A Break

You know, when you start a journal, you think you’re doing it for yourself. You make it public so that you can get some feedback, so that you can share your thoughts with the greater world. But soon the journal, or blog, becomes something you write for others. It becomes a form of competition – how many people can I get to visit my site? How many people think that my ideas are worth their time? One fellow blogger calls his site meter a “vanity counter” and that’s exactly what it is. I’ve been perfectly content not updating, replacing a keyboard and screen for the old fashioned pen and paper of my troubled teens. But then there is the pressure. From people you know and from people you don’t, to continue to update, to ensure returns, to write something, anything, as long as it represents you at the time.
So this is what represents me right now: a pen and a loosely bound journal, which I write in nearly everyday in handwriting that has become so bad I can hardly read it myself. It makes my hand cramped, strains my eyes, and takes a crap load more time. And yet, it’s better, I find, than blogging. Because whereas there are marked advantages to online journals, the loss of privacy is a big set-back. I want people to know some things about me, but there are by far many more things that I want to keep private. Maybe that’s what Africa does to me. I guess I took my online journal as a replacement for my physical one. And I can seem to only do one at a time because I am too easily bored by repetition. Right now, my little book is more satisfying. And so I’m going to stick with that for awhile and apologize (how inane is this?!) for temporarily stopping the flow of my globally accessible thoughts and experiences. I’ll still update – just more sporadically. Til then, take care. 

Seven Years in Tibet

This is a view of the Bale Mountains taken last Christmas.

I'm reading a book called Seven Years in Tibet. It's about Heinrich Harrer, an Austrian Olympic gold medal winner who, because of his nationality in British-occupied India, gets placed in a prison camp in India when World War II breaks out. He was voyaging to India en route to climb the highest peak in the Himalayas. But, held up in the camp, his plans are thwarted. So he makes some bold attempts at escape, and finally succeeds. He gains his freedom by going through Tibet. He then spends seven years there, where he becomes close friends with the Dalai Lama. It's a really cool story.

Especially because it's completely true.

If you think the story is cool but you're a lazy bum, I think they made it into a motion picture with Brad Pitt. If you see it, tell me if Brad looks as hot as I think he does.

Wrapping Presents, Unwrapping Thoughts

I was wrapping Christmas presents today when it hit me that my little brother won’t be here this year. We re-use wrapping paper, partially because you can’t really find wrapping paper here and so we have to bring it back from Europe and partially because my mom doesn’t believe in wasting anything. Anyway, we also re-use the little tags that describe whose present is whose and who gave it. And as I was going through them, looking for mine (“For papa’ from Jessica, with love”, “For Jessica from Santa Claus, Merry Christmas”), I realized that there were a disproportionate amount of tags with my little brother Bennie’s name on them. I kept going through them and thought, “Gosh, that kid gets a lot of presents.” And then it hit me that he’s not coming home. And that made me sad. I know he’s going to have a blast in Vancouver, or wherever he is, but still. Christmas isn’t really Christmas without your family.

Christmas Cookies!

So every year when I'm home for Christmas, my mother and I make Christmas cookies. This year was no different. I took a picture, but it didn't turn out too fantastic, so let me describe the cookies we made. We made:

• Vanilla crescents-- a powdered sugar and a chocolate variety
• layered raspberry cookies -- with two different shapes, a heart and a star
• decorated cut-out sugar cookies - with santas, christmas trees, apples, ducks, moons, stars, hearts, shooting stars, and mini hearts. We decorated them in different rainbow colored icing sugar with regular sprinkles, heart-shaped sprinkles, and chocolate sprinkles. And there is a completely chocolate-covered variety as well!
• coconut puffs (they melt in your mouth!)
• and some apricot nibblers are still in the works!

Tomorrow I'm going to the pool to get my first sunburn. I should be good after that. I'm trying to plan a trip - probably hiking in the Bale Mountains - for after Christmas. The idea is to go to the furthermost campsite (which is far and you can get there only partially by donkey and horse) and then hike from there -- it'll be cold, which is the only downside, and my brother will be rationing food. Last time I was there, my friends and I had a Bombay Sapphire gin drinking competition as soon as we got up (but we never went as far as the last campsite!). After a good five hour's hike and in over 9,000 feet altitude. Needless to say, we all pretty much spent the night puking. I'll refrain from that this time. But I am excited, excited, excited!!! :)

Rocky and Lolita

This is Rocky posing up a storm...

and this stretching lady here to the left is the sweet Lolita.

Today I...

• was woken up at 9:00 am by my mother
• stumbled around for an hour, eating croissants for breakfast and drinking tea mom made, and trying to evade my big brother Ale as he tried taking pictures of me (it ain't happening at 9 am.)
• checked my email and was pleasantly surprised by all the love that came my way (keep it coming!)
• went to the German embassy and renewed my passport
• got stamps from the post office, fresh bread from the bakery and ripe red strawberries from the grocery store
• wrote letters and affixed newly bought stamps to them
• ate injera with doro wot for lunch (yummy!!)
• watched TV with Dawn and played with the dogs
• painted a picture with watercolors of an Ethiopian landscape while listening to John Mayer on my Ipod
• had dinner with the family and watched "The Weakest Link" with them
• watched several documentaries on National Geographic TV
• rechecked my email :)

Ah, being on vacation. :) Now, I'm going to my room to read a book and then getting up at 9 again to bake Christmas cookies (it takes all day!). Looking forward to tomorrow. Icing, sugar, and chocolate, here I come!!

Quick Note

Quick note: my adelphi email doesn't work. If you're going to email, use my other address, please. And I would LOVE to hear from you. :)

In Addis

I'm finally home. The journey took a long time. But I'm here, safe and sound. I got in at 4 am this morning. It was an uneventful set of flights, which is just as I like them. London was cool, but I was only there for four hours. I did a lot of duty free shopping, which was great. Our plane stopped in Alexandria, Egypt, and then we got into Addis. It's weird being home. It's good but weird. Some things are the same while others are competely different. It's also strange how fast you can get back into a rhythm, into the swing of things of your previous life.
The weather is gorgeous -- 75 degrees and sunny and dry. My family is all doing well. While I was away, we added two new members! Lolita and Rocky, two beautiful huge German shepards. They are absolutely adorable and by far the most well-behaved dogs we've ever had.
I'll post pictures soon.

New York City

Leg one of my journey is complete. I made it safely into my friend Chris's Brooklyn apartment at midnight. The flights were fine except that my luggage was "delayed" -- ie. the airline didn't put it on the plane. So they're supposed to drop it off in a few hours. I'm happy to have my luggage back but I'm pissed because I can't go carousing around New York as I had planned and am stuck in a Brooklyn apartment. Rats. Oh well. At least I'll be able to fly home with my luggage. Whether it gets to Ethiopia is a different story.
In other news - it's freezing cold in New York and this serves as a reminder as to why I left. But the lights of the city as I was flying in were so beautiful that it made me nostalgic. In Detroit I got hit on with the funniest pickup line. I was inquiring to some random guy about the status of our flight, which was delayed, when he said to me, "So, are you a swimsuit model or something?" I laughed and said, "So, are you on crack?" And then he made references to my "mmmmmm, delicious booty" and asked me provocatively where the bathroom was. Like I was supposed to go with him. It was humorous, to say the least. But also more than slightly sketchy. Anywho.
I've got lots of plans for the afternoon... if my luggage ever gets here... including ice skating and going to get bubble tea from Taipan bakery on Canal st. I also want to go to Rockerfeller Center and eat Chinese food in China Town. We'll see how much I can get accomplished.
I'm glad I came to see Chris. It's nice to get to hang out with him.

Sights and Folks of Charleston

Dani (left), Siobhan (right) and I at our favorite bar, A.C.'s!

Some lucky guy (Carter, that is) getting smooched by me.

Anna and John being all embarassed. So cute!

Carter and some girl I don't know.
This is St. Mark's Episcopal church (I think) on King St. The picture was taken from Marion Square.

This is Second Presbyterian Church. This church is on Charlotte St., and I walk past it every day to go to work.

Just a quickie...

Just a quick post... things are going really well... I'm leaving for Ethiopia on Monday, so I'm trying to get my last minute packing, shopping, and upcoming season preparing done. I can't wait to go home, but I don't want to go through the hassle of traveling a long time to get there. Yesterday I had dinner at Carter's house... the first semi-formal setting I have been in with his parents... and it was nice. I felt comfortable and at ease, and we sat at the table a long time after dinner just to continue our conversation. I must say that it makes a dating situation much easier when you have parental approval. It was a memorable day in one other fantastic way as well. I also went to Columbia during the day, where I participated in a day-long conference on how to treat, preserve, and manage audio-visual materials. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, even though I know that stating that makes me a complete nerd. Christmas lights are up at our house, and the little tree that my roommate Tracy brought back from VA creates a festive atmosphere every night.
Today is my last day at work for the year. This is my last weekend in the United States for 2005. When I come back, I will already have missed two classes. But I will have a nice suntan and a month's worth of relaxation.

Old Dog, No New Tricks: A Story of Resistance to Change

Once again I am astounded by the profoundness that is to be found in common sayings. I was thinking about the saying, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks," and it hit me: it is so true. Now, I don't consider myself old by any means, nor to be of the canine persuasion, but I have noticed a pattern of resistance to change within myself as time has passed. Perhaps I spent so much of my youth trying to be comfortable in my own skin that the thought of shedding it is just too much to handle. Either way, I have noticed that as I have grown older, I have developed a certain persona that has become harder and harder to alter.
Those of you who know me well, or even those of you who know me very little, know that I am usually a very loud, talkative, and opinionated person. Now, what if I decided that I didn't want to be loud and opinionated anymore? What if I wanted to become quieter and more introspective, and not quite as ready to jump down someone's throat for not ascribing to my same beliefs? The answer seems easy: "Just do it." As if it were an addiction to nicotine that could be curbed by will-power. But it's much harder than quitting smoking because the people around you are as resistent to change as you are. They are so afraid of changing themselves, in fact, that they don't want you to change.
Yesterday, for example, I decided that I was going to be quiet. Not upset or mad or morose -- just quiet. I wanted to listen, observe, and stand back from center stage for awhile. What reaction did I get? I don't think I can count the numbers of times that people asked me if I was okay. "What's wrong?" "Why are you upset?" "You know you can talk to me." There was nothing wrong! No matter how many times I reiterated that fact, the questions kept coming. Finally, the constant badgering blew my fuse and I got pissed off -- and reverted to my usual self.
I was trying hard not to act like I usually did, because people complain to me that I am "offensive" and "too opinionated" and that I should not feel the need to express my opinion all the time -- but when I did that people didn't believe that I could act that way! And they wanted me to go back to being how I usually am, even though they complain about it. Bizarre.
So it's not only that you can't teach old dogs new tricks -- it's that you can't teach the old dog's old friends to be happy for her if she does learn new tricks.

Watch Out - Women at the Citadel!

I read an article in the local newspaper some time ago that just plain pissed me off. A Citadel alumnus has started a club called the Citadel Men Foundation, which is campaigning to reverse what he says is "the erosion of the Charleston military college's core values and traditions. "
In part what he disagrees with is the admission of women into the Citadel. This man stated: "Don't get me wrong, I love women, I just don't think they belong at The Citadel."
Another alumnus and former assistant commandant of cadets said, "he sympathizes with graduates who wish the school had remained closed to women, but said they need to get over it as he has and help the college move forward." He is quoted as saying: "Let's make it work until somebody can find a way to make it go back."
Another graduate claimed that admitting women into the Citadel was "just part of a deeper problem with a creeping tide of political correctness."
NOW THEN. In two years, I will be claiming the Citadel as my alma mater. And the ideas expressed here are just frankly so backward, misogynistic and sexist that it baffles me that people today can believe they are true. As a woman-- as an intelligent and competent woman-- I want nothing more than to enroll in this institution of higher learning and show each and every single one of those ignorant men that they are simply wrong and that it is ideas like theirs which inhibit societal progress. I hope in two years to have proven my point.
I wrote the author about publishing an article in regards to how women feel about being women in the Citadel, but he hasn't responded yet. For the complete article, click here.

Moral Perversion in TV Today -- The Omarosa Example

I came across half a thought today that disturbed me. I did not feel like being disturbed, so I ignored it. But it was persistent. I kept getting this image of Amarosa, the woman who has become the "villain" of reality TV by acting like a total and complete bitch. She first gained notoriety by acting unscrupulously towards her teammates in Donald Trump's The Apprentice . She lied, refused to participate in the team's efforts, and behaved overall appalingly. After she was kicked out, she appeared on a series of TV shows alongside movie stars and celebrities. Then, she participated in the Celeb Reality Show, which concluded a few night ago. Again, she was rude, mean, and an overall bitch. After calling one of her housemates a crackwhore and a bad mother, she gloated that she had forced her nemesis out of the house. Then she left the show, smiling, saying that she regretted nothing and said that a whole new category of actors had been created because of her -- the reality villain. This idea -- and the fact that she was absolutely right - disturbed me immensly. She winked at the end, as if to plant a seed of doubt in our mind - that maybe she was just acting like a bitch the whole time and wasn't one in real life.
Of course reality shows are anything but real. Of course producers like having a shock factor in their shows. Of course we like to sit in our comfortable chairs and get the feeling that we are at least better than one person in this world. But that she is actively sanctioned and her actions condoned by not getting booed off stage when she comes on the show to talk about her life -- that bothers me. It bothers me that she should have left the Trump show with her tail between her legs and never gotten a real job after that and instead she became rich and famous. It bothers me because it sends the wrong message. It sends the message that immoral people-- people for whom the ends justify the means-- when put in the right setting, get to be someone in this world. She lied, she cheated, she broke all rules of common courtesy and respect. How does she get invited to gala dinners and red carpet events? How does she dare to stand next to people of talent, honor and integrity? She lives as a parasite, feeding off of our culture's desire for scandal and moral degradation.

Reason for a drumroll...

I would like to take this opportunity to create an environment of excitement. Drum roll, please. I have been...
rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, still rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, still rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, still rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, still rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling, still rolling)
...AWARDED A GRADUATE ASSISTANTSHIP!
This means I can afford to go to graduate school in the spring.
It also means I will stay in Charleston for two more years.
It also means I am super excited about life right now.

The Thanksgiving Plan or How to Land a Great Meal as a Foreigner

Every year around this time, I thank the gods that I don't have family in the United States. About a month before the big day (of Thanksgiving, that is) I start setting up my plan that inevitably lands me with a great meal. This is how my "get-invited-to-the-best-thanksgiving-mean" plan works:
I set my strategy up by ask the unsuspecting friend or renowned good cook what their Thanksgiving plans are. They respond and, if the answer sounds appealing, I proceed to phase two: setting myself up for the reciprocal question. I do this by leaving a lot of silence and looking slightly embarrassed. When they ask me what I am doing, I go in for the kill. I change my countenance to look like I am slightly sad but trying to look strong. My words usually go something like this:

"Me? Oh, I don't have any family in America. The closest person geographically to me is my brother, and he lives in the western extremity of Canada. So I don't know what I'm going to do. Probably nothing. I'll just stay at home by myself and try to enjoy the quiet, I guess."

And that usually does it. I am always invited to Thanksgiving dinner. Any American who hears the words "alone" and "Thanksgiving" automatically feels a tweak of compassion and sadness. And since I am also cute and not from here, I make a good conversation piece.

After I have raked in a few invitations, I consider my options and try to find the best cooking/family atmosphere combo. Then I make my calculated selection and wait for the big day to arrive when I can shower my host family with compliments on their fabulous American cooking and assure them that theirs was the best Thanksgiving meal I have ever had.

Brilliant.

November 21, 2005

Nothing much to report. Life is good. I'm excited about turkey day and my friend Siobhan's mother's fantastic cooking. This weekend we had a keg party at the house. We played lots of games and drank lots of cheap beer... fun times. I also put in a bunch of hours doing research for a writer who is finishing a book on the 1886 Charleston Earthquake. My young eyes went through lots and lots of old newspaper articles...
Everything else about this weekend is either incriminating or boring. Mostly incriminating. So I will refrain from mentioning it.

When You Are Old

William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

So I like this poem for one, because it's got such cool imagery. For two, because it's the neatest thing to think of the person Yeats was writing this for opening a book and seeing a poem about her... regardless of what happened in the end. And for three, because of the sentence in bold -- the pilgrim soul. What woman can't identify with that?

But I Am Le Tired

So I am exhausted after staying up til 3:30 to see Harry Potter. But it was so worth it. Oh yeah.

So this French lady came into work today and I gave her a tour in French of the building and we ended up talking about everything and nothing... she was really interesting but I am so tired I can barely speak English and so my words were coming out all garbled and messed up and I just made up words when I couldn't think in French, it's been so long... And anyway... she left to go back to Bordeaux and all I can think of right now is:

"Fire ze missiles!"
"But I am le tired."
"Well, take a nap. And zen... fire ze missiles!."

On that note -- guess who can't wait to take a nap?

There's something about Harry

HARRY POTTER IS COMING OUT TONIGHT!!!!

I'M TRYING TO CONVINCE ANNA TO GO TO A MIDNIGHT SHOWING WITH ME... YOU KNOW, BE MY HOT DATE AND ALL.

But don't you have work in the morning?, you ask

I do, I answer.

But it's HARRY POTTER!!!

Growing up in Ethiopia...

I was asked several questions about a recent post. The main question was:

How has having material goods impacted what you "own" in terms of your attitude, personality, thoughtfulness, etc?

I was raised in a family where I had wants but not needs. We were pretty well-off but my mother didn’t spoil us – she could have given us a lot more than she did in terms of material possessions, but she made a point to make sure that we didn’t get everything we wanted all the time. She was a firm believer in getting what you paid for. She would go to a flea market and refuse to buy a napkin if she thought she was being ripped off, and then buy a whole set for a far more expensive price because the quality of the item matched the price. I never had an allowance – if I needed money I’d ask for it and get it – but I wouldn’t get as much as I’d asked for all the time, and sometimes I wouldn’t get any at all. Which is, I suppose, no different than many other children in other parts of the world. So I wouldn’t get everything I wanted but I never was in need of anything.
The fact that I never needed anything and that I lived in a country where I was surrounded by people in need helped me develop a self-consciousness which allowed me to develop what I you call “thoughtfulness.” Growing up in Ethiopia, I was painfully aware that inequality existed in the world – it’s not something someone had to tell me or that I had to read in a book. Every time I walked outside my door, I would be followed by three to five children begging for money. It was a normal part of my life and I didn’t feel guilty about not giving them some, as many tourists who come to Ethiopia do, because I understood that that was life and because it was normal to me. But at times, it would hit me, and I couldn’t ignore it.
One time my favorite beggar (yes, you start having favorites) -- a young man who had dreadlocks, no legs, and the biggest smile in the world and who would stand outside the bakery… wasn’t there anymore. Every day I would go to the bakery and see him… and whether I gave him anything or not, he would always grin at me, and I would grin at him. It was an intimate moment… the recognition of one human being to another… and it would always leave me with a smile on my face. Well, this one time, he wasn’t there. A few weeks later he showed up again, but he didn’t smile at me. I felt crushed. Not because he didn’t smile at me – but because I knew that he wasn’t smiling at all anymore. His eyes were overcome with a veil of sadness and it was like he had given up hope. He kept looking more destitute by the day and wouldn’t accept money if I gave it to him. He just waved me away. The guy who had always managed to smile, even though he had no legs, no job, no money, and lived on the street, wasn’t smiling anymore. Somehow his spirit had been crushed.
I remember going home and crying that first day that he didn’t smile. It was like a world had collapsed. I felt angry and helpless and overcome with emotion. And then I decided that I wasn’t going to eat any more. I don’t know why I did it, really… it’s not like I went out there and gave him my food. But I didn’t eat. For days my mother tried to get me to eat and I wouldn’t… and my brothers laughed at me and said, in their practical voices: “what good is your not eating going to do to him?” But I wasn’t listening to reason. Eventually I fainted. And my mom made me start eating again. It was bizarre and I can’t explain it. I guess I just wanted to feel what he felt, to understand what could make one die inside. Of course I failed.
I guess I realize by growing up in a country as poor as Ethiopia how goddamn lucky I am to get to have the things I have. A blanket, a toy, a car… these are all luxuries. You just don’t know it in America most of the times. Do you know what they use for toys in Ethiopia? The children get scraps off the floor and fill them into a sock and make that into a ball. Their court is the street. They get broken bicycle rims and take a long stick and try to get the rim to roll upright on the ground as long as possible without falling over. I guess I never had the coolest toys or the latest anything… but I always had a real ball. And whenever my mom was driving and a kid happened to lose control of the ball, she would make sure to swerve out of the way so as not to destroy it because, she would say, “how would you like it if I ran over your toy?”
So I guess that set of experiences has impacted the value I ascribe to material possessions and what I subsequently “own” in terms of character, personality, etc.

Why Europeans Don't Approve of the War in Iraq

If you are interested in a different perspective on the war in Iraq, and want to see video footage that I have never seen broadcasted in the United States, check out this site. Be warned, there is graphic footage.

http://www.rainews24.rai.it/ran24/inchiesta/video.asp

Sense of Self... and how I am now a proud car owner...

So for the first time in my life I am a proud car owner. I just finished purchasing a Subaru Legacy. My name is on the title, registration, insurance, and license plate (which is in my glove compartment waiting to be attached). I don't think I've ever felt so proud to own anything. This little shoddy used car gives me such a sense of freedom. I can pick up and go anywhere, and if anything happens to it, I am responsible for it. It's liberating and it makes me proud to know that I worked for it and saved for it and that it is deservedly mine.

So this got me thinking. What does the word mine really mean? Is it just a word that expresses the ownership of property? When I think of things that are uniquely mine, I can easily sum it up in material things. I own some clothes, some furniture, some accessories, a passport, a diploma, and now a car. And all of these things, because they are my property, define who I am. But those are not the only things that are mine -- there is a far vaster non-material realm which describes what is mine .

How I look, think, feel, smell, portray myself to others and act are all essential parts to defining me. My culture, my history, my education, and my experiences are uniquely my own as well. So this is the question: how to mine and me fit together? Mine is that which belongs to me. Granted. But mine is also that which defines me. More importantly, mine is that which defines my perception of myself -- both the material and non-material aspects.

How different would I be if I didn't own the clothes, furniture, accessories, passport, diploma, and car that I do? Who would I be if I thought, felt, smelled, portrayed myself, and acted differently? What would be left of me if I was stripped of my culture, my history, my education, and my experiences? Obviously these are rhetorical questions, as I do not believe it is entirely possible to do. But it does make me want to put my life in perspective and think about what would need to be taken away from me, or be different, in order for me not to feel like myself anymore.

I have been without material possessions. My house burned down when I lived in South Africa and I was left with nothing but the clothes I had on. But I didn't feel less than myself for it. In fact, I can recall few instances where I felt more alive.

I have experienced changes in attitudes, beliefs, and physical characteristics. My butt didn't always use to be this big, and I don't still want to join GreenPeace.

I have experienced a significant loss of my original culture and a syncretism with North American culture, I suppose, since moving here four years ago. And my education and my experiences have been significantly increasing since the day I was born.

So it's a hard question to answer.

But what better way to spend ones time than to attempt to express ones sense of self rationally?

The Story of Phillip

Right now I am working on processing a manuscript collection of a historic African American funeral home in Charleston. I am going through all their records – ledgers, invoices, and documentation pertaining to the dead. A lot of the information is standard – name of deceased, address, date of death, place of burial… but some records contain a lot more information. Some records relate information about the occupation of the deceased, whether they were veterans of a war, what they died of, and the details of their funeral arrangements – how many cars were going to the funeral and whether they bought flowers.
While I go through the records, I make up stories of what their lives were like. I take all the information provided in those yellowed pages and make up a story – I try to give life to these dead pages through my imagination because I don’t think I could bear to work with these records otherwise. I look at these records, brittle and frail, and it strikes me so hard that all of these people, summarized on a single sheet of paper, are now gone forever.
If it wasn’t for these records, I would never know of their existence. Take Phillip Robert Russell, who died on June 6, 1952 at 3:35 pm. He drowned. He was a sailor for the US Navy, 23 years old. His mother’s name was Martha, his dad’s was Harry. The Navy paid for his funeral, a total of $47.95. His remains were shipped to Boston, and the only personal service done to him was putting an engraved name plate on his casket, for a total of $2.00. There were no death notices in the papers and no money was spent on flowers. These are the cold, hard facts relating to Phillip. But who was he aside from that?
In my mind, he was a vigorous, intelligent, handsome man who joined the Navy to see the world and make his mother proud. He was proud to be who he was but being that he was black, he was faced with constant discrimination. He wouldn’t back down when insulted though, and his courage made his fellow sailors afraid, because they couldn’t break him. So one day they ganged up on him and threw him overboard, because they knew he couldn’t swim. That’s what happened in my mind. But reality was surely different.
I’m sure few if any people today remember that Phillip died here. His parents are surely dead, and his siblings, if he had any, are probably in their 80s. I look at this record and there is so much about him that I want to know.
Does anybody visit his grave in Boston anymore? Does anybody know what he liked to do on his time off or the reason why he joined the navy?
The only reason anyone in fifty years will probably know of Phillip’s existence is if they come across this dusty bound ledger with frayed pages and fading ink. I guess that’s why I do what I do. When there will be nobody remaining in this world who can tell me what this young sailor looked like when he smiled, I can at least make sure that people have a miniscule record of his life, so they can, if nothing else, make up a story of what his life was like.

Piccola Stella Senza Cielo

by Ligabue

Ti brucerai
Piccola stella senza cielo.
Ti mostrerai
Ci incanteremo mentre scoppi in volo
Ti scioglierai
Dietro a una scia un soffio, un velo
Ti staccherai
Perchè ti tiene su soltanto un filo, sai.

You will burn,

tiny star without a sky.

You will show yourself to us,

We'll feel enchanted as you explode in flight.

You will melt

Behind a wake, a breath, a veil

You will detach

Because you are held up only by a string, you know.

These lyrics are part of a song by an Italian artist. It's sometimes easier for me to connect to Italian songs than English ones-- more poetic, I suppose. The lyrics are actually far more multi-faceted than my poor translation expresses, trust me.

Where in the World...

I was intrigued by my dear friend Mimi's latest post... if you could go to five places in the world in five days (or more), where would you go? Alas, I am not going to give you just that, but I'm going to add a twist too!
Scandalous, you say?!
I'm going to add a "with whom" part to the "where."
Scandalous, I know.

1. Macchu Picchu, Peru -- with my mother
2. Vietnam -- with my roomates and Siobhan
3. Mt. Fuji -- with Lauren
4. New Zealand -- by myself
5. the North Pole -- with my significant other (for warmth purposes, of course!), and everyone I care about! (That would make it a pretty big trip, but I bet it could get pretty lonely out there.)

There's a feeling I get when I look to the west...

And as we wind on down the road

Our shadows taller than our souls

There walks a lady we all know

Who shines white light and wants to show

How everything still turns to gold

And if you listen very hard

The tune will come to you at last

When all are one and one is all

To be a rock and not to roll...

-- Led Zepplin, Stairway to Heaven

Troubadour

Yesterday, I was walking down King Street with Carter when a street musician came up to us. He asked Carter if he would "buy the lovely lady a song," and Carter agreed. He started playing the harmonica -- some blues and some boogie -- for us. He was a black man in his sixties perhaps (hard to tell), tall and slender, and a man who had been through rough times. But he didn't beg for money... he offered us a service (musical entertainment) for a monetary compensation. We were enjoying the performance (because he was really extraordinarily good) when a group of young, preppy white kids step out of a restaurant. They see Carter and I standing there, and the musician playing for us. One of the kids, wearing a striped green shirt and a baseball cap turned backwards starts laughing and says, "Aww, man, now you gotta do a little dance to that, too!" Then he walks away, laughing with his friends. I stood there for a moment, startled. I couldn't believe what had just happened.

One second, we were enjoying an interchange -- he performed music for us, we paid him -- the next, he is being demeaned, publicly - by a pimply guy whose only skills are probably limited to getting a highscore in Halo. How did he had the nerve, the audacity, the presumtion that he could speak like that to a man who was trying as best he could to eek out an honest living? Who was he to tell this man to "do a little dance with that?" Would he have instructed any man with a harmonica to dance? What if that were Bob Dylan? Or the white twenty-something guy who pretends to be John Mayer who plays at Red's on Friday? (Red's is a bar in the up-scale part of town known as Mt. Pleasant) Would he have laughed and pointed then? Chances are, he never thought he was even doing anything wrong. He never thought how goddamn condescending, elitist, and insulting he was being. He probably just thought he was being funny. Truth is, he was ascribing to a century old belief system in which he sees his white, upper class self as superior, and he was, through his comments, showing that he did not respect this individual as a full human being.

This musicial had talent, and without knowing how or why, some guy a third of his age judged him and decided that he was better than him, by publicly demeaning him. Am I exaggerating? Am I going over the top and making a big hoopla out of an innocent remark? I don't think I am. What could this man have been if people had given him a chance? Maybe he would have been on the streets anyway. But he was talented, polite, and educated. As we walked away, he said to me, "I'm a troubadour -- a representative of the lost art." Did the pimply-faced kid who walked away feeling good about himself even know what the word "troubadour" meant?

The questions are rhetorical. The point is that the kid should have been taught respect for his fellow human beings. I don't for one second believe that everyone deserves the same kind of respect -- I for one don't respect that kid on an intellectual level because of his actions and if I ever see him again I will tell him as much -- but I have a basic level of respect for everyone. That is what he lacked. That is, unfortunately, what a lot of people lack.

Friend or Fluke?

I was having dinner at a Chinese restaurant with my friend M. a few days ago, and after the usual chatter about work and people we knew, our conversation turned towards many girls' favorite topic: guys. She was expressing her frustration about her inability to find a good guy. She's smart, fun, good-looking... and why doesn't a guy out there notice? Usually, I would have been the first person to jump on that bandwagon and ramble on about how guys are retards and can't tell a whore from a princess and are intimidated by intelligence and don't understand the first thing about seeing a woman for who she is. And I tried to tell her all this, because I do believe it's true, but I couldn't get myself to mumble more than a few half-hearted phrases amidst bites of fried rice.

I wanted to tell her these things to make her feel better, because I knew she wanted to hear me say them... after all, that is what she had always heard me say... but I felt like such a fluke. Here I was, the exception to the rule -- the girl who did have a great guy. Who was I to attack men? I felt like a traitor to womanhood, and for a brief moment I wanted to give up Carter, simply for the sake of camaraderie. For so long, my role has been supporting female friends by expressing how I was in their same boat. Now, I felt like I was that annoying girlfriend who patted you on the back and said, "don't worry, you'll find a great guy too someday." The same one who "feels for you" and gives you the sympathetic look and tells you that "he's out there." How I cringe at the thought of becoming her! I can't be her! But how can I be a loyal, honest friend to the girls who mean the world to me without being a condescending "I-feel-for-you" motherfigure?

The Reversal of "Job"

Can it be true? Ethel said "good things happen too, you know." I think I'm still in shock. I know I am. For the first time in forever, I feel like I've been swept clean off my feet.

His name is Carter.

Absolutely Impossible

I went to see a play yesterday about Hermann Goering, Hitler's second in command. It was fascinating, to say the least... especially coupling that with an autobiography I'm reading right now by Hitler's secretary. It was unlike many plays I've seen because it didn't have a clear message -- it didn't try to say that Goering was an evil man, though he certainly perpetrated evil acts. It didn't try to say that Goering was a good man, though he certainly had a way of charming the people you'd least expect -- like his Jewish psychiatrist. The message it sent, the message I understood - is something I've been thinking about for a long time.

It is not only ignorant, but actually harmful for people to oversimplify individuals' characters as wholly "good" or "evil." Not only are the terms subjective, they are also completely impossible descriptors. Yes, Hitler, Goering, and his entire posse committed or sanctioned atrocities beyond my imagination. But each of these "evil" men had a family, a hobby, a sensitivity that any human can connect to. Hitler had a pet dog that he trained and loved; Goering, who showed no signs of regret for his actions, broke down in tears like a baby after his wife visited him in prison.

It is so often preferable to ignore these endearing traits and to dehumanize them on a surface level. But this overly simplified analysis of them-- be it Goering, Hitler, Stalin, Franco, Mussolini, Kim Jung Il, Mbutu, Castro, Saddam, whomever -- is dangerous. It strips away our ability to understand that the capability for evil is within all of us. It creates a dualistic world in which "we" are always good and "they" are always bad. And one in which "we" could never be "them". But if you look at the actions of the world, the events of history, it is so easy for the tables to be turned.

If Germany had won the war, it would be Franklin Roosevelt who would be vilified for allowing the Japanese interment camps, the atomic bombings and resulting death of undetermined numbers of people at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. It would be Churchill who would be condemned for indiscriminately bombing civilians in the city of Dresden, after German surrender. There are enough evil acts to go around. But I doubt anyone would go so far as to claim the Roosevelt or Churchill are evil. In fact, they are known as the champions of democracy.

So it is true, the winners write the history books, and everyone is more complex than they seem. There are no justifications for the wrongs committed in history, and I am not one to believe that we cannot pass judgment on actions. We do, and we must, so that we can attempt to achieve progress. But we must do that while remaining cognizant of the fact that all humans are complex, no one is simply "evil," or simply "good," and that by labeling people as such we are doing a disservice to our understanding of humanity.

OOooooooooh!!!

I'm so excited. Please, please let this be good. :)

Halloween!

Halloween in Charleston is a big deal. And, inspite of my somewhat unsuccessful previous attempts at blending into Charlestonian society, this time I think I really hit the nail on the head! People started dressing up on Thursday, when my friend Chris came to visit. We did not know that people would already be in costume so, wanting to partake in the festivities, we decided that the next night we would be right there with the best of them. So -- we got our costumes together.

Friday night, I went as "Goggle Girl" -- a superhero with an unspecified superpower. I was wearing black and white tights, black spandex, high heeled boots, a black shirt, a red kitchen apron draped over my shoulders which served as a cape, red underwear on top of the spandex, and -- the piece de resistance-- swimming goggles. Suffice it to say that I was so cool-looking that a girl I had never met asked me if she could take my picture. Of course I allowed it.

Then, the next night, I went as a dead rockstar, with thrift-store bough faux-leather bell-bottom pants and a matching shirt-vest with silver studs down the sides. To top that off, I wore a black mullet wig and fake blood (which you can buy in a bottle!) streaming down my face.

And the best part of it all comes tonight-- the actual Halloween night-- when we get to scare small children who come to our door looking for candy. We already carved a pumpkin, got candy from the store, and draped fake spiderwebs over our entrance, complete with fake spiders! My roommates are getting some scary music, and as soon as we all get home from work, we're going to devise a plan to scare the kids as they come to our door (but not too much!). Yessssssssssssssssssssss!! I'm so excited for tonight!

On a side note -- yesterday all of my roommates and I went to the beach and we saw a huge group of dolphins! There must have been 25 or more, and they were incredibly close to us -- only 10 feet (3 meters) away at times -- jumping and splashing everywhere! It was absolutely amazing. The seemed so playful and carefree. It was a great end to a fantastic weekend.

Pictures

I feel so silly doing this, BUT:

I'm uploading these pictures because the photographer who took them, my friend Julio, is damn good and can make me look really pretty. So here they are.

Mind Clubbing

"I remember that once, when some passenger complaints had gotten me a warning, and I wanted to be careful, I was working down the aisle and a big, beefy, red-faced cracker soldier got in front of me, so drunk he was weaving, and announced loud enough that everybody in the car heard him, "I'm going to fight you, nigger." I remember the tension. I laughed and told him, "Sure, I'll fight, but you've got too many clothes on." He had on a big Army overcoat. He took that off, and i kept laughing and said he still had on too many. I was able to keep that cracker stripping off clothes until he stood there drunk with nothing on from his pants up, and the whole car was laughing at him, and some other soldiers got him out of the way. I went on. I would never forget that -- that I couldn't have whipped that white man as badly with a club as I had with my mind."

--The Autobiography of Malcolm X

Views on Women-- by Malcolm X

"Never ask a woman about other men. Either she'll tell you a lie, and you still won't know, or if she tells you the truth, you might not have wanted to hear it in the first place."
--The Autobiography of Malcolm X

When I Grow Up...

So I went on this website, you know, because I wanted to see what the gods want me to do with my life ... the website being jobpredictor.com, and my ideal job is topless model! Phewwwwwww! Now I never have to use my brain again!

Lost Souls

Do you think it's possible to lose your soul? I suppose it's only a valid question if you believe in a soul to begin with. So let's assume that there is such a thing. A soul being defined as a spiritual representation of your person. Can you lose it? And if you can, or if you have, how do you find it again?

Rocking My Boat

Some days I really notice the limitations of language... or my inability to find the right words to express a certain sentiment. Take today, for example. I'm a little annoyed, a tad uneasy, a smidget excited... yet I can't find the word that puts these three together. It's not a bad feeling, at all... and it's not a very strong feeling, either... It just feels like when you're sitting in a boat on a lake that's flat as oil, and then a boat drives by in the distance and you know that even though it's still flat, soon you'll feel the ripples. It'll rock your boat.
When I see the boat coming, I'm sometimes annoyed, because I want to enjoy the perfect serenity and the stillness around me. I'm a tad uneasy because I know that I'm having to prepare myself for a change in motion. And I'm a smidget excited, because I look forward to the different pace. So... that's the mood I'm in.
I guess I'll just call this my Rock the Boat mood, in honor of the timeless Mr. Bob Marley.

So why am I feeling like my boat has been rocked ? All three roomates (myself included), have someone coming to town this weekend-- one of them is coming to stay-- and the house is still not as presentable as I would like it. I don't exactly know how it's all going to work out with another person permanently living in the house, and I want everyone to get along, but having four girls in one house might just be asking for trouble.

Jessica by Kwame Alexander

Jessica

Is a knife

With soul

Got that edge

That slices the whole truth

Talks loud

Enough for us

To hear

Her words

Are useful

Like umbrellas

In Trafalgar Square

Or bus passes

In New York City

(depending on your address)

she walks around

head tilted upwards

as if searching for answers

to the questions she posed

only two minutes ago

(like, "how can you fuck without kissing?")

I notice a scar

Under her left eye

Perhaps it is there

because her eyes are so sharp

always cutting through

the bullshit

by Kwame Alexander

To Artina

I will take your heart.
I will take your soul out of your body
As though I were God.
I will not be satisfied
With the touch of your hand
Nor the sweet of your lips alone.
I will take your heart for mine.
I will take your soul.
I will be God when it comes to you.

-- Langston Hughes

Spirit

My coworker Julio took this picture of me a few days ago. While we were looking at it, he said to me in his thick Panamanian accent: "This is a perfect representation of your spirit." I like it.

The Color Purple

"I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it."
--Alice Walker

Purple has been my favorite color for as long as I can remember. It's not as bright as red or yellow, and it's richer than blue or green. It's a mixture of two colors that you don't expect. I always thought it made sense for red and yellow to make orange, but not for red and blue to make purple. It's always been my color. In so many ways, I think I loved purple because I thought of it as representing myself. Not pure, not light, nor dark, but beautiful in its own way.

Charleston is not a city for purple. It's a place for red, for blue, for yellow. It's a place for primary colors, where everyone fits into a box, everyone is given a label. Aside from the label that people are given (rich, poor, black, white, etc.), there are the labels people give themselves. You've got the preps, the hippies, the goths, the artists, the outdoorsies. Everyone chooses a box. Then they live into it, conform to it, or perform a radical switch and get out of it. It is not a city for mixes. It is not a city for eclectics. It is not a city for purple.

That creates a problem: I'm purple, and I'm not going to leave Charleston anytime soon. As I see it, I have three options:
1) renounce the color purple
2) create box for purple
3) defy the box system altogether.

It's a hard choice to make. But, I can get to an answer through process of elimination. It's not option 1. After all, purple ought to be appreciated for being purple. It's not option 3. What was purple before it had a name? Everything that is important has a name. That leaves me with option 2. I have to create a box for myself.

Now, the bigger question: how?

New Beginnings

This is my new blog. A blog that fewer people will probably see, and that will, in a way, mean more to me. Since moving to Charleston, a lot of things have changed in my life. I don't fit anymore into the life I left behind, and I don't yet quite fit into the new life I have fashioned. I guess I'm like a hermit crab who found a bigger shell, or a little girl who just was just given her older sister's dress -- it's just a little too big and doesn't quite yet feel like it's my own. I'll get there.

But for now, I am excited. Not a nervous kind of excited but a calm kind of excited... I have a new blog, a new venue, a new form of expression... maybe this is a part of what I'll need to make myself feel at home. I can craft, create, reinvent my identity online.