A good ‘citizen’

I was not looking forward to my trip to the American consulate. Over the past years and through my various travels I had become accustomed to check lists, long lines, and arbitrary requests whether it be from the student visa office in New Zealand or tedious process of obtaining a work visa in Mexico. These bureaucratic institutions tended to treat people as paper work or as inhumane coded strings of numbers. The 'person' behind the ink is only granted legitimacy if the correct T's are crossed and i's dotted. The greatest sin would be to allow someone the tiniest inch of personhood or look behind a missing document for a life story. Even our Passport pictures try to drain any character from the represented. We sit blankly staring at a flashing camera which tries to capture an image so that security can confirm its really 'us'. There is no laugh behind our plastic smile or good memories in our eyes, no this is the photo of 'me' and all the world can confirm my face matches this picture. It is not my laugh, not not my smell. No, we are just a 2D generic image.

In the dark early hours of the morning I reluctantly began the 6k bike ride to the American Consulate in Amsterdam to replace my passport. To make the situation worse as soon as I was out the door the light ‘sprinkle’ shifted to a steady stream of wetness. Fabulous. I was not sure what was worse, my soaked clothing or soaked documents. Yet, I remembered I had brought a baseball cap that could at least shield my face from the rain. Smiling I resumed my journey laughing about the cap on my head. This cap I was wearing was from the Muslim Brotherhood and featured Arabic writing and the sign for 'Free Palestine'. I was riding to the American consulate to replace my destroyed national booklet with drenched documents wearing propaganda from a radical Islamic group who has openly condemned the United States. What a great citizen. And why do you need a new passport? Oh yes, my next trip? What do you mean Palestine is not a country… fine Yemen? Syria?

However, regardless of my inner feelings toward my country at the American consulate I was surprisingly treated like royalty. Upon arrival I was immediately allowed to cut the already ten person long queue. "All American citizens move to the front of the line" the security guard called out. Once in the building apprehensively I approached the counter with my saturated and barely readable appointment sheet. The big stern serious man took one look at it and ... he...he smiled? He did not scold, but smiled. A human? A human at a bureaucratic institution--was this a side effect of my waterlogged state? No, his smile even spoke, saying, "perfect day for the beach I see. Go into the second room and make yourself a hot drink". So I continued into the building past the ‘foreign applicant room’ which at 8.30am was already completely full with foreigners timidly trembling holding their perfectly preserved stacks of starch paperwork hoping the white sheets would be a sufficient trade for a small visa sticker in their passports.

The second room, or the 'citizen's room', was brightly lighted, lined with cushioned seats, a coffee machine, and completely empty except for me and a picture of the Statue of liberty; prime company for any citizen--America in all her glory. Here too, the officials were to my surprise kind and helpful. Yes kind and helpful. I was not dreaming. They gave me new forms (rather than sending me out to find a shop to print out a duplicate) and did not require that I pay for postage. They chatted, called me by my first name, and even let me keep their pen. Three times a guard strolled in and asked if I was comfortable and if everything was all right.

This experience illuminates the strange underlying meaning of 'citizenship'. Purely because I have a gold eagle and blue cover on my passport was I treated like royalty. A mere label given to me at birth humanized me at the black iron gate in a security ridden building, an area of containment for some or an oasis in a foreign land for others. I couldn't help but think how arbitrary nationalism is. We are all people. We all eat, breath, love, hate, sleep, and sometimes snore. However, unlike the other 'strings of numbers' sitting on hard chairs only ten feet and a wall away in the 'non-citizen room'. I comfortably sat sipping coffee re-scribbling my personal details on new forms. I was allowed human traits, like being called by my first name and was given pen to write it. This division is ludicrous. Why cannot we recognize that having "hawaii" under place of birth is no different than, "Nairobi". In both plots of land people fall and love and produce children (ok sometimes with out the love part). However borders and bureaucracy complicate and strip of us our humanity when outside our allocated ‘areas’. It was in this 'oasis' that I both hated and loved my ‘landed’ luck. Still, I found my self wishing that there was some way to change chance and perpetually presuppose personhood over national labels. Yet as I peddled away from the iron gates the gray skies and pouring rain reminded me how dire and destitute such thoughts are in an age valuing place over people. It will be along time before people come before paperwork and passport identity. Thus I consequently pulled on my Muslim brotherhood hat over my eyes and peddled away like a good ‘citizen’.

Visit to the Turkish Immigration Center

From the outside, the building looked no different than the average brick apartment, but upon entering there was an immediate sense of warmth and welcome. The head of organization, Mustafa, met us in the doorway and guided our group in to the well lit spacious area. We seated ourselves around the large main table nestled among many smaller ones just like it. Without any explanation you could see how the set up fostered community and hospitality. One could not help but feel at ease surrounded by colorful paintings, idlic chess sets, a vacant ping-pong table and a long well stocked bar where radio in the corner sat blasting the latest hits.

The ambiance was matched by Mustafa’s large smile and eager answers. Mustafa was one of the founders of the organization back in 1974. He has been living in the Netherlands since he was 19 and has married and raised his daughter here. When asked about his past and what brought him to Holland he was slow to answer. At first, he only revealed that he left ‘as a political refugee’. However upon further pressing he began to open up. Although from the Country of Turkey, he revealed that he was actually Kurdish and grew up in a small countryside village. In his teens he had moved Ankara to study and began to become involved with politics. However, soon trouble began involving a group called the “Grey Wolves” a neo-fascist group associated with the National Movement Party, whose goal was to create the “Great Turkish Empire”. Although Mustafa did not elaborate he explained that he was shot with five bullets before escaping to Sweden and then finally to Holland.

Mustafa knew he wanted to stay in Holland immediately. A sweet nostalgic glow entered his eyes as he told a story about his third day in Amsterdam. “I remember seeing a woman riding a bike, her skirt blowing in the wind, whistling as she rode along. She seemed to have not a care at all. I thought the people here are so free. This is the place I want to stay”. As a result he has worked hard building an organization which allows others to have the same freedom. Although primarily listed as an organization for Turkish immigrants Mustafa explained that all nationalities are welcome. Reading from a print out about the organization he listed some of its activities as fighting discrimination, helping integrate immigrants, working for better living conditions, keeping kids in school, cultural issues and other related topics.

When asked to expand upon cultural integration he replied that it is important to take the best things from every society. Curious, we asked him to name a few of these “best things”.

“Well”, he said, pausing in thought, “From Turkey you have our folk music”

“And Morocco?”

“The tea! Of course!

"From Germany?"

"the sausage!"

"and the Netherlands?"

"… well the apple pie!” He emphatically declared grinning.

Although Mustafa had to run off he had arranged a lovely lunch of soup and sandwiches for us as a final welcoming gesture. He stood up in an abrupt way and waved goodbye. Although ‘Turkish’ we couldn’t help but notice his typically Dutch mannerisms. The small body movements and gestures which usually are embodied by the tall blond blue eyed men had found a home on this dark haired immigrant. Thus although ‘Turkish” his body and person had found a hybrid way of being showing that there are many ways of being an ‘immigrant’, ‘Dutch’, and ‘Turkish”, some are unconscious, some are inherited, but just remember that we can always pick and choose what we think are the best parts of each!

place, pictures, and memory

Everyday I bike down the same narrow cobble street. I peddle amongst the now familiar buildings, hearing the everyday sights and sounds that are now nothing more than ordinary. Yet the ‘everydayness’ of the street can be and will be ripped away in an instant, torn from my routine the moment I leave Amsterdam and embark upon a new adventure. And then, later upon returning or ‘re’-visiting I am sure I will feel the urge to once again ride down the street. I will lust to relive what is now a routine experience.

I start with this example because it demonstrates the strange power of place and memory. And how it is not only until we leave or a place is taken away from us that we realize its value and function as a vault for the past.

A friend sent me this music video by a band called Death Cab for Cutie (yes-a melancholy band title for melancholy music) which I believe is a song about the fires in California.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmpMQA0qfuM

However what the video beautifully demonstrates is our reliance and relationship to place and pictures as fundamental links to our imagined histories. It’s funny the video at one point brought a tear to my eye. For me the point it was making was so potent. It’s not only the place that was being burned, but also the landscape’s embedded memories. The tangible places, pictures, and things have stories behind them, and entrenched in the stories are layers of emotion.

I cannot begin to describe the strange sensation of returning to a familiar place, whether it be a diner your family once stopped at during a road trip or the park you played at as a kid. The sights, smells, and sounds are a locus of the past, memorials to smiles, sadness and suspense that was once you. When re-visiting it you are overwhelmed with the feelings. At locations and within things we build up stacks of experiences. The more time we invest in a place or item the taller and fuller the sediment. It is only when you revisit these sentimental shrines that you can relive the sensation of what has been. Yet funnily enough often upon returning the experience does not add to those which were, but instead the tower of memories suddenly crashes and crumbles. You find yourself amid a pile of recollection rubble desperately scrambling to examine each piece and enjoy it as if within an ambiance associated with lost love.

There is something beautiful about the process. It is a rare point where you can actually feel the future and past embrace and engage in a sweet melancholy kiss of memory. The experience is like a hug from a long lost friend; each person has long since gone in different directions and no longer knows one another. However in that moment of reunion you can feel the visceral warmth of meaning, as if there was no such thing as clocks, time, and change. The warmth of reminiscence suspends temporality and you are caught in-between the here-and-now and the there-and-then.

What I find interesting is the relation of pictures to place and people. I am fascinated by an image’s power to (re)make memory. Pictures are a sort of ‘liminal memory’, they are grounded in a moment but when we look back at the slice of reality our imagination takes care of the non-visual. I would argue our imagination even often intensifies the other senses and emotions. For instance I have very few pictures from when I was living in Mexico because I did not have a camera. Now when I recollect my time in Merida, I have a sort of emotional lack, I actually do not relate the place to a special spot full of fond of memories. I have memories, but they do not have the same energy of those from other travels. I think if I was physically back in Mexico I would be overwhelmed by and feel the phantoms of the past, but now the place and corresponding experiences lie emotionally dormant in my mind. Yet when I remember my time in India I experience an overwhelming sensation. I experience pieces of love, lust, and longing fitted as parts of a general memory puzzle. A puzzle of content, but always with a piece missing because I know I am somewhere else; thoughts of Varanasi are merely ghosts of encounters. However, I think this is due to the fact that I have framed India, isolated many of my daily experiences through photographs. I have taken many memories out of context and scrutinized and scrapbooked them so they stick out from the whirlwind of experience. Capturing the colors, creatively collecting the candor of everyday day life has allowed me to ‘create’ Varanasi, piece it together, and properly place emotion at each seam of events. I was in Mexico for a much longer period of time, but did not isolate items of remembrance through images (not having a camera). Instead they float along in a dream like state trapped within my imagination (although, perhaps the fact that I visited India for a shorter time prevented the place from becoming ‘everyday’, or ‘common’. In otherwords it still retained its spectacularness vs. perhaps Mexico became ordinary for me….). Nonetheless I think pictures through framing and isolation, create, enhance, and embalm rather than purely mirror memory.

Yet you could then argue that India is just a special place (I mean as a ‘westerner’ for me it was a ‘spectacle’, the ‘other’ and quite exotic), but then I think about Israel, which is less exotic. I was only there for 2 days, yet I still feel a connection to the short experience, I have tactile memories from the buildings, sights, sounds, and smells. The place/experience seems to have changed me, touched me, and been a trip I will remember well… yet I wonder if it is to do once again with the camera; that I took so many pictures have framed the place in my head so beautifully.

I think pictures purify experience; they isolate the visual. Seeing is captured and the other senses are filled in by the imagination. We restore in the smells, the sounds, the tastes, and touch of the air in our mind. And actually often the imagination does a better job than reality at recreating these feelings. It enhances sensitivity, lets us simmer in the imagined but once real sensations. ‘In’ an actual place we are ambushed by so many sensory inputs. We do not know which to focus on or if to focus at all, and instead let them all drizzle over us as part of the soft soothing soaking up of experience. But our imagination has an amazing power to ring them out, squeeze them of sensation and let us bathe in our human understanding. We add emotion to these feelings and package the pictures as memories to constantly recall and enjoy.

What ever do I talk about! Conversations and meeting people.

-----“Where are you from”, I believe either the right or left side of my mother’s uterus. You see I was only a tiny zygote/embryo so I can’t remember which side had a thicker lining of blood and tissue…”

Have you ever stopped to notice what we actually talk about? Unless confined to solitude, the majority of us on a daily basis make conversation with one another. However what do we actually say or converse about? These questions are fresh in my mind as I am continually meeting new people here in Amsterdam. For instance yesterday evening, I once again was subjected to the ominous meet and greet activity.

Last year’s MAIPR group and the new round of MAIPR students were introduced to each other in a modern little bar that is cozily situated in the little ally next to the Theater school. As we trickled in everyone, new and old, gathered along a long wooden table in a nice brightly lit room under tall ceilings and amongst trendy wall hangings. After the traditional round the circle “hi my name is” introductions we were faced with the strange task of ‘meeting’. What exactly do we try and achieve during this encounter?

I suppose the easy answer is ‘to get to know one another’, which in my experience is find out a few key facts in order to put people in a nice little box, wrap them up in a few stereotypes, bow on top, NEXT. Indeed last night there was this sort of urgency to ‘meet everyone’. After a few quick comments from a girl I met she said, “well I should probably be moving on and meeting the others”. It was if she was missing out on something if she didn’t gather a few quick facts from everyone. I thought, hmm either I’m boring or she really feels the need to thoroughly make the rounds. I’m hoping/guessing the second was the case because she only gave me the chance to explain where I was from and where in Amsterdam I was living. So is that what constitutes ‘meeting someone’? Why the necessity to ‘meet everyone’. Is this a competition? Should we be weeding out who is the most worthy to engage in conversation with? Yet how is that possible in the span of 5-10 minutes? I wonder during these mass meet-greet-forced socialization-gatherings if it would be more productive to say ok, right count off, and pair up. You have to spend the next hour speaking with this person and no one else. Then perhaps you could really have a chat. In fact a friend once said, “you know its best just to say to a girl you meet at one of these sessions-hey lets sit down and go for a drink and actually have a conversation”—nonetheless now considering this situation the reason his suggestion works is perhaps by switching the social setting to something that alleviates the pressure from ‘missing out on someone’ you can really talk with someone…( why cant you do it in the bigger group is still an issue). Yet moreover, what is this having a ‘chat’ all about. Would we ‘meet them’. better? What is this ‘meeting’? Do we tell stories about ourselves, engage in political debate, look for points of similarities, differences, comment about the structure of the room or everything: what is this ‘getting to know someone and where to start! I have noticed in most new situations the first question is notoriously “where are you from”. The question is simple enough and indeed so routine that we never even stop to ponder it. Yet who cares and why do we ask it?

The only way I can answer this is from my own perspective. Now, reflecting upon my own reasoning, I believe ask where people are from for two reasons. The first being so I can find a point of commonality and determine how to keep the conversation going. “Oh your from Finland wow so the weather here for you must be fantastic”. “Wow, Argentina what a long plane ride that must have been”. Now typing this I realize what a conversation killer this tactic really is. So I get two more lines out of the person, maybe a comment about their comfort or weather not but usually the comments are shallow “yah good, or it was fun” unless something really strange happened and you strike gold… to what extent am I asking just to ask a question…hear my own voice…or maybe I really do care? The second and probably more important reason I ask is so I can begin to gage/judge a person by comparing them to either, stereotypes of people from the country they have just announced, or previous encounter’s with others of the same nationality. As a result I can pretend to think I actually know something about them. And there is a strange sort of power in this knowing. What power though? So you know someone is from England; so they might like Cricket, they might spread Marmite on their bread, and have a past of living in eternally grey and gloomy weather. Yet they might not. The mere possibility of applying stereotypes gives us the idea that we know something about people and knowledge is power or better the feeling of power? However what happens when our assumptions don’t match up with our predications. “Hi I’m Ed, and I’m from Australia” a person says in a distinctly United States accent. Or how about a tall blond guy announcing he’s from Mexico. These answers of course confuse and intrigue people, oh wow you don’t sound like you’re form Australia. You don’t look like you’re from Mexico. Oh really (right like I didn’t know that I don’t fit the stereotype so thanks captain obvious!) …. Conversation dies. Yet I think it points to the bigger question of belonging, and how we ‘do’ belonging and why other people care if we fit these stereotypes. Or perhaps people really don’t care and they are merely just trying to find a way to keep the conversation going.

In the U.S.A there is no way to look. You can be Asian-American, Hispanic-American, African-American (but what do any of those terms really mean anyways ‘asian… Indian? Japanese? Philipino? Chinese?). Regardless your nationality will be accepted as long as you sound American. Sound and sight seem to be the only two categories we place people by. “Wow you certainly smell like a Canadian” is definitely something I’ve never heard before. But when the person doesn’t ‘fit’ these stereotypes or have an ‘socially unified’ identity they have to wear this non-conformity like a badge, a yellow star pinned to their coat I am from here: but I’m physically, auditorily, religiously, etc. different. Once again this returns to the big interesting idea of identity. Or how about when you have a mixed background. Well… I’m from where to start. People don’t seem to like this answer. It doesn’t give them a nice neat one line summary or provide that ‘power’ of unified knowledge and easy categorization. In my own case I always start out by saying the “U.S.A” which given the size and diversity people usually pry for a more specific answer… and that of course gets a bit tricky…(I’m form Hawaii but do not look like a pacific islander then because my parents wanted to teach me about climate diversity i.e. the weather equivilant of heaven and hell I moved to buffalo NY from there just hopped over to NZ for a few years, after that well here there and everywhere… as the list grows to me it seems people stop really listening unless they hear a country that interests them). I think from now on when asked where I’m from I’m going to say: well the specific location? I believe either the right or left side of my mother’s uterus. You see I was only a tiny zygote/embryo so I can’t remember which side had a thicker lining of blood and tissue…I might get a pity laugh or perhaps a confused stare which I probably would interpret as the person thinking I’m crazy. Or if I said ‘I’m from god” or “The rib of Adam” I think I’d freak most people out unless I happen to be striking up a conversation with a religious enthusiast.

Well what is a more appropriate question to get to ‘know someone’, or is our geographic background sufficient? What if we started by asking, “what has been the most life changing experience” or “what is a traumatic event that really effected the way you see the world”. Yet these topics usually require easing into and might seem a bit too ‘confrontational’ for a first encounter. Or how about a completely nonsense question like: “if you had to live on a desert island for the rest of your life what two things would you take with you?” or “if you had to eat one food for the rest of your life what would it be?”

Still why do we need to know anything about the person at all? To be honest the best meet and greet experiences I have had have started with little or no forced personal information. Facts about ‘identity’ and the ‘meeting’ usually come naturally. I remember one of the smoothest (vs. awkard) meetings I’ve ever had was at a talk. I sat next to this average sized dark curly haired young kiwi guy called Mike. He appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary wore a shirt, vest, jeans, sneakers, carried a backpack (ya- a real rebel!) and seemed relaxed considering the circumstances (I guess he was one of the only guys at a talk hosted by Rape Crisis Dunedin…so his very presence made him a bit intriguing). The first thing he said to me was merely an observation about his interests, something like, “I really enjoy the way this room is cozy. It really is welcoming for being a lecture hall”. I agreed, discussed, and we went on to have a discussion about lecture halls, moving on to university students and slowly the conversation blossomed and began to address many attractive topics. I didn’t even find out his name until later when my friend asked how I had found ‘Mike’ her ex flatmate. To this I replied, “wow I didn’t even know his name was Mike or one single fact about him but we had a fantastic time chatting”. Unfortunately though Mike and I never ran into each other again, but I do still remember many of the ideas and the thoughts he left me.

Another example has a 'happier' (more 'complete?') ending. This person I now consider to be quite a good friend. During this case our relationship initially began by email. My now friend sent a message about an article I had written for the Critic (our student magazine) concerning the illegal organ trade. It began about the original topic but our email exchange soon ballooned and led to many a discussion about ethics and more particularly provocative as well as hugely humorous enjoyable emails. Yet, I do not think it was until the fifth or sixth email of a fantastic and interesting debate, did I find out anything out about him!

Thus I wonder about this ‘natural’ tendency to get to ‘know’ someone by gathering personal facts. I think our eagerness to construct an identity often is built on hollow scaffolding, the person hands us the pieces but ultimately we create our own ‘structure’ of ‘them’ using tools we already had in the shed. I wonder if we gave the person more room to create their own home in our head, and allowed identity to emerge as thoughts, opinions, shared silliness, laughs, likes and little jokes, later supplemented by direct personal facts, would we have deeper and more meaningful encounters.

Anti-Nationalism Pride?

So a friend also studying in Europe recently wrote to me about an encounter he observed. He told me of this situation where a girl from the U.S.A was told she, “did not look American” and how this statement caused her great pride and joy. My friend, very proud of his Kiwi heritage found the girls strange anti-nationalistic elation odd and asked me if I would have reacted similarly.

The short answer: Yes. I can completely understand this girl's perspective. I've had many people also say "oh you don't look American" and deep down inside am so proud to be disassociated with my country. I cannot explain what it feels like to be from the U.S.A and to have our globalized stereotypes consciously or unconsciously immediately emptied onto a person’s first impression of ‘you’. It’s easy to make a neat little ‘box’ of what people from the U.S.A are because "American's" are banally blasted into everyone's homes through those tiny silver screens and into everyone's cities via those large animated cinema squares. Our politics are notoriously studied and broadcasted and also propagate a certain 'image'. Many world universities offer an American studies degree…how many offer a Australian studies degree or how about a Belgium studies.

It’s not really being from the U.S.A. that bothers me, it's rather the pre-wrapped box full of stereotypes. I have less freedom over how people perceive me and often feel I have to battle these associations. Perhaps in part its my own insecurities and I am in fact interpreted with an open mind… but experience has proved otherwise. In India when people asked where I was from I would often reply "Canada". If you said, American, Japanese, or Israeli the Indian venders would treat you according to stereotype. According to these stereotypes (i felt) they then made judgments according to their previous experiences—They wouldn’t bother bargaining with an ‘stubborn’ Israeli and automatically give them a semi-low price, inflated prices were quoted to the Japanese because the ‘timid’ Japs would dutifully pay with their powerful Yen to Rupee exchange rate, Americans were also given ridiculous prices with the knowledge that ten minutes would be spent arguing over the equivalent of 1 $USD. Yet if you said something like 'Dutch, Philippino, or Costa Rican’, basically any nationality whose history/stereotype wasn’t as prevalent, people treated you as a just a plain person. They were curious. They gave you an empty ‘space’ to be filled rather than a pre-made representation. I find that here it is quite the same. If you are from Mexico or Brazil Europeans have had less contact with these cultures and do not automatically make (as many) assumptions. Whereas being American...well oye I cant even begin (of course again this is completely subjective and related to my own insecurity and interpretation). I try and escape being placed in a box by emphasizing the time i've spent abroad and mentioning I grew up in Hawaii and spent time in Guam. No i am not the blonde bimbo Orange County Californian, no i'm not a sassy NYer from CSI, or the extra friendly southerner from Ten-ess-see, I do not binge drink, talk loudly, embrace my stupidity or love the war in Iraq. At the same time It's frustrating because i do to some extent have some or all of these qualities. Instead I consciously speak softer, throwing 'eh'  in as much as possible and soften my accent so that people aren't quite sure if I’m actually American.

Yet at the same time lately i've felt quite lost. I really am sick of not having a home. I am sick of having complicated explanations about where I'm from and often wish I had a nice set of cultural rules and identity to embrace as well as knew how to read the ones around me. 

Yet going back to the original question: through everything I do like being American, even abroad and perhaps more so abroad because it helps me reflect upon my own culture. I think there are some fantastic things about our culture/country as well as some ones i'd rather not be associated with. We are friendly. I like that you can usually approach someone on the street and ask for directions or make a comment and be received with a smile (of course this varies within region but I think even cold no-nonsense New Yorkers are accepting and welcoming in their own special way). I like that we are passionate. American's LOVE what they do. THEY USE LOTS OF CAPITALS! OMG!! THAT IS SO AWESOME GIRL!! And they really embrace their interests whether it be sport, school, or work. There is this unspoken standard that whatever you do you should thoroughly enjoy it or it’s not worth doing (ok of course there are many exceptions but perhaps people compensate in other areas of life: have a job they hate but it pays a salary which provides a means to buy season tickets, a flat screen, and subscription to sports illustrated). I think this passion (which often is parallel to our pride) is one of the reason for our global presence (ha second to economic motivation of course), but we are proud of what we do, we love what we do, and want to share it with EVERYONE--from movies to literature to art to you name it! I also like our humor to some extent. It's stupid. It's childish. It's banal. It's extreme, over the top and ridiculous. However it is a bit egalitarian. Watching Jackass does not require knowledge of Shakespeare or politics. The only requirement is an ability to laugh at yourself and deviance from social norms. In a way its liberating. An academic called Walter Benjamin writes about the 'cinema's ability for distraction'. He claims that people can go to the movies and loose themselves in the Hollywood stories. It provides a fantasy for everyone. We place ourselves in the character’s places. According to him this new media is not only a distraction, but a new form of art. Before 'art' was elitist and bourgeois. However a movie is entertaining, does not require extensive thought and produces feelings of visceral enjoyment. The 'aura' or the elitism associated with 'old art' is taken down by the cinema. This new form of art brings human expression and is not limited to those who have the 'cultural capital' and art knowledge usually limited to the higher ranks of society. For me... american humor is a new sort of accessible art. We enjoy looking, looking at emotion, at the spectacle, and the grotesque. And Lastly I like our empathy. Americans are empathetic unlike the Dutch who take the attitude that "well if your stuff was stolen then you should have locked your window. Or when I tried to switch my order in a cafe the waitress told me, "nope I've already put it down you should have thought about it before". However on the other end in NZ sometimes I ended up feeling bad due to the amount of customer service or help I received. The Kiwi's will literally bend over backwards for you. Once in a clothing shop the women spent an hour and a half calling every clothing store on the north and south island to see if they had my size in a pair of pants (sure its a small country but still... this was a chain store with quite a few outlets). Americans lie somewhere in between. We are always there to say 'oh man that really sucks' and go out of our way to make someone's life just a bit easier by giving up something for them whether it be time or an extra umbrella.

CROSS CULTURAL BODY LANGUAGE

Another difficult part about being abroad for me is not language differences but interpreting other’s body language. I hate guessing about gestures. Is that smile genuine, joking or jeering. I read this article and a bit really struck home:

"Back in 1959, anthropologist Edward T. Hall labeled these expressive human attributes "the Silent Language." Hall passed away last month in Santa Fe at age 95, but his writings on nonverbal communication deserve continued attention. He argued that body language, facial expressions and stock mannerisms function "in juxtaposition to words," imparting feelings, attitudes, reactions and judgments in a different register.

This is why, Hall explained, U.S. diplomats could enter a foreign country fully competent in the native language and yet still flounder from one miscommunication to another, having failed to decode the manners, gestures and subtle protocols that go along with words. And how could they, for the "silent language" is acquired through acculturation, not schooling. Not only is it unspoken; it is largely unconscious. The meanings that pass through it remain implicit, more felt than understood."

I thought: That's it. I am always trying to 'read' people but it is so difficult. For instance I was talking to my friend D (from mexico) and he was saying how our friend S (Indian) seemed so serious and powerful. Whereas to me, I read her as thoughtful, observant and with bits of anxiety thrown in at odd intervals. We had completely interpreted her unspoken body language differently. For instance when in NZ I was always surprised by how MUCH emotion men/boys conveyed in their faces. I often felt quite disconcerted because i'd be speaking and all of a sudden they would move their eyebrows together and down and crinkle their forehead in this deeply concerned look (my reading). They matched this with a deep almost angry intensity in their eyes. However after three years I started to understand that it wasnt as strong as a concern as I had read it as, it was merely their cultural demonstration of thought. Where as the same facial expression in the USA would mean... what the person said borderline pissed you off/you were in a bit of disagreement.

But I digress. As much anti-nationalism I have I do miss being in America because I knew how to read people and to be read. I was 'good' at being a 'person'. Here I am finding myself at that turning point in friendships where the newness has worn off and now you are really trying to get to know each other. However there are always these tiny little nuances of personality and cultural differences that always create invisible hurdles and boundaries. Sometimes I feel as if i keep trying to be nice and communicate with someone but keep having this feeling of slamming into an invisible wall… a cultural value embodied blockade. Whereas in the USA I knew how to 'do' friendship as silly as it sounds. I knew how to 'do' small talk. I knew how to embody my emotions in a readable manner. When I first went back to the USA this summer I felt quite disoriented. I didn’t know how to say hello, I didnt know what to talk about, how to act. I was so out of the rhythm and found myself constantly in a state of strange nervousness. However, like riding a bicycle in a few weeks it all came back. I re-learned the silent language and mundane self. Yet... here I am undoing it all again.

However now i'm consciously undoing and choosing. I find myself much more aware of my body language, my speech pattern. It no longer flows unconsciously, but rather, I am always ironing out my topic, thinking of how it will be understood, choosing words carefully and wondering if their meaning will be interpreted as I have meant. I constantly think about my body, noticing the small gestures that are unconsciously communicating more than most realize. I was speaking with a friend yesterday and being conscious of this invisible language I could tell when the topics challenged him. It was overly apparent when he was unsure of his answers (well at least that was my reading). The amount of small fidgeting increased, he began to play with his hair more intensely when the subject matter became more controversial. During tense moments I almost laughed. The exaggerated twisting, twirling of strands around his fingers made it seem as if he was attempting to place an invisible roller in his hair, a scene from a 1960’s movie of a women in a bathroom giving herself a perm rather than an heated academic discussion. Yet perhaps he is a kinesthetic thinker. He just was processing his thoughts through movement. He was not nervous at all…I do not know anything about British embodied behavior.

Another example was in class the other day. We were working in small groups to answer a few assigned questions. I had been paired with two Dutch students. One, Bart, is blond somewhat good looking, and moves with certainty. He has this relaxed arrogance in the way he speaks and he seemed to choose his postures. After we had presented our answers and were listening to our fellow classmates he began to poke my chair. Then after he tired of that he began to move my paper so that it was crooked on the desk. Afterwards he touched and stopped my foot that had been moving back and forth as i do when i'm bored. All of these gestures were done with out looking at me and while pretending to pay attention. Now in the USA this would be flirting. No questions asked. However I am not sure if these little intended annoyances were actually vices to get my attention or the fact that he really just wanted to annoy me. I have no clue how to read this silent language. My embodied Dutch is probably worse than my spoken Dutch. I think most people would say 'oh definitely flirting' however I have heard that Bart does not like the foreign students in class and often makes snide remarks in Dutch about us. So perhaps these gestures were in fact malicious and his own way of getting a taste of vengeance. I can understand where he is coming from given that we (‘foreign students’) are held in high esteem by the professors who perhaps exoticize us a tad bit to much (but is this not only human nature: curiosity about the other?) What does YOUR culture think: we are academic diplomats, interpreters, representatives of these far off lands and provide insight into otherwise unknown worlds. The problem with this split class dynamic, ‘us vs. them’, is often the 'natives' are neglected. They are the first born child in the shadow of a new baby, no longer the academic stars. Instead they remain boring old students who can't quite speak English as well as this strange accented 'others'.

Yet in writing all of this I realize these words would make a lot of anthropologists cringe at the horrible 'cultural' generalizations i've made. However stereotypes are based on reality so these are merely referring the essences of the cultures I mention. Each individual will have their own interpretation and cultural space. My own autobiographical experiences have written this passage and continue to effect my ideas, speech, and embodied behaviors. I am American according to my passport but I am also a hodgepodge of people, places, spaces, races, and many friendly faces :-)

First reactions to Amsterdam

So for those who don't know I have decided to complete a Master's Degree in International Performance Research as part of Erasmus Mundas Program. It's a pretty neat program. I receive not one but TWO MA degrees in the span of a year and a half. How can this be possible you might ask? Well I begin by spending one semester in the great city of Canals, Drugs and Sex (in that order?)...Amsterdam. Afterwards I move over as one of the 'Frozen Chozen' (as the other in my program have so aptly put it) to the University of Helsinki in Finland for a semester of freezing fun with some study thrown in. Afterwards I return next September to Amsterdam to write my MA thesis finishing it all up in December 2010 woo hoo.

Now what is performance studies you might ask... errr well .... ummm I actually have no clue. However this explanation was at the beginning of one of my readings and I quite like it (note performance 'art' is a bit difference than 'performance' and is merely one facet of this anomaly of a concept/linguistic challenge/ontological lens ect.).

“Excuse me can you define performance art?”
Answers:
“A bunch of weirdos who love to get naked and scream about leftist politics.” (Yuppie in a bar”
"Performance artists are…bad actors." (a good actor)
"You mean, those decadent and elitist liberals who hide behind the art thing to beg for government money?" (Politician)
"It’s…just…very, very cool stuff. Makes you…think, and shit" (my nephew)
"Performance is both the antithesis of and the antidote to high culture" (performance artist)
“I’ll answer you with a joke: What do you get when you mix a comedian with a performance artist?...A joke that no one understands” (a friend)

Not bad answers. As for my own.... well ask me in a year and a half.

So as far as the city of Amsterdam itself, my sister asked me two very good questions:

What are 5 things you love!?
What are 5 things that bother you?

Now i'll indulge in my answers:

Five favorite things (thus far):

1. everyone says hello to you on the street
2. The diversity--within 5 sq meters you can hear at least 10 languages. Apparently (according to Amsterdam Uni) The city is the most diverse in the world with regards to population :: ethnicity ratio. Walking through the streets the various types of restaurants and shops pay homage to this fact. One can wonder down the frustrating U shapes (the streets are all horse shoe shaped which makes finding your way nearly impossible!) and see an 'Egyptian' Sex shop, next to a South Indian Cafe, besides an Aboriginal Instrument Store, across from an Argentinean steak shop, where out front a man is selling falafel and behind him you can sign up for cheap hula lessons.
3. Everyone stares at you. There is no shame. Every one is different and the difference is celebrated by the characteristic curiosity 'stare'. "Hey I'm looking at you and you know what it's cool because you're looking at me too".
4. The smooshed buildings and small windy streets. Everything is so...cozy. The whole city is filled with little coffee shops, cafes, stores etc. There is barely any room for cars to drive down the streets. When walking through the city I feel as if I am constantly in an 'embrace' from the buildings; hugged and loved by the mere close quarters.
5. The size of the city. It is not too small, and not too big (I feel like i'm part of the three bears describing a public space porridge). It's Juuuussstttt right--landing somewhere in between the space of boston and NYC. I feel like Amsterdam is one of those never ending 'places'. Places where even when you think you've mastered the rhyme and rhythm of the street's beats... a new rap comes along and throws your mental map

Five things I dont love:

1. The U-shaped streets. I cant find my way anywhere. I miss the nice grid system of NYC-like modernism--I can not tell you how many times i've ended up exactly where i've started after following a slowly slanting road for an hour.
2. The prices--everything food, coffee etc is the same price as in boston BUT IN EUROS. Going out to eat in a small cafe (not even a restaurant) cost me 12 Euros --about the same as say Panera Bread...but that's really 18$ ...Dayh-UM!
3. My living quaters. I live in a room out of a hallway. Its hard to meet people because where i'm living resembles an industrial style freshman year american dorm. The buildings are lovely known as the 'containers'.
4. The dutch language. This is in part due to my cultural/linguistic inadequacy of being a native English speaker. Although many do speak English I think many people are embarrassed/afraid to speak improper english to a native speaker and thus avoid doing so. And Dutch is like the German language but appropriately stoned and on Mushrooms. The words are chalk full of vowels and too many consanents making it impossible to even guess how something should be pronounced. And i had trouble with spanish... so dutch is a whole other ball game.

5. Having an American Accent and being immediately (or at least feeling) immediately judged by the strong stereotype of Americans by europeans (an English class mate refers to 'us' as 'from the colonies' haha)

Otherwise being in a new place is always an exciting an adventure and thus there will most likely be many reflections about my experiences to come!

~*erika

Traveling and meeting new people

Traveling and meeting new people

As my time in India draws to an end I wanted to start to reflect on one of the answers I first gave to the question “why do we travel”. The specific answer I am referring to is: “To meet other travelers”. Thus I have decided that this post will be a tribute to the different people I have gotten to know beyond a 10 minute banal conversation. The fellow adventure seekers I have met have also spent an extended period of time in Benaras/Varanasi (right away you can discern a seasoned India traveler if they refer to Varanasi as ‘Benaras’-its name in Hindi). These travelers  present an interesting range of personalities from hippy to hedonist and from researcher to convert.

I met my first comrade due to our shared love for Mac computers (side note: 90% of the people in the internet cafes here have a Mac computer—do people who travel to India buy Macs or are Mac owners the type of people who travel to India?). Anyways ‘Eric’ and I often bumped into each other at one of the two cafes that offer free wireless service as long as you consume their menu items. Soon enough after we became familiar with each others faces we started engaging in random social banter. Eric like many people had come to India to escape. He had bought himself a ten year visa to India and by renting out his house in California he could live like a king. For the past six months he had been traveling from Ashram to Ashram, meditating, practicing yoga, and learning the Indian flute.

 I have no idea what he looked like in his ‘previous’ life but now there was no mistaking him as a seasoned India traveler. A single glance at his physical features would immediately cause you to place him in the category of hippy/alternative/Eastern Religion convert. His arms, legs, and torso are extremely thin presumably from hours upon hours of dedicated yoga practice. His limberness was frequently demonstrated while we chatted as he would always sit, spine straight, precariously balanced on the small café chair in lotus position. When speaking his soft slow California drawl would animate his small intelligent eyes causing them to sparkle and dance under what he jokingly called his ‘jesus hair’. Taking care of and grooming his dirty blond/light brown greasy shoulder length locks had obviously come second to reading about eastern religion and meditation. He loved explaining his theories on enlightenment and would always do so with a soft mystical far-off gaze and goofy smile framed by a patchy excuse for a beard. However it struck me as odd that such a young person who was only a few years from thirty had already had enough of ‘life’ and had come to India to run away from the real world. Yet, Eric’s quest for ‘real happiness’ came from what he described as ‘a time of darkness’. This ‘dark time’ was the five years he had spent in England at the University of Suffix completing a PhD in Neroscience and Nano-technology. He claimed to have had enough of the physical world and no longer wanted to spend his days staring at a computer. He believed spirituality was the only true happiness. When I pressed him about this fact he explained that, “the frontal cortex is responsible for thinking and consciousness thus by engaging the rest of the brain we can unleash the sub-consciousness and make the most use of our brain”. Additionally he constantly linked Nero-scientific explanations into eastern philosophy in order to ‘prove’ why it was ‘valid’. In fact, the deeper in conversation I went the more I felt he had turned spirituality into a article right out of Scientific American. After each subsequent conversation I would usually leave chuckling to myself thinking, oh yes he’s really leaving ‘the west’ behind ha!  Moreover for someone who was attempting to escape a life behind a computer screen the majority of the time I would bump into him he would be transfixed by his iphone. One day, curiosity overtook me and I asked him what he was working on. He promptly explained that he was writing program for an iPhone application that would help people master meditation. The phone would vibrate at random intervals and if you were ‘aware’ of these vibrations and ‘let them go’ you knew you were in the correct mental state. I’m sure this is not exactly what the monks in the mountains had in mind when teaching meditation but I'm pretty sure the monks teachings doesn’t include iPones. What Eric has taught me is our past will forever shape us. The new is hard to embrace and the old even harder to escape.

Another very interesting person I’ve come to know relatively well I met during my first 7am yoga class. The girl sitting next to me looked about my age and soon enough we began the usual investigational interrogation into where and what brought us to India. Based on her physical features I would have guessed she was from Ireland given her auburn hair and pale freckled complexion. Yet after she dropped a few “eh’s” it was more than apparent she hailed from my home country’s neighbor to the north, ‘Canada’. She has kind grey eyes, which rested above her petite upturned nose. Although she has small lips they carry a big north American voice that ‘is totally, like, the bomb, like you know!?’. I enjoyed speaking with her because it was nice to be reminded of the characteristic North American enthusiastic speech pattern. North Americans’ and especially North American females’ dialect is usually filled with enthusiasm, smiles, and optimism. We are easily excited and constantly breaking into loud laughter. I found speaking with her very comfortable and enjoyed the familiarity from my youth.

This familiarity also probably had to do with our similar age range and experiences. Bronwyn is twenty years old and had just made the decision to drop out of University. Yet the ‘University’ she had been attending was not to learn literary theory or scientific laws. She had been going to ‘Circus School’ in Quebec and had been involved with the circus for most of her life as an acrobat. However after years of rigorous commitment she had lost the love of performing and felt it was more of a job than joy. Thus she had given up the circus, which had been very difficult because it was such a crucial part of her ‘identity’. For her whole life she had been an acrobat, now what was she? Who was she? Speaking with her reminded me of when I had quit running and was asking the same questions. In order to answer these questions, she had chosen to return to India to volunteer at a poor local school in Nagwa. She originally fell in love with India last year when the troop she was involved with had done a series of traveling workshops through the country teaching circus performance to rural areas in India. So leaving everything behind she came here by herself at the hottest time of the year. Bronwyn is the only volunteer at a school where no one speaks English, there is no set ‘volunteer program’, and she is responsible for entertaining and controlling sixty unruly ten year olds.

I am truly impressed by her spirit. She has chosen to live with an Indian family and I rarely see her at the popular ‘foreigner hangouts’. I bump into her every now and over a chai or coffee where she continually amazes me with her stories of how she has adopted to Indian life. She dresses in traditional clothing and has begun to master Hindi (although the irony of seeing this pale red head perfectly execute the Indian head ‘wobble’ meaning yes does always bring a smile to my face). I am not sure if it is a front, but she is one of the happiest people I have met here. Unlike the dread-locked hashish abusers who find happiness through hits and highs, Bronwyn really seems to be truly happy through having ‘re-made’ herself. When I ask her about the things that personally exhaust and frustrate me to the point where I’m ready to lock myself in my room at night and escape to the fantasy world of a novel she merely shrugs. She claims to have just ‘gotten used to’ the gender bias, the cat-calls, and the stares. I find this hard to believe but perhaps the new sense of purpose and identity offered by India overrides the negative aspects. After throwing away what she has known as ‘life’ for so long it seems to me that essentially ‘becoming Indian’ has replaced the circus. She has found contentment in culture and remade herself from her period uncertainty. When I ask her how long she will stay she replied, “In all honesty I never want to leave”. Sure some people might say that she is distracting herself from her loss of identity and pretending to be something she is not. Yet, who is to say what is ‘right and wrong’ when it comes to identity fabrication. Bronwyn has shown me that there are many ways to cope with personality crisis and I think participating in social work and Indian culture is a bit more constructive than drugs or alcohol and ironically is being used for the same purpose.

These are just two examples among many characters I have crossed paths with. Some other interesting people with incredible stories are Emily, a girl from a small ranch in Wyoming who came here on a three month culture program and ended up marrying an Indian man and now plans to spend the rest of her life in Varanasi as an Indian wife. From her I have learned love has no boundaries and can cause people to adopt in ways I would have never imagined. There’s Ron a forty year old ex-psychiatric nurse who has relocated to India because he finds the chaos ‘peaceful’ after his previous life which includes leaving home at 15 and joining a Vancouver gang. Only later after having a life wakeup call when his now teenage son was born caused him to ‘go straight’ and venture back to school and study nursing. However now he has chosen to spend his time in India because it reminds him of the craziness of his earlier days. From Ron I have learned that place and life experience have an uncanny relationship. Adrenaline is a drug and luckily there are safe ways to re-live dangerous memories. Then there’s Seth, a Harvard bound research student who speaks perfect Hindi, and spends his time joking and playing music with the locals. The jolly, incredibly intelligent twenty something year old discovered Hinduism at thirteen and has been fascinated ever since. He loves discovering, embracing, and living the connection between art, religion, and music and thus is writing a small research project on this passion. In a few days he will be leaving for a solo motorcycle adventure across India. From Seth I have shared many wonderful thought provoking conversations and learned how important it is to follow your passion as well being reminded of how important it is to have sense of adventure.

Thus although all of these people are not ‘Indian’ I still have gained strong cultural ‘insights’ and learned important lessons about people, life, and myself. I have of corse also met ‘Erika’ a girl who enjoys meeting knew people, writing and reflecting on her experiences, and most of all trying to figure out what it means to be human 

Money, ethics, poverty.

So the other day on one of our photo excursions a very strange thing started to occur. As the teenagers and I wondered through the narrow dusty stone walkways and around the crooked brick buildings of Nagwa (the slums where the teens are from), the usually smiling people started to retreat into their homes as soon as they saw us coming. The saggy skin on the beautiful brown faces of ancient women and men did not tighten into their usual smiles. Instead they stared fiercely back at our little wondering group and stepped into the darkness of their doorways. Women out in the walk ways cutting onions whose juices brought tears to a passerby's eyes suddenly scooped up their vegetables and turned away from us. When the people heard us coming only the faint smell of curry and sounds of scattering footsteps clued us in to the fact that there was presence of life in the same spot only a moment earlier. I could not understand this sudden change. We were walking through Nagwa, these people were the teenagers neighbors, their community, their 'family'.

After the outing we sat in the brightly lit office and reviewed the excursion. I turned to the translator Ashkay and asked him to question the kids about how they thought it went, was taking photos in Nagwa easier or harder than usual? The kids were silent and their faces expressionless. I repeated the question again, nodding my head in encouragement. "So was it easier, harder, the same?" One of the braver teens, Dhiraj slowly tilted his head and looked directly into our faces. His dark skin made his eyes especially bright and they glittered and danced angrily while he started his explanation.

"The people of the village are angry. They have found out that for every picture chosen we earn 5,000 rupees. They think we are using them. Using their faces for profits. They also think we are making a mockery of their poverty. We are showing the world how India is poor and suffering. They say to us, 'who do you think you are! Now that you have a camera you think you are better than us. You are one of us! You are betraying your community and stealing from us by making us look like fools.'"

The rest of the teenagers avoided eye contact but all nodded their heads in agreement. Then Anil piped up adding,

"They think we are doing nothing and are jealous. They say, 'anyone can take a picture' you have no skills. Why should you be getting 5,000 rupees for doing nothing!'"

These answers were quite confronting. I was immediately taken aback. A knot started to grow in my stomach. Yet, I knew I had to act quickly to keep the morale of the group going. I did not want these stabbing accusations to sever the artistic and personal growth of the group. As these thoughts rapidly ran through my head and sunk to the depths of my thoughts the tight knot in my stomach was suddenly ignited. I felt my face grow red and hot, not from the heat but from passion and anger. Immediately I emphatically explained that they were not "doing nothing". I asked them to remember how shy they had been in the beginning, how they were afraid to press that little silver button at the tops of their cameras. I reminded them how much they had learned, how their skills confidence had improved. I told them that they had come to class for hours every week. They had sacrificed their time to learn the art of photography, camera maintenance and care. Now they knew how to beautifully capture their world through the magic of pictures. This was amazing. THEY were amazing. As visual proof I hit the start button on the large office computer and a few moments after the characteristic chime signalling the computer was up and running the silver screen was filled with the bright colors of their photographs. Each spectacular reference to a moment of time that they had preserved flashed on the screen. I showed them how beautiful their photos were and reminded them how hard they had worked to capture these moments so perfectly.

After my outburst the lurking half smiles on their faces showed that my mini rant had for the time being succeeded. However I knew that this battle wasn't over. Here we were trying fight poverty and give the kids opportunities they would never have and yet the war was much more complicated than I had ever imagined. How would it feel to have the people you have spent your lives with, grew up beside, and had shared all your secrets suddenly turn against you because of jealousy? What would happen as the teenagers became more and more successful when more of their photographs became postcards? At the moment they were only being verbally abused but would it turn physical? How far would the people take their misgivings? Of course the whole situation is complicated by the fact that they are indeed teenagers. These kids are at the awkward stage in their life where people's opinions of them are all the more potent as they have the added burden of trying to come to terms with who and what they are. Now they had to deal with two important competing forces--community acceptance or working with an organisation with the potential to change their lives in many ways.

These thoughts floated through my head as I tried to get a decent grip on some sort of solution. However the more i tried the more I became lost in the fog. Suddenly I remembered a story I had come across in one of my anthropology classes. It was about this women who was conducting research in a small South African village. During her stay she witnessed and been part of a very morally disturbing event. The story goes that a group of three deviant teenage boys had created some trouble. I cant recall exactly what they did but it was a relatively minor offense like throwing stones at a window or stealing candy from a general store. However there was a tradition of very strict social punishment and as a result of their mischief the boys were to be 'necklaced' in front of the town. Being 'necklaced' meant having a tire filled with gasoline placed around your neck and set on fire. As a result of this punishment the boys of course were badly burned and their wounds had put them close to death. The anthropologist who was present was shocked and horrified by the chain of events. She took it upon herself to take the boys to a hospital and essentially saved their lives. However upon returning to the village she received a very unexpected reaction. The town was extremely angry with her. They felt that she had betrayed their traditions. The boys were meant to have suffered and the suffering would have taught them a lesson. Now she had made them weak and they would not have learned their lesson. Worse, the boys own mothers were the most upset. They thought that the anthropologist had taken their boys as 'weak' and insulted them. The mothers refused to take their children back because they would never be men. How was the anthropologist to deal with this complicated situation? By saving the boys lives she had basically made them into social outcasts. Had she really 'saved' their lives or would they had been better off struggling to recover and at least being accepted by their community.

The situation here in Varanasi with my teenage photographers isn't quite extreme but has been quite morally troubling. The occurrence has especially been on my mind lately because I am very close to completing a photo book using the teenagers pictures. I am currently attempting to decide how to distribute any profit that the book incurs. My first reaction was that the photos were the teenagers photos so 100% of the profit should go to the artists. Sure I have put in a lot of work, but my thoughts were that I am lucky enough to have a United States citizenship. I can work in a country that has a strong currency, working conditions and minimum wage. A mere two months of a basic U.S.A salary can fund a year of living in India. I thought I don't need the profit from the book, they do. They cannot earn the wages I can. However now i realize the impact wealth and profit can have. What effect will it have if all of a sudden the kids became quite wealthy? How would they know how to spend it, to manage it? Also there is the issue self-reliance. If we gave everything to the kids perhaps they would just think 'oh well i don't have to do anything some kind NGO will do everything for me'. It is a bit important to understand that others work has contributed to the end result--to teach them not to be reliant on hand outs.

In the end Jenneke and I have decided that if indeed the book does get published and make a profit 40% will go to the kids, 30% to fairmail and I will earn the other 30%. I am still unsure of how I feel about this, but for now this is where it sits. There are still many questions to be answered of course. What about the people whose pictures are in the book? Should they also get money? Should some of the profit go to the overall community? Should we tell the kids that they have to spend it on education and cannot use it to fund, for example bride wealth, or a new tv? The entire experience has been a powerful example of money's potential influence. Change can be as good as it can be bad. Ideals are wonderful but the realities of poverty, attitude and Importance of community can never be forgotten or disregarded.

wittnessing Indian Eunichs/Hijras

Yesterday upon return from a morning under the cool fans of the Internet cafe I opened the bright pink gate to my building to find a very strange performance. At first I was very unsure of whether the 15 minute walk in the back wetting heat had made my head go a bit strange or the scene I was starring at was in fact not a mirage at all. There, in the small courtyard next to the land lord's red plastic chair and lazy fly infested cow was a group of four men dressed as women. They were dressed in garnished Sari's and heavily made up. Their strongly emphasized colorful lips, lashes, and eye lids were a strange contrast to their broad shoulders and dominant square jaws. Yet in the bright white afternoon light these men definitely had a subtle trace of beauty in their darkly outlined eyes. Surprisingly the men even moved their strong built bodies in a feminine manner. They appeared to have had mastered the art of slow gentle female movements and batted their while cocking their pretty heads to the side. There was definitely something mystical about the group. This mysticism was enhanced by the soft flowery scent that was being emitted from their bodies even though transparent drops of perspiration were leaving trails down their temples.

The group of four had staged themselves in a semi-circle and were currently putting on a mini musical performance. The smallest of the four had a dark muddy complexion. His wirery arms were moving in rapid succession, palms rythmically flicking the surface of a small drum. With each beat the sun highlighted and shone off his sweaty strong unfeminine biceps draped under a soft silk purple sari. A tuft of long dark hair framed his decorated face. Below his pieced nose was a set of teeth that looked especially white against his black skin and were being exposed in a beautiful wide smile.

My eyes then moved to the other three 'people'. These three were larger and had their long dark hair parted down the middle and then had carefully woven the rest into a long smooth braid. The three stood erect in their glittery bright red, orange and green silks. They stood with their shoulders back and addmitted low masculine melodies from deep within their bellies perfectly in tangent with the drum beat. The sounds emerged in perfect harmony from their puffy painted red lips and I found myself becoming quite hypnotized by their erie chanting.

Next to the scene was the Land lord's wife. She is a small greying women who has a very expressive face. When she speaks her eyebrows jump up and down emphasizing whatever point she is making. Although I cannot understand a word she said says her facial expressions always clearly convey the message. She constantly wonders around the building gossiping to all of the neighbors in high pitched rapid Hindi. She often dresses in a bright green or blue sari and thus I cannot help but notice how much the chattering women reminds me of a parakeet (budgie). On this particular day the small greying women seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the scene. She had a large tooth grin on her face and kept tilting her head, raising her eyebrows, and motioning for me to observe the group (like I really could have missed such a spectacle!). The already constantly cheery women seemed impossibly to be even more pleased than usual. She glowed with pride as the group's music bounced off the walls filling the stair case and subsequent three stories.

After observing this scene for ten minutes or so I placed my palms together in the praying mantas like position nodded my head and muttered a goodbye 'nameste'. Walking up the stairs and running the strange scene over in my head I suddenly remembered a lesson from my introductory anthropology class. Of Course! The people downstairs were Hijra's or Eunichs. I only vaguely remembered that they spontaneously appeared at weddings and births and were supposed to bring good luck...of course only if compensated appropriately.

Later when Ashkay the manager/Fairmail translator arrived for our evening lesson I brought up the subject of Hijras with him. I briefly recounted the scene I had witnessed this afternoon and asked him what he knew about these people. Ashkay turned his chair to face me and his usually tired looking eyes lit up. However the light was not one of joy but of something that touched on anger. This anger was reflected immediately in his quick verbal reaction. "These people are criminals! All they want is money! And you must pay them or you will have bad luck. You see they show up at weddings and births. They put on a performance and then abuse you for money. When my wife had her first child they appeared at our door. I first offered them 600 rupees. However they became angry. They push, shove, flash you and verbally abuse for more money. They demanded I pay 2,000 rupees and made my wife give them her best Sari! Finially I had to pay and give them the Sari to get them to leave!"

This explanation of course greatly intrigued me. Pressing for more information, "So you mean they're not invited? Then how do they know about these events?

Ashkay explained, "It's india. Everyone knows about everything. The Hijras just wander the streets in groups and listen to the people talk. By hearing the people talk they know about weddings or births and then are sure to be there. The old women think their good luck but like everyone in India they just want money."

Quite fascinated my mind began to wonder. What would it be like to be one of these men/women? How do they get started into these careers? And why was the land lord's wife so happy about their presence if they are really just criminals?

The answer to the third question became very apparent about ten o'clock as I lay down for my nightly battle for sleep against the heat. However tonight the heat had an ally, there was loud gathering/party in the building next door. Becoming more and more frustrated as the rented speakers from the party amplified the festive music, during my tossing and turning I had a revolation and was able understand the land lord's wife's pleasure during the hijras performance. As I lay i thought 'AH ha!' The hijras must have come for THIS party. The land lord's wife wasnt hosting the event and thus was enjoying the Hijras entertainment free from financial obligation. Perhaps she was even taking joy and laughing to herself that her poor neighbors would later be targets of the group.

Then, this morning I moved on to answer my second question: How do they get started into these careers? This was easily accomplished a quick key word search on google. According to wikipedia (always a good place to start for basic explanations) "Becoming a hijra is a process of socialisation into a "hijra family" through a relationship characterised as chela "student" to guru "teacher", leading to a gradual assumption of femininity. Typically each guru lives with at least five chelas; her chelas assume her surname and are considered part of her lineage. Chelas are expected to give their income to their guru, who manages the household. Hijra families are close-knit communities and often have their own houses." I cannot imagine as a small child being given/stolen and having to study the art of basically being a social menace.

My first question: What would it be like to be one of these men/women? Well, that answer will forever be restricted to my imagination. Perhaps documentaries and research can enhance the mental creation of life as a Hijra but the strange reality of this career will forever be a mystery.

The Photographers 

On Sunday I spent the day interviewing the teenagers for a project i'm working on. I 'm currently trying to put together a picture book called "Varanasi through their eyes". Varanasi is one of the most photographed city but the majority of the photographs are from visitors rather than the people themselves-in this case the fairmail teenagers. Here is a link to the photos I have chosen to be included in the book:

Their pictures

And now here is a little about each of the teenagers. Of course this information all came through a translator so it might be a little skewed, but i have tried my best to preserve the teenagers own words, thoughts, and feelings.

The Teenagers:

Sonu

Sonu likes being in fairmail because his parents do  not have a lot of work and are sick. Fairmail gives him  an opportunity to help them. He really likes taking  photos so he can reach beyond Varanasi and show others what he sees. 

Sonu dreams of becoming a good photographer and by learning photography skills he thinks he can be successful. After he is successful he would like to help  other people doing social work. For instance he would like to work with those who cannot walk. 

With the money he earns from fairmail Sonu would like to build a house because his whole family, four brothers, two sisters, mother, and father, all live in one room. 

In his spare time Sonu likes to do house work and to cook.

Anil 

Anil loves being part of fairmail and learning about photography. He really likes taking pictures because he can see other parts of his own city in a different way. Taking photographs also gives him an excuse to go to other parts of Varanasi like the old city and Assi ghat. 

Anil’s dreams for the future are to see his family happy and to keep them happy. He would also like to travel to Mumbai and the mountains. 

Anil wants to spend the money he earns from his photography on his house, specifically on painting, as well as putting up doors and windows. He also wants to use the money to support his family because his two brothers and sister are blind. Anil feels a great burden because he is the only son that can see. Anil says he wants to be successful because of his family. “I worry for them and I’m dreaming for them a lot”. 

In his free time Anil likes to dream and play music on the drum. 

 

Dhiraj (note: i spelled it phonetically in previous posts as Deeretch)

Dhiraj is very happy to be part of fairmail. He likes learning about photography because his photos can be used to express his feelings. When people see his pictures they might feel the same emotion in the photograph and then really enjoy his pictures. He also likes taking photos to remember things that have passed. 

Dhiraj dreams of becoming an IS officer which is a high ranking government official that makes important decisions and heads individual districts. He wants to do this job to make sure that his city is being taken care of. 

With the money Dhiraj earns he would like to pay for his studies and build a house as well as help his eight brothers and sisters with their studies and their homes. 

In his free time he likes to study and play. He likes to play street games like marbles and especially cricket.