Inject me with some of them “guts”

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

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

Proof 1:

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

Proof 2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

How would you like me to change your life?

 

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

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

Let your poor heart break a little,

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

Love

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

Haru/natsu (spring/summer)

Finding my way through Japan.

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

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

*

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

*

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

How was it still so easy to be around him?

 

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

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

*

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

 

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

*

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

*

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

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

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

Onward and upward!

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

Onward and upward?

Then it started to rain.

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

 

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

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

*

i was never good at finishing things.

 

 

 

 

 

my heart feels muddled and heavy.

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

*

 

Sisters of Fate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Fairness and justice

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

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

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

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

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

 

Initiation

South African girls learn how to become women.

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

[Click here to view the slideshow.]

 

Gardenia petals and ugly art dolls

Poetry collaborations that combine words, art, and music.

Gardenia petals
Visual poetry featuring the art of Dawn Petty, the poetry of Annette Marie Hyder read by Belinda Subraman, and the music of Ken Clinger. A Vergin’ Production.

 

 

 

Gardenia petals

By Annette Marie Hyder / St. Paul, Minnesota

Every summer morning
Mother picked gardenia flowers
cluttering the ‘fridge
with water-filled jelly jars
boasting bouquets.

Every evening
she plucked them
like exotic chickens
scattered their petals
onto our sheets
cool and creamy soft
against my skin

I fell asleep
crushing her benedictions.

We had no air-conditioning
but we had electric fans
and gardenia petals.

Mother was young and pretty
with a French nose
that she quietly suffered.
I loved the way it said "arrogance"
where she never would.

Some nights
winds would blow the curtains wide.
Hurricane winds we called them
as they rustled the palm fronds
bullied mangoes from our tree.

Those nights
Mother would sing us old French songs
her mother had sung to her
lonely songs
filled with regret.

She sounded so sad
I forgot the wind
trying to make her smile.

That’s when I
hated her big nose, too.
It got in the way
wouldn’t let her smile
climb up into her eyes.

It is summer,
but I live in a colder place.
I have little occasion
to remember electric fans
and goodnight wishes
scattered on sheets.

But when I do
I think of tears
falling like petals
from a flower in the wind.
 

Ugly art dolls
Visual poetry featuring the art of Ugly Shayla, the words of Belinda Subraman, and the music of Ken Clinger and John Lisiecki. A Vergin’ Production.

 

 

 

Vanity

By Belinda Subraman / Ruidoso, New Mexico

Unless we give it up
and embrace our profound
and wavering wisdom
we may find ourselves
mopping our heads with wigs
caking powder on shriveled faces,
lip-sticking not quite on the mouth,
gripping life with shaking hands
in a house of fantasies
with no tolerance for mirrors.

Nurse / writer

By Belinda Subraman / Ruidoso, New Mexico

curious
native
tender as the unwritten page
lost in a book
swollen in a hurricane

holder of healing spirit
eagle feather, turquoise
abalone shell

a long journey
winding down
eyes that open
to the unseen web
the dream catcher
that snags us all

hands that hold the dying
and a pen
 

Whose cries are not music
Visual poetry featuring the art of Robin Urton, the poetry of Linda Bennbinghoff, the music of Ken Clinger, with reading and production by Belinda Subraman.

 

 

 

Whose cries are not music

By Linda Bennbinghoff / Lloyd Harbor, New York

I come down to the dark, torn pond
to hear the geese
whose cries are not music, but
catch in my ears:
the cry of wild things
who can make only one sound
and put into that sound
wing-beat, empty marshes
clouds and their quests
for home.

They have traveled miles
are far from earth
when I hear them
but I think of a child
who has no words
and will cry without stopping
as if everything
must begin in pain.

I can spend my whole life
healing it
but find in the end
that love itself contains pain
though I do not give up feeling it
as today I do not give up
hearing these geese
whose cries are constant
and I pause
as their shrillness softens
and the light fades
and the night comes with silence.

A peek into the creative process: first drafts.

 

 

 

Sisters of fate

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Left behind

The story of Romania’s orphans.

Few of us can forget the horrors of the 1990’s Romanian orphanages. Following the fall of the Ceausescu Communist regime in 1989, Romania, though newly liberated, became known for the appalling conditions within its state-run orphanages and institutions. The world was stunned by television and newspaper images of half-starved abandoned children chained to their beds. Aid agencies rushed to help; governments throughout the world condemned what they saw; and newspaper columns were full of accounts of the atrocities.

Yet behind the scenes, the practice in Romania of abandoning children went unchallenged. A 1990 UNICEF report claimed that at the time, 86,000 children lived in institutions. Despite media attention to the situation, by 1994, that number had risen to 98,000. Perhaps even more surprising is that despite a significant increase in international adoptions, that 1994 figure had only fallen to just over 80,000 in 2005. Between 1992 and 1994, about 10,000 Romanian children were adopted by foreign families worldwide, according to a report by Toronto Life.

 

Official line

Officially, the orphanages in Romania have all been closed as one of the preconditions for joining the European Union (EU) in 2007, which followed a 2001 European Parliament report criticizing the country for its continued mistreatment of orphans. However, today the question remains: What exactly has happened to the thousands of children who were living in the large state orphanages?

While international adoption has been illegal in Romania since 2001, a report published by the Romanian National Authority for Child Protection in 2004 told of a total of 81,233 orphans at that time. Of those, 14,825 now live in foster care in Romania, 26,612 are in state care, and the remaining orphans are either living with extended family members or in private care homes. The now-notorious orphanages of those television images in the 1990s have all been replaced by smaller and more modern institutions, where six or seven children share a room, despite the official line that there is no overcrowding or bed sharing.  

Meanwhile, the world’s media has largely moved on to other, more current events. Aside from a few celebrities, such as J.K. Rowling, author of the “Harry Potter” books, and Sarah Brown, wife of Britain’s Prime Minister Gordon Brown, who have rallied to the cause of Romanian orphans, the major problems Romania’s child care system faces have been ignored. Most people think these problems ended once and for all when Romania joined the EU in 2007. Indeed, Baroness Emma Nicholson, member of European Parliament for South East England and an international campaigner for children’s rights, was once credited with bringing media attention to the grim conditions within Romanian orphanages. Last year, however, the baroness went so far as to claim that “Romania has fundamentally reformed its child protection system and has gone from having the worst system in Europe to developing one of the best.”

The real story

Sadly, however, the reality is far different. The U.N.’s 2009 report State of the World’s Children claims Romania’s child mortality rate is 15,000 per year. In comparison, the child mortality rate in the United States is reported to be 8,000 per year. Although the children who remain in the state institutions are no longer tied to beds, they face other problems. In October 2008, the General Directorate of Social Welfare and Child Services (DGASPC) issued a report in which the Romanian head of the Social Inspection Agency, Maria Muga, stated that 92.5 percent of the children in state care do not own any toys; 97.5 percent have no cultural and sporting equipment; 77.5 percent have no school supplies; and 65 percent have no toiletry and hygiene supplies.

As for the children now in foster care, a recent DGASPC report claims that, on average, there is one social worker for every 100 children. Since joining the EU, Romania has guaranteed that at least one social worker monitors the progress of 25 children in foster care. The report goes on to detail significant problems at the organizational level of foster care, backing up the 2006 UNICEF Romania report, which concludes, “an underestimation of the issues at stake has resulted in too many reforms under pressure, which in turn have led to uncoordinated, contradictory and unfocussed stop-and-go reforms.” 

Indeed, the sheer number of so many children requiring some kind of state help creates further problems. A joint UNICEF and World Bank study in April 2009 explored the impact of the global recession on the poor in Romania, and concluded that Romania’s state services “are either insufficient or lacking the necessary quality to effectively protect the most in need children.” It is hardly surprising that problems go unchecked or ignored when there are so few Romanian social workers. Transparency International, an anticorruption watchdog organization, ranked Romania as the second most corrupt country in the EU last year. In a country where bribes are all too common, questions still remain about the effectiveness and integrity of Romania’s child support services.

Much has been made of the success of Romanian migration workers. According to a February 2009 New York Times article, one-third of Romanians now work and live abroad, mostly within the EU member states, enjoying better wages and perhaps a higher quality of life. Meanwhile, Romanian statistics tell us that 10 percent of children in state care are there simply because their parents are working abroad and they have no family member available to look after them. Yet even those children who live with relatives could still face difficulties. According to the Romanian Child Protection Department, despite having access to cell phones and other gadgets, Romanian children still suffer the psychological damage associated with long-term separation from their parents.

 

The Relief Fund for Romania estimates that there are 6,000 street children in the country, while UNICEF estimated in 2004 that 2,000 children lived on the streets of Bucharest, 500 of them permanently, either working or begging to survive. The majority of these street children spend their days in the capital, either because of overcrowding where they live or because of their disinterest in school, whereas the 500 children who are mainly orphans are 24-hour street children, spending their nights sleeping rough. The 2001 Oscar-nominated film Children Underground documented their hardship, with harrowing scenes of bored children spending their days in a daze, getting high and feeling worthless.

Special cases

Life for the “typical” Romanian orphan is brighter than it is for disabled and Roma orphans. According to a 2007 Harvard Review article, “having attained EU membership, Romania now has less incentive to improve the conditions for disabled children, but has instead turned a blind eye.” Romania’s Law 272 on children’s rights specifies that orphans under the age of two cannot live in state-run institutions, but disabled orphans are to be sent there from birth.

The sad fact is that disabled children are unlikely to be placed with foster families, and they will spend their entire lives in these institutions, which may not be officially called “orphanages.” These institutions are, according to the Harvard Review, “not proper homes for children and further the development of disabilities.” UNICEF estimates that there are about 200 of these institutions in Romania, housing up to 30,000 disabled children. The report goes on to claim that only 28 percent of the 52,000 disabled children living in Romania obtain some level of education.

The Gypsy community of Romania may be romanticized by outsiders, but according to UNICEF, the Roma population, which makes up 7 percent of the Romanian population, has a poverty rate of 77 percent. Karen Bucur, director of Pathway to Joy, a Romanian-American charity that works with the Gypsy community, told me, “Their poverty is hard to describe. There is no running water, [and] with that comes health issues and diseases. The children are uneducated for the most part.”

A representative of the Scottish charity Mary’s Meals added, “With only the local rubbish dump to play on, the children are so deprived that they steal to eat. Many of them live in 19th-century conditions.” One could argue that due to the stigma attached to the Roma community within Romania, these vulnerable children rely even more on outside help in a country where their own social services cannot be relied upon.

Bucur tells of two little abandoned Roma girls, Alexandra and Alina, whom the charity found in a dreadful state last winter. The girls were without clothing and food, and with no immediate support from Social Services. The charity was forced to act independently to secure the children’s safety, and Alexandra and Alina now live with a foster family financially supported by Pathway to Joy.

One aspect worth examining, as it is seemingly ignored by the Romanian government, is the support available to the now-adult orphans of the Ceausescu regime. As explored in an in-depth 2005 BBC report, for many, a normal adult life remains out of reach. The report concluded that while some had indeed managed to make a successful life for themselves, many remained traumatized. With little support from the government and surviving on the fringes of society, many of these now-adult orphans are addicted to drugs or alcohol. Other survivors — those who had been tied into their hospital cots for their entire childhood — now show signs of stunted growth and have difficulty walking. Others still wear diapers or can take food only from a bottle because they never had the chance to develop their chewing muscles.

A scandal in Romania earlier this year involved a man who died in a hospital, waiting to be seen after he had a heart attack. One nurse admitted that nobody treated him because he “looked too poor to be able to offer a bribe to be seen.” In a country where health care can often depend on how much you are prepared to bribe doctors for treatment, orphans are unlikely to receive the best treatment possible, as fast as possible.

Following EU criticism, the Romanian government has promised reforms and recently set up a toll- free telephone number that Romanians can call to reveal the names of hospitals and doctors who have accepted bribes. Within an hour of opening, the telephone lines were inundated with calls, and jammed.

A long way to go

It could be argued that an orphan’s fate in Romania often comes down to sheer luck. If an orphan is fortunate enough to be taken in by a loving foster family or to receive help through one of the local charities such as Pathway to Joy or Mary’s Meals, he or she may well be able to have a normal childhood. However, if an orphan is disabled, or happens to have been born in a Gypsy village, or is living on the street, his or her life — and certainly mental well-being — hang in the balance.

Vast improvements have been made in Romania’s child welfare issues — undoubtedly Baroness Nicholson’s remarks give us all reason to hope this is so. Yet Romania still has a long way to go. The responsibility to remember Romanian children and to fight for their welfare lies not only with the Romanian government and with EU country members, but with individuals across the globe. Romania is no longer the country we read about a decade ago. It is receiving financial support from the EU and the World Bank, and a number of reforms have been introduced to help the poor. Admittedly, these efforts have had mixed results, with UNICEF claiming earlier this year that welfare money is not reaching the most needy. We cannot simply ignore the daily struggle the poor face in the small Balkan country of 22 million. Romania and its orphans need not only our support, but also our continued interest, to truly prosper.

 

 

In my kitchen

 

In my kitchen

My favorite part of the day comes right after rubbing my eyes awake and before slipping on a sweater and gathering my things to start the day.

And it's 8:30 a.m. and the sun has just begun to peek past the parking lot and into the kitchen window, warming my hands and the expanse across my feet and and all the way up my legs, as they tingle with aliveness a window of alertness that seems to escape me for the rest of the day.

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I like drinking my coffee alone in the morning in my kitchen because I like the act of being alone I like the solitary act of waiting for the day to begin.

The pot bubbles up and down creating a wash of impatient sound across the tile floors as my egg bounces up and down inside it.

I pour the water out into the sink, submerging my egg in cold water before taking it carefully and peeling it right over the counter, balanced cautiously on one foot, sprinkling a few flakes over the smooth white surface.

I eat breakfast alone, and always standing, and usually in my underwear, like a victorious warrior on the brink of the day.

 

The white elephant in the room

The late Tony Snow, while serving as White House press secretary for the Bush administration, declared on television that racism was dead. For white people, it was. The election of Barack Obama to the White House resurrected the monster. But, as in all scary stories, the monster has come back a little different. Now, instead of whites exhibiting racism toward blacks (totally a thing of the past), conservatives now say that (gasp!) blacks are racist towards white people!

The horror.

By stating a fact that police have acted unjustly toward minorities a fact that no one in their right (or left) mind would dispute, President Obama has incited the following statement from one (screaming, lunatic, hissy-fit thrower) Glenn Beck: "[Obama has] a deep-seated hatred for white people or the white culture…I'm not saying he doesn't like white people…This guy is, I believe, a racist."

Don't forget un-American, too. You know how they know? He doesn't drink American beer!

For the "Beer Summit" at the White House involving the professor and the cop (you know the story), Fox News (home of the unfair and mentally unbalanced, where Glenn Beck resides) did not see anything newsworthy in the affair, except for the fact that Obama chose to drink Bud Light. This Bud's for you. Bud. Weis. Er. Bud Light. Regular ole Bud. Bestselling beer in America.

But…not American owned. Obama also would've struck out if he had chosen Busch, Michelob, Corona, Miller (It's not Miller time anymore, I guess they're owned by Brits) or Coors (dang Canadians). I guess the White House should've checked this site to see what the non-racist, true patriots would drink. 

So, to all you Americans about to celebrate the weekend with a nice cold beer, your better think twice about what you order, pinko.

Oh yeah, the point of the Beer Summit…What was that again? Oh yeah, I remember: It does not matter what President Obama does during his time in office he will still be a black man, and he still can't win with ignorant white people.

Let's talk about:  Blue Moon vs. Red Stripe: What does the beer choice say about the drinker? (Um, the taste?)
 

personal stories. global issues.