christians, and Muslims, and expressing empathy for democracy. For a second, that vernacular is so recognizable, it sounds straight out of a graduate school seminar, and the possibility to form a deep, intellectual bond feels so close. Just as quickly, without a hint of sarcasm, Osama casually remarks, “September 11 was probably a plot by the CIA and Mossad.” The disappointment is crushing.

What is unique about Osama is that, as a Special Forces officer, he has had direct involvement with the American military, with whom he now trains regularly. These close military relations are a new, post-9/11 reality. During the Cold War, without oil, Yemen was of marginal significance on an international and regional scale. Divided into North and South Yemen, the socialist south relied on the Soviet Union for military assistance. However, with the fall of communism, South Yemen was without a patron state, and the two countries unified.

Yemen’s profile rose following September 11. An acknowledged Al Qaeda presence, along with its proximity to the Horn of Africa, which was increasingly seen as a safe haven for terrorists, culminated in President Bush issuing a “with us, or against us” ultimatum, to which Yemen’s President, Ali Abdullah Saleh, agreed to ally with the United States.

Surrounded

After half an hour, we were out of bullets and it was getting dark. I had taken several pictures, and was thinking about what a great email this story would make to friends back home. I was also a bit relieved that we were packing things up, counting my blessings that no one got hurt. I have shot guns since I was a kid, but always with my father, who preached safety like it was the Gospel. I knew we were being too lax.

In about 40 minutes, I told myself, we would be back in Sana. Then we came upon a white pickup truck parked sideways, blocking us from passing. Two older men got out and approached our car dressed in typical fashion: a skirt, a button-down shirt, and a kefiyyeh draped over their shoulders. Osama met them halfway where they spoke.

Getting back into the car, Osama said, “We’ve gotta follow them.”

Assuming these men were from the local village, I could understand that they wanted to know who we were and what we were doing there. But we had a straight-forward story — just a few guys out shooting guns in the countryside — and we were leaving anyway. Besides, Osama was a military officer dressed in uniform. Couldn’t he just flash his ID? Traveling around Yemen, checkpoints are commonplace. But it was always the military stopping you. Now, the reverse was true.

We followed them for a few minutes. When we stopped, Osama got back out to talk. They were too far away for us to hear. But judging from their body language and raised voices, it was clear that the situation was not resolving itself.

Osama came back to the car with a worried look on his face. “Give me the guns,” he said. “These guys want to hold onto them. This might take awhile.”

Convinced that we hadn’t done anything wrong, the four of us sat in the back of Osama’s sport utility vehicle. None of us saw any reason to be alarmed. But watching Osama argue with the two villagers, doubt crept in. Had we done something wrong?

By now, the sun had ducked behind the mountains. Darkness was broken only by the glare of headlights, which were suddenly growing in number. I don’t remember seeing the first group arrive, but now there was a sizeable crowd, a few dozen villagers milling around. Each one carried a gun. In equal numbers, armed soldiers also began to pull up. It’s not surprising that word spread quickly. Cell phones are ubiquitous.

Osama was embroiled in a fierce argument. A few of his fellow soldiers joined, the rest walked around, talking among themselves. We couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. That didn’t stop us from tossing out a few ideas. Maybe they thought we were CIA agents, or maybe foreign jihadists — two very different possibilities, both equally unappealing.

Villagers kept poking their heads inside the front passenger’s side window, where Fernando was sitting.

“Who are you?” they asked in Arabic.

Still practically deaf, Fernando responded with a confused look, gesturing to his ears, shouting, “What? I can’t hear you!”

So long as the villagers kept a distance and focused on Osama; fear was kept at bay. But when their attention shifted towards us; that fear lurched forward. I felt a little nauseous. And to make matters worse, I really had to go to the bathroom. We decided to close the windows and lock the doors.

Two soldiers stood guard in front of our car, keeping curious villagers at bay. It was both reassuring and unnerving. I was glad they were protecting us, but it was a reminder that violent flare-ups between the military and villagers were fairly routine. The gravity of the situation was increased because everyone there was armed, not to mention the newly arrived Army truck with a 50-caliber machine gun mounted on the back.

As time passed, tension in the car ratcheted. Fernando, motioning to the unguarded side of the car that faced knee-high brush, said, “If I were them, I’d come up from here. You could spray the entire car. We wouldn’t even see them coming.”

“Shut the fuck up, Fernando,” Ian replied.

A pack of Marlboro cigarettes was passed around. I had never smoked before in my life. It felt like a good time to try one. It did nothing to calm my jitters.

Osama came back to the car, where he tried calming us down in a hushed tone, asking repeatedly if we were all right. He got on the phone again to call his commanding officer.

He must have already been on his way, because about five minutes later, a late model four-door sedan pulled up. Osama greeted him, and they went over to speak with the villagers. The situation felt improved. Soon both villagers and soldiers got back into their cars.

Osama arrived back at the car, holding his two guns that had been returned. Military pickup trucks filed in front of and behind us, forming a convoy to leave the area.

We peppered Osama with questions, trying to understand what had just transpired. Were they insulted by our presence on their land? Did they not believe that we were just students out shooting for the afternoon? Had we done something wrong?

Unfortunately, Osama was in no mood to explain what had happened. He just kept saying how much trouble he was in, and how he might have to go before a court martial.
Then Osama said that we had to go the Ministry of Interior, which he likened to the FBI.

“They heard what happened, and are going to have some questions for us,” he told us.

Men often gather in the afternoons to chew khat, a plant grown in Yemen and East Africa. You chew the leaves, shoots, and stems, which releases a mild amphetamine. Here, several prominent journalists gather every Monday afternoon at the home of a former member of Parliament to discuss the news of the day.

Debriefing

The interior ministry is headed by Ahmad Saleh, the eldest son of President Ali Abdullah Saleh. I didn’t know much about him, except that he is widely rumored to be next in line when the president steps aside.

When Osama said that we were going to his office, it was clear that a bizarre situation was about to get even more bizarre. On one hand, the refrain I heard so often echoed through my head. You are an American. Yemen’s government protects Americans. But maybe all that talk about the government protecting Americans was just a bunch of talk, and when it came down to it, if we really were guilty of something, we still might be in trouble. We could plead ignorance, but that defense could fall on deaf ears. Either way, I had no idea what was in store.

After emptying our pockets at the security shack just inside of the gates of the ministry, we proceeded to a second floor outer chamber. After a short wait, the door opened, and we were led inside a sleek, spacious office.

Mandatory handshakes were exchanged, and we took a seat on a couch. Across from us sat three villagers, whom I recognized as having been particularly vocal before. In between us was Ahmad, who sat at his desk, along with two advisors. He wore a white polo shirt, tight dark jeans, and a revolver on his belt. Behind him hung a portrait of his father. Displayed in an otherwise empty bookcase was President Clinton’s autobiography.

Increasingly tired, I couldn’t muster the energy to figure out what everyone was saying. The tone was light-hearted. No one yelled. It felt civilized. Occasionally, one of the advisers, a rotund man wearing Velcro sneakers, looked my direction and gave a smile. My inclination that indeed nothing would happen to us was slowly being confirmed.

The villagers did most of the talking. Ahmad asked them questions, and then turned to Osama and did the same. Though at times Osama looked exasperated, as if his point wasn’t being fully conveyed, the overall mood felt relaxed. I thought everything was going to be fine.

The improbability of the whole situation — to be sitting in the office of the president’s son — dawned on me. Looking at the villagers across from me, I wondered if they thought the same thing. Were they as surprised as I was to be sitting here?

I tried suppressing the anger I felt toward them. Maybe they had reasons for sparking this conflict, but it felt like they had overreacted and didn’t really understand who we were. As long as we got off, then I would be willing to overlook what they had done.

After fifteen minutes, there was a lull in the conversation. Ahmad turned to us, and said in perfect English, “How are you, guys? I’m so sorry for this. You must be tired. If you’d like, you can go home now.”

“Actually, we’d like to stay with Osama,” Vincent replied.

An awkward paused followed. Ahmad glanced to us and smiled. “That won’t be possible. Osama, tell them where you’re going tonight.”

Osama, to our surprise, looked like he was about to lose it. Fighting back tears, he said, “I’m going to jail.” Ahmad interjected in a calm, yet pejorative tone, “Osama needs to learn a thing or two about Yemeni culture.” I had no clue what he meant by that.

The villagers beamed triumphantly from ear to ear. They stood up and shook everyone’s hand before leaving. I did so grudgingly. I wanted to punch them in the face.  

After we sat back down again, Ahmad explained to us the villagers’ side of the story. They had seen us from afar when we were shooting guns and wanted to escort us back to Sana to make sure that we arrived safely. They also asserted that Osama was holding us against our wishes, as if he had abducted us.

It was preposterous. But at least it was becoming clear to me what had really transpired. The villagers insisted on taking us back to Sana, and Osama refused. That was the dispute. The villagers took away our guns and called in as many of their men as they could. Osama did the same. Ironically, the military and villagers were really arguing over who would take us back to the capital. It could have turned violent, but no one intended to harm us.

I doubted that the villagers really believed their own story. More likely, by delivering us from “danger,” they were really looking for a quid pro quo, hoping that the government would reciprocate their good deed with maybe a new school or bridge.

It was time for us to speak up. Vincent went first, setting the record straight, and explaining that Osama was really a dear friend. Each of us followed. It felt good to come to Osama’s defense.

Ahmad listened. At times, he drifted off to look at his computer or the news broadcast on the flat screen television next to us. Judging from his disinterest, it didn’t look like we were telling him anything that he hadn’t already figured out.

When we finished, he apologized again and then wished us a good night. The five of us left, including Osama.

It was after midnight. We decided to go to the Kentucky Fried Chicken to unwind a bit. Sitting outside in the playground next to a rare patch of grass, we talked things over.

“Ahmad had to do that.” Osama explained. “It was all a show for the villagers, to make them think that I was going to jail and that they had done a good thing.”

As Osama recounted, Ahmad did not want to anger the villagers by challenging their side of the story. So he sat and listened. He thanked them for making sure that we were safe while on their land. To make it complete, he had to punish Osama to satisfy them. He really understood what had gone on, but he had to pay lip service to the villagers out of respect.

Looking back, in the heat of the moment when we were stuck in Osama’s car, it was impossible for me to imagine anything except that they were a bunch of angry villagers, upset at Americans for trespassing.

In fact, what I had witnessed had very little to do with me. It was all about Yemeni politics and the delicate balance of power between the capital and countryside that comprises the country. Harming foreigners made little sense, but coming to their rescue could pay off huge. The villagers knew this. I didn’t. A combination of guns, darkness, and a language that I am just beginning to understand, all served to obscure an unfamiliar political landscape.

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In The Fray Contributor

When I went to Dakar, Senegal, I didn’t expect to merge into the culture. I knew something would remind me that I am an African American, not an African.

I didn’t expect that something would be eye shadow.

It happened on the first weekend. I stood in the door of my guest house, watching people headed to a wedding reception on the roof. It was easy to tell who had organized the affair. A group of women wore identical hot pink cotton blouses and skirts sewn in the traditional Senegalese style. They had coordinated their makeup, too. Their eye shadow and even their lipstick were as pink as their clothes.

I was stunned. In America, black women don’t wear colors like that.

We wear earth tones, deep golds and coppers, maybe a silver occasionally as a highlight. We outline our eyes with a black or brown pencil, or perhaps navy-blue if we’re adventurous. But bright pastels aren’t our colors. They belong to the white women whose skin supposedly provides a better palette for such tints.

So there I stood, an ocean away from home, in a place I hoped would provide a refuge from the burden of race. Instead, I was once again confronting the fact that race colored my most mundane decisions: the makeup I bought, the colors I chose for my clothes.

African Americans have always had an ambivalent relationship with color. We love so-called high-effect hues like red, orange and purple. But Eurocentric society used our affection as proof of our inherent inferiority. They claimed the colors we loved were “loud” and jarring. In a bid for acceptance, many blacks abandoned bright colors for a paler, more acceptable palette.

Both men and women got the message. I’m old enough to remember when my father wouldn’t wear anything red because he was convinced that he was way too dark for such a bright color.

And that is one reason why my own closet is a paint box. I wear warm colors like oranges and peaches, accented with an occasional beige or cream. My blouses and dresses do more than compliment my complexion. They symbolize my insistence that I will not compromise my identity in order to fit into a society that, quite frankly, views people like me with disdain.

The Senegalese women, however, were much less self-conscious than I. No one had told them that certain shades of eye shadow and make-up should be reserved for whites, or that wearing certain colors confirms and reinforces white society’s stereotypes about blacks.

Why would those issues even come up? White folks are barely a presence in Senegal. During the two weeks I stayed in the Dakar, I could count the whites I saw on one hand. Even the generic images I saw on billboards and in advertisements were of black people.

No, the women I was watching didn’t need the us-them division that had ordered my life. They don’t have to wonder whether the brightness of their clothes or the style of their hair would be used to bar their economic and social progress.

So they wore eye shadow in eye-popping colors: a blue so bright and pure, it seemed to be pulled from the cloudless sky that greeted me each morning; a green that reminded me of the Granny Smith apples I’d bought before I left the United States.

I smiled as I watched these beautiful women running up and down the stairs. Theirs wasn’t a style I would imitate, but it was a point of view I could appreciate.

In that moment, I began to get what I wanted most from my visit to Africa: the freedom of being in a place where nothing seemed to refer to race — not even the make-up.

Afi-Odelia E. Scruggs

Chris Verrill is the author of the international travel biography Is For Good Men To Do Nothing. This is an excerpt from the book where he leaps into the fray to see the world post-September 11.

Chris Verrill and friend in Khurasan refugee camp Pakistan.

Upon my leaving home in the United States, bound for my volunteer mission in the Afghan refugee camps in the frontier province of Pakistan, my high school friend Linda snuck me a bon voyage card. I’d say she gave it to me, but in truth she sort of squirreled it into my possession as I was saying goodbye. Like many people in my life, in the card she wished me well in my travels. Here’s the kicker, which others didn’t do: She enclosed $58. A $50  bill and eight singles. What was I supposed to do with $58?

Linda wrote that I should use the cash for two purposes. One, I should order a really good meal and think of her when I did. Thanks. I appreciate that.

Two, and more importantly, I should “ease someone’s suffering.”

Linda, aware of the immense poverty in the developing countries I’d be traveling in wanted to do something, anything, to help. By proxy through me, she strove to do her part to make the world a better place. I tell you, here’s someone do-gooder humanitarians can be proud of.

In addition to the $50 bill, Linda said, “I am also enclosing all of the ones I have for you to give to any woman or child you find having to beg for survival.” This is anathema to my way of thinking. Anathema to my modus operandi for supporting those in need.

Although many people give street beggars their spare change, a nickel or a dime or so, I long ago resolved to support non-profit organizations generously, but not to encourage or be subjected to panhandling. There are more intelligent means of supporting those in need than handing out a few cents or a few schillings to someone who holds out a quivering hand. If everyone in the world supported non-profits and followed my lead, no one would need to beg on the streets. But that’s my soapbox.

In deference to Linda’s request, however, I made a decision. I would make an exception to my rule and honor my friend’s intentions. What was I getting myself into?

Just like every other day

I start leisurely walking down the main drag in downtown Nairobi, Kenya, one of my stopovers on my way to Pakistan and Afghanistan.

This late afternoon, like many afternoons before it, I stroll along the streets of Nairobi. Today specifically, I walk four crowded blocks from my hotel to another hotel with an ex-pat bar and a band playing “The Tennessee Waltz.” I know what’s coming. I just know it. I prepare for it in a way that would surely surprise someone.

I continue to stroll.

Linda’s bon voyage card tucked into my book du jour, I head out. Knowing full well, as a Caucasian with a presumably affluent face, what this meant for Kenya’s poverty-stricken. Safe and probably not too secure in my book, the card sticks out an inch or two or three beyond the pages. I’m not paying attention to the card, let alone the cash it encloses.

Stroll, saunter. The sidewalk is crowded. People bustling about. Buildings rising six or seven stories above the thronging masses.

The average Kenyan earns $200 per year. As per my lifelong friend’s instructions, I clutch three months’ wages in my hand. I say “lifelong friend” for, while I know others better, Linda and her brother and I go all the way back to high school. Maui High School, which Linda and I graduated from in 1982, has a, shall we say, less than stellar academic record.

I weave in and out of the other pedestrians.

My stepfather graduated from Maui High School, too. Surprisingly, given the time lapse, we had the same biology teacher. That biology teacher was quite surprised — no, shocked would be a better word — that my stepfather, who was a delinquent in high school, could have a geeky, intellectual stepson like me. Mr. Biology Teacher referred to all his students as Mr. Insert-First-Name-Here.

Saunter.

He must have rubbed off on me. I don’t know how much biology I learned, but to this day I have an affectation of referring to people as Mr. Bob or Ms. Jane. But back then, I was Mr. Chris, and I am confident Linda was Ms. Linda.

Maui High School, with a college attendance rate lower than a blade of grass, must have produced a few good nuts. I mean Linda, not me. My sister is now the intelligent one in my family. Let me establish that. OK? Got it?

Walk and weave some more. Scan the oncoming crowd.

But the academic rigor (a word which many Maui High students would have to look up) leaves a lot to be desired. I say this knowing that my baby sister transferred out of Maui High. Oh yes, some of it was her own doing, that rotten bugger, but some of it is attributed to the environment of the school. I say this knowing that a friend of mine, who I spent lots of time with in high school but have barely spoken to since, is now, bless him, a teacher at Maui High School. Knowing him, I bet he’s a very popular and respected teacher.

But as I’m sure he and other educators would argue, high school is what the student makes of it. Fair enough. But there are many kids on the margin. Those kids get left behind in a program that doesn’t have the resources to help them. I won’t jump on the education soapbox now, but suffice it to say, I think a quarter of the kids will flourish even in a bad environment. Another quarter of the kids will fail even in a good environment. The remaining half, people like my baby sister, are up for grabs. That’s where a solid education system makes a difference. My statistics — quarter/quarter/half — may or may not be accurate, but the principle is very accurate.

And for all you legislators out there, remember it. Investing in education, as Thomas Jefferson would say, is the best investment any community can ever make.

You know it. I know it.

Glance at the faces of children living on the street.

All right, I said I wouldn’t get on my soapbox and I did. But I minimized it. Believe me, I could have gone on and on about the importance of education in a free and democratic society.

So, where was I? Ah yes, sauntering down the main drag of Nairobi, Kenya, Africa. Clasped in my grubby paws, a well-intentioned greeting card. Enclosed in the card is $58 in U.S. greenbacks — three months’ wages for the average Kenyan. Perhaps more than the average beggar on the street collects in an entire year.

Saunter.

Stroll.

Saunter some more. That rip in my jeans has gotten bigger.

It’s bound to happen.

It happens all time. Today won’t be any exception.

Stroll along, with purpose, card-carrying book swaying in my hand.

Sure enough, the inevitable happens. A little girl, perhaps about six years old — big pleading eyes, scraggly hair, dirty, torn clothes, and desperate demeanor — clutches my hand. Not letting go of my hand, seizing it like a line to a better life, she follows me. Like either a con artist who has mastered her craft or child in genuine need, she clasps my hand, weaving with me in and out of hundreds of other pedestrians, yet not releasing her grip on me, unrelenting with her pleading. In Swahili, I presume; I don’t know. I don’t understand her spoken language. Her physical language, however, was universal.

Walk, walk.

Pleading for about 20 paces. Thirty paces. I don’t really know. Forty.

“Please, mister,” she pleads in English. She wants a schilling. Half a schilling. Anything. More hand-to-mouth motions as if to say, “Is food such a bad thing to ask for?”

I don’t want to break my own no-panhandling code. I don’t want to teach this child that panhandling is a worthwhile option.

Keep walking. Eyes straight ahead as usual. Almost.

Except this time, instead of eyes straight ahead, I look. At her. At her pleading face. More importantly, I look around.

Ah, that’s what I’m looking for.

My stomach knots to see it. But as I suspected, there it is. A little boy. Clearly her younger brother. A not-so-old woman. Clearly her mother. The mother staring at me. Watching her child. Successful con artist or someone genuinely in need? The boy hurries to catch up. I’ve established Linda’s required parameters.

“Ease someone’s suffering,” she instructed. “Any woman or child you find having to beg for survival.”

If this doesn’t fit, my heart doesn’t know what does. I figures she satisfies Linda’s requirement for whom she wanted her donation to go to.

I stop.

Walking no more. Nairobi’s thronging masses maneuvering around me and a homeless girl in tattered clothes — a little girl who still has not released her grip on my hand.

Holding my breath, I open my book. Removing Linda’s card — everything: the envelope, Linda’s personal note to me, and the $58 — I hand it to her. At this point I speak the only words I ever spoke to her.

“This is from my friend,” I say.

I quickly, hastily, maybe perhaps guiltily, resume my focused walk down the crowded sidewalk toward the expat hotel. “The Tennessee Waltz” would sound good, grounding, comforting right about now.

I mean, who am I to think this pretentious act was even at all significant? Pious? I don’t know. Pompous? I don’t know. Perhaps there’s a fine line between the two. This gift, this — I don’t know what to call it, but gift is not at all right — violated my no-panhandling credo. It was a good deed yet a bad deed.

Or, more accurately, perhaps it just wasn’t as good a deed as I hoped it should be.

The six-year-old in the tattered clothes looks confused. When I hand her the envelope, for the first time she releases her death grip on my hand. But you could see the confusion in her. A schilling she would have recognized as success. I’ll wager my lunch she would have recognized a dollar or even a euro as success.

But there she stands, befuddled, her prey for the afternoon walking away purposefully, with an envelope in her hand. An envelope?

I just walk on. “The Tennessee Waltz” is calling my name. Anything to get me away from this child I had – I want to say “helped,” but that really sounds too arrogant. Away from this child whose panhandling habit I had in a lottery-like fashion significantly encouraged.

Besides, I have to keep walking. She presumably digs into the envelope. I don’t know. I don’t look back.

I firmly believe that true kindness is anonymous and doesn’t require acknowledgement.

It certainly doesn’t require gratitude.

When she gets the card open she’ll recognize the George Washingtons, I’m sure. But Ulysses S. Grant? Who’s that?

The personal note on the personal card to me from my old high school friend will probably be lost on her. That’s okay. That wasn’t Linda’s objective. But I hope, as I’m sure Linda does, that this unfortunate girl’s life for the next little while will be a tad better. Even if she can’t read the card or understand Linda’s motive in having me do what I did, I hope she benefits from my old friend’s generosity.

Ten seconds later, the little boy, her brother, chases me down and unsuccessfully attempts to grab my hand.

“Can I be your friend?” he boldly asks.  

STORY INDEX

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In The Fray Contributor

It was a familiar complaint from an unusual source. A colleague of mine at the University of Texas at Austin, where I teach a rhetoric course, was moaning about the overwhelming support for Democrats in the liberal arts.

“It just irritates me that people assume that everyone in the liberal arts is a Democrat,” the American Studies graduate student told me. “The chair of my department sends mass emails of George Bush jokes. I think it’s totally inappropriate that a university forum be used for partisan politics.”

I was shocked to hear this grumbling from an avowed leftist and member of the Green Party.

This is also the cause du jour of conservative pundits like George Will and David Brooks, who have written of the liberal hegemon that is higher education. Brooks and Will both seem to believe that the liberal arts are dominated by radical leftists calling for the overthrow of capitalism.

A quick glance around my campus here in Austin reveals a Taco Bell in the student union, Coke machines in every building, a business school endowed by a mega-rich car salesman, Dell computers in almost every classroom, and an athletics department endorsed by Nike. Hardly evidence of a socialist cabal.

Still, just when it seemed the conservative attack machine had run out of straw men, it has unearthed a new menace: leftist profs in the ivory tower. Arch-conservative activist and faux scholar David Horowitz is the ringleader of the campus jihad. For years, he has been calling attention to the “modern plague” of “radical leftism in the universities,” but now, with the decline of leftist boogeymen in the halls of power, Republicans are starting to listen.

Horowitz has written an “Academic Bill of Rights” that would protect against the “unwarranted intrusion of faculty members’ political views into the classroom.” He claims that at least 20 states will enact legislation this year in support of his manifesto.  

Horowitz has also found some obedient foot soldiers here in Austin — another supposed liberal bastion in a sea of red. The Young Conservatives of Texas made headlines last year with a  “watch list,” designed to “monitor” professors pushing an ideological agenda.

The fact is, when push comes to shove, colleges and universities are only as liberal as the people who fund and manage them; i.e. rich alumni, Boards of Regents, and endowment managers.

Universities, like it or not, are pseudo-corporations that pay more attention to their self-image than true intellectual freedom. When Michael Moore scheduled a stop at Utah Valley State on his “Slacker Tour” last year, prominent alumni threatened to withdraw all donations to the school unless Moore’s gig was cancelled. The school, not surprisingly, complied.

If you want to see how political power on campus really works, don’t read an MLA article about race, class, and gender in the works of Jane Austen. Instead, consider UT’s Board of Regents, which actively solicited funds for Republican candidates on university letterhead during the last election as a quid pro quo for tuition deregulation.

While registered Democrats probably do outnumber Republicans in humanities and social science departments, statistics on professors’ ideologies have been notoriously difficult to pin down. The most reliable survey, conducted by the Higher Education Research Institute and published in the Chronicle of Higher Education , found that 48 percent of 50,000 faculty interviewed classified themselves as “liberal” to “far left.” The rest classified themselves as either “conservative” or “moderate.” Hardly a mandate for the radical leftism that Horowitz complains about.

Even if Democrats do outnumber Republicans in the liberal arts, conservative “scholars” seem to have no problem finding public outlets for their views — even when their opinions fly in the face of accepted scholarship. There was no shortage of publicity last month, for instance, when Harvard president Larry Summers made the absurd claim that woman lack a biological predisposition for science and engineering. And Condi Rice, Richard Perle, and Paul Wolfowitz, all big-time players in the Bush Administration, previously held cozy academic positions at elite universities.

If conservative academics find themselves on the outs with their moderate to liberal colleagues, they probably have their own shrillness to blame. That’s because many of them, like Stephen Balch, president of the conservative National Association of Scholars, have an annoying tendency to openly boast of their revolutionary zeal. Balch recently told the Chronicle of Higher Education that his conservative colleagues share the belief that “America is a society in drastic need of an overhaul.”

Academia, contrary to popular belief, is a community that thrives on consensus and non-confrontation. If out-of-the-closet conservative professors intimidate hiring committees, it is not because of a specific ideology, but because anyone openly calling for a revolution — from the left or the right — will raise a few eyebrows among tenured faculty.

Russell Cobb