I hate editing. My eyes and brain glaze over after the 4th or 5th reading through a piece. I don't have the patience.
Perhaps a sign that writing isn't an ideal future for me?
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Editing Hurts My Head
I'm hitting a wall. I really want to put everything I can into these essays and finish the semester strong. It is my last semester of undergrad, after all... and, my GPA could use some help from this class. But, looking at these essays makes me want to pull my hair out. Seriously... I've been staring at them for the last hour, and I have a headache. And no, it's not from pulling my hair. I'm sick of them, ready to be done with them. I look at things I know need correction and think... "I can't do it. I don't know how to fix that." The longer I work, the more I feel like not only have I hit a wall, I am now slamming my head hard against it.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Knowing Me
One of the coolest things about getting older is learning myself. At 22, my body is finally figuring out its ideal clock. Amazing that it took this long, really. But, it's final: The perfect sleep schedule for me is from 11PM to 7:30AM. If I go to bed much later, I wake up groggy. If I sleep less than 8 hours, I can't function. Really, 8.5 is ideal. If I wake up later than 8:30 or 9AM, I'm in a bad mood. Of course, I've also learned that my body is über-sensitive, which is terrible for late-night paper writing or any fun late night activities.
Knowing myself, though, is an awesome feeling. If I know myself I am more aware of the ways others change me, be it positive or negative. I am less likely to get lost in the influence of another if I know where I started. When Alex and I started dating, I would stay up late with him and sleep in - I adjusted to his sleep schedule. I loved our nighttime hours together, but ultimately I was miserable. And although it has changed our relationship (I am falling asleep right as he begins his night, and I wake with nearly 4 Alex-free hours), returning to my body's ideal is one of the most satisfying things I have done for myself.
Knowing myself, though, is an awesome feeling. If I know myself I am more aware of the ways others change me, be it positive or negative. I am less likely to get lost in the influence of another if I know where I started. When Alex and I started dating, I would stay up late with him and sleep in - I adjusted to his sleep schedule. I loved our nighttime hours together, but ultimately I was miserable. And although it has changed our relationship (I am falling asleep right as he begins his night, and I wake with nearly 4 Alex-free hours), returning to my body's ideal is one of the most satisfying things I have done for myself.
The Question.
Graduation is rapidly approaching, and you know what that means... the question is here. It started as a trickle at the beginning of the semester, only appearing here and there, every once in awhile. Now, it's a full fledged torrent. Every time I turn around, it's there. What am I going to do when I graduate? What are my plans? What will I do with my life? What, when, how?!
It wouldn't be such a burden if I had an answer. But, I don't. I need to come up with a party line by graduation day, so that all of the inquiring relatives can get the same easy answer. Thus far I all I've been able to come up with is, "Ummm...," "Err...," and "My plan? Ha! What's that?" For the record, those answers don't satisfy anyone.
The truth is, I have no idea what I'm going to do. It's not that I don't know what I want. It's just that I'm not willing to take a permanent job right now, because I don't want to stay in one place. I'll be in Charlotte for the summer - my brother's last summer before he goes to college. I want to spend some extended time with my grandparents in Charleston before I move far away from the Carolinas. And then, in the fall, I might need to move to Wilmington for a my boyfriend's last semester - because I'm not very good with long distance. After that, we want to go back to Peru for a couple of months. Then, I doubt we'll stay in the South. The future holds lots of travel, grad school, and low-paying community service jobs. That's the long term answer.
The short term, though, sounds less exciting: I'll be living with my mother, working random jobs, nannying, and saving money. I'll be traveling and spending time with the important people in my life. Then maybe, in half a year or so, "real life" will kick in. But, not yet. Not yet.
It wouldn't be such a burden if I had an answer. But, I don't. I need to come up with a party line by graduation day, so that all of the inquiring relatives can get the same easy answer. Thus far I all I've been able to come up with is, "Ummm...," "Err...," and "My plan? Ha! What's that?" For the record, those answers don't satisfy anyone.
The truth is, I have no idea what I'm going to do. It's not that I don't know what I want. It's just that I'm not willing to take a permanent job right now, because I don't want to stay in one place. I'll be in Charlotte for the summer - my brother's last summer before he goes to college. I want to spend some extended time with my grandparents in Charleston before I move far away from the Carolinas. And then, in the fall, I might need to move to Wilmington for a my boyfriend's last semester - because I'm not very good with long distance. After that, we want to go back to Peru for a couple of months. Then, I doubt we'll stay in the South. The future holds lots of travel, grad school, and low-paying community service jobs. That's the long term answer.
The short term, though, sounds less exciting: I'll be living with my mother, working random jobs, nannying, and saving money. I'll be traveling and spending time with the important people in my life. Then maybe, in half a year or so, "real life" will kick in. But, not yet. Not yet.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
from me to... me
Dear Me (just 4 months younger),
Welcome to Creative Writing. Some things you need to know:
*This might not have been the best semester to take this class. Know that the things that have happened recently will affect you. It will take twice as long to do anything. Plan accordingly, otherwise you won't be able to get your work done.
*Don't get frustrated with the workshop comments. People will ask questions that may seem obvious... they just don't know a lot about the topics about which you'll write. Cut them some slack.
*It's a good idea to read. There will be quizzes.
*If you want to change people through your writing, it can't be obvious to the reader. If it's obvious, they'll just feel preached to. People like feeling like they've come up with ideas on their own... so your writing shouldn't try and force change.
*Try to not rely so heavily on punctuation - that is, dashes and semicolons.
Happy Writing, younger me!
Love,
Older me
Welcome to Creative Writing. Some things you need to know:
*This might not have been the best semester to take this class. Know that the things that have happened recently will affect you. It will take twice as long to do anything. Plan accordingly, otherwise you won't be able to get your work done.
*Don't get frustrated with the workshop comments. People will ask questions that may seem obvious... they just don't know a lot about the topics about which you'll write. Cut them some slack.
*It's a good idea to read. There will be quizzes.
*If you want to change people through your writing, it can't be obvious to the reader. If it's obvious, they'll just feel preached to. People like feeling like they've come up with ideas on their own... so your writing shouldn't try and force change.
*Try to not rely so heavily on punctuation - that is, dashes and semicolons.
Happy Writing, younger me!
Love,
Older me
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Yes, I can answer those questions.
I don't have enough space to explain all of the things I'd like to explain in this essay. Some of you had questions about the Montagnard people and suggested that maybe I didn't know the answer. I have no reason to be offended by that, of course - none of you know that, for the past several years, Charlotte's Montagnard community has been my life. Before I left for Peru, I spent almost 40 hours a week (for two and a half years) serving that community, educating Americans about the Montagnards, translating and taking people to doctor's appts and DSS interviews, teaching self-sufficiency, etc. I love them. They are my best friends and some of the strongest people I've ever met.
So yes, I can answer just about any question you have about: the Montagnards in general (mostly about the Jarai people, but also the Rhade, Koho, Mnong, etc); the UNHCR; the camps in Cambodia or villages in Vietnam; the persecutions; the resettlement process; why they are in Charlotte (and Greensboro), NC; services for refugees and life here... etc.
Of course, I can't put all of this in my essay. Maybe, like Antoinette, Klosterman, and Wallace, I need footnotes...
So yes, I can answer just about any question you have about: the Montagnards in general (mostly about the Jarai people, but also the Rhade, Koho, Mnong, etc); the UNHCR; the camps in Cambodia or villages in Vietnam; the persecutions; the resettlement process; why they are in Charlotte (and Greensboro), NC; services for refugees and life here... etc.
Of course, I can't put all of this in my essay. Maybe, like Antoinette, Klosterman, and Wallace, I need footnotes...
Does this sound right?
Looking at the math... 3 blogs per week... if we need 3 blogs for every week except Spring Break, that's 15 classes = 45 blogs. However, that is including the week of Feb 12, when I don't think we were required to blog (-3). And then, that is also including the weeks of the 9th and 16th of April, when we won't have class (well, the 16th we have conferences, but not formal class). So thats two more weeks with questionable blogging requirements (-6).
(45-9=36)
Meaning, we have anywhere between 36 and 45 blogs required for the semester.
What's the final word, Prof. Renfroe?
(45-9=36)
Meaning, we have anywhere between 36 and 45 blogs required for the semester.
What's the final word, Prof. Renfroe?
Since when is it okay?
Only one other seat was occupied in the Queens lounge, and was filled by a gently snoring middle-aged man. He was slouched so low that his backside almost hung off the seat. He had a dark windbreaker spread out over his face, and I couldn't see much more than his dark arms and Royals blue work shirt: a Queens employee of some sort, and by the look of it, an exhausted Queens employee.
Another man, this one tall, husky, and white approached. He wore a white, collared shirt and had close-cropped hair and a cold stare; he looked like a middle class, middle-level retail manager... but he also looked like he could - and maybe would - harm you if angered. He walked purposefully towards my lounge neighbor. He stood above the man's chair, staring threateningly at the even rise and fall of his slumbering worker's chest. I couldn't believe the man didn't awake under the weight of that look alone. Seconds passed. And then, the boss kicked him. He lifted his leather-clad foot and, in one movement, roughly booted the other man's legs.
He was careful not to get too close to the chair - his long leg was fully extended to reach its target. He then stood there, four feet from the sleeping man, and waited. The worker stirred, slowly. The jacket moved, a face appeared. Two dark, bleary eyes adjusted to the light and settled on their supervisor. He rose and silently followed his boss from the room.
It was an ordinary instance, I suppose, but I was bothered. Forget about the literal, visual illustration: the boss in a white shirt, the worker in blue. Look past the troublesome racial dynamic: the black blue-collar worker, clearly inferior to the white white-collar worker. Since when (as an adult) is it acceptable to kick another human being?
Another man, this one tall, husky, and white approached. He wore a white, collared shirt and had close-cropped hair and a cold stare; he looked like a middle class, middle-level retail manager... but he also looked like he could - and maybe would - harm you if angered. He walked purposefully towards my lounge neighbor. He stood above the man's chair, staring threateningly at the even rise and fall of his slumbering worker's chest. I couldn't believe the man didn't awake under the weight of that look alone. Seconds passed. And then, the boss kicked him. He lifted his leather-clad foot and, in one movement, roughly booted the other man's legs.
He was careful not to get too close to the chair - his long leg was fully extended to reach its target. He then stood there, four feet from the sleeping man, and waited. The worker stirred, slowly. The jacket moved, a face appeared. Two dark, bleary eyes adjusted to the light and settled on their supervisor. He rose and silently followed his boss from the room.
It was an ordinary instance, I suppose, but I was bothered. Forget about the literal, visual illustration: the boss in a white shirt, the worker in blue. Look past the troublesome racial dynamic: the black blue-collar worker, clearly inferior to the white white-collar worker. Since when (as an adult) is it acceptable to kick another human being?
Maybe it's just me...
I don't use the automatic checkout at the grocery store. You shouldn't either, but then again - that's just my opinion. They are convenient, sure. And, I can go through while talking on my cell phone without being rude. But, here's something else to consider:
Each one of those handy, talking-scanning-checking-out machines has replaced one person. One cashier no longer has a job because a machine has taken her place. Those auto-checkouts don't come in ones and twos, either. There are six or eight in a row: eight people who have become obsolete, because a machine can do their job at a fraction of the cost.
Machinated convenience or workers' well-being? A bigger issue hidden within a trivial decision, as I stand with my shopping cart, wavering between the check-out options.
I'll choose people every time.
Each one of those handy, talking-scanning-checking-out machines has replaced one person. One cashier no longer has a job because a machine has taken her place. Those auto-checkouts don't come in ones and twos, either. There are six or eight in a row: eight people who have become obsolete, because a machine can do their job at a fraction of the cost.
Machinated convenience or workers' well-being? A bigger issue hidden within a trivial decision, as I stand with my shopping cart, wavering between the check-out options.
I'll choose people every time.
Friday, March 27, 2009
STFU Core 412.
If a class must constantly reassert its importance to me, it is not important. It's self-important, sure. Enter, Core 412. It clearly never learned that important rule of life: understated is (almost) always better. Really,Core412, must you yell at me throughout the syllabus, stressing your significance with fancy formatting, bold requirements, and italicized threats telling me I'd better take this course seriously, OR ELSE.
I mean, is that really necessary? Core, you have negated your potential importance through the simple of act of telling me how damn important you are.
The classes I take seriously are those whose syllabi do not threaten me, whose readings are tough, discussions riveting, and grading difficult. In those courses, the professor never professes that the work will change my life. (Inevitably, it does.) He doesn't tell me how I'll appreciate the class in 5 year, nor does he mention how much I'll miss if I skip a class. In fact, he probably doesn't even take attendance, because I know it's my proverbial ass if I miss such a dense two hours.
So, STFU Core412. Take your italicized threats and shove 'em. When you drop the hype and self-celebration, maybe I'll take you seriously. Until then, you'll find me daydreaming about the bonfire I'm going to have with your syllabus.
I mean, is that really necessary? Core, you have negated your potential importance through the simple of act of telling me how damn important you are.
The classes I take seriously are those whose syllabi do not threaten me, whose readings are tough, discussions riveting, and grading difficult. In those courses, the professor never professes that the work will change my life. (Inevitably, it does.) He doesn't tell me how I'll appreciate the class in 5 year, nor does he mention how much I'll miss if I skip a class. In fact, he probably doesn't even take attendance, because I know it's my proverbial ass if I miss such a dense two hours.
So, STFU Core412. Take your italicized threats and shove 'em. When you drop the hype and self-celebration, maybe I'll take you seriously. Until then, you'll find me daydreaming about the bonfire I'm going to have with your syllabus.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Uh oh, what does this say about me?
In response to Antionette's post, here are my current 25 (in no particular order). Odd mix of Spanish, English, instrumental, hip-hop, and singer-songwriter stuff...
1. Your Hand in Mine - Explosions in the Sky
2. Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
3. Peruvian Cocaine - Immortal Technique
4. Sorry About Your Irony - El Ten Eleven
5. Time Stops - Explosions in the Sky
6. Golpe de Estado - Immortal Techinique
7. My Last Song to Jenny - The Avett Brothers
8. Blink - Blue Scholars
9. The Thing About It - Sweatshop Union
10. Jesus, etc. - Wilco
11. Se Acabo - Welfare Poets
12. A Song - Virginia Coalition
13. North by Northwest - Blue Scholars
14. Jesus the Mexican Boy and/or Such Great Heights - Iron & Wine
15. One of These Things First - Nick Drake
16. La Hermanita - Aventura
17. Central Nervous Piston - El Ten Eleven
18. Colors and/or Night Train - Amos Lee
19. The Luckiest - Ben Folds Five
20. Fiery Crash - Andrew Bird
21. Si Tu No Bailas Conmigo - Juan Luis Guerra
22. Que Será - Diego Torres
23. Blue Collar Ballad - Sweatshop Union
24. Alexandra - Aventura
25. Uncle Sam Goddamn and/or Letter from the Government - Brother Ali
plus a bunch of Alexi Murdoch (All of My Days/Love You More), some random cumbia (Ven Tu y Grupo Nectar), more Immortal Techinique (Open Your Eyes), Blue Scholars, Sweatshop Union, Silent Knight, Explosions in the Sky, El Ten Eleven, Andrew Bird, random 90s alt rock, etc.
Really, I will listen to anything from Aventura anytime. They've been one of my favorite groups since high school. I listen to their current music, which is sometimes reggeton-esque, out of loyalty, but prefer the pure bachata of their early career. The two songs I added to this list are holding the place of all of their music.
All of my hip hop is underground, all of it is social commentary, and most of it is some degree of anti-capitalist. But then again, knowing me, that isn't surprising...
I know I kind of cheated with some of those "and/or" ones... but hey, it's my list.
1. Your Hand in Mine - Explosions in the Sky
2. Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
3. Peruvian Cocaine - Immortal Technique
4. Sorry About Your Irony - El Ten Eleven
5. Time Stops - Explosions in the Sky
6. Golpe de Estado - Immortal Techinique
7. My Last Song to Jenny - The Avett Brothers
8. Blink - Blue Scholars
9. The Thing About It - Sweatshop Union
10. Jesus, etc. - Wilco
11. Se Acabo - Welfare Poets
12. A Song - Virginia Coalition
13. North by Northwest - Blue Scholars
14. Jesus the Mexican Boy and/or Such Great Heights - Iron & Wine
15. One of These Things First - Nick Drake
16. La Hermanita - Aventura
17. Central Nervous Piston - El Ten Eleven
18. Colors and/or Night Train - Amos Lee
19. The Luckiest - Ben Folds Five
20. Fiery Crash - Andrew Bird
21. Si Tu No Bailas Conmigo - Juan Luis Guerra
22. Que Será - Diego Torres
23. Blue Collar Ballad - Sweatshop Union
24. Alexandra - Aventura
25. Uncle Sam Goddamn and/or Letter from the Government - Brother Ali
plus a bunch of Alexi Murdoch (All of My Days/Love You More), some random cumbia (Ven Tu y Grupo Nectar), more Immortal Techinique (Open Your Eyes), Blue Scholars, Sweatshop Union, Silent Knight, Explosions in the Sky, El Ten Eleven, Andrew Bird, random 90s alt rock, etc.
Really, I will listen to anything from Aventura anytime. They've been one of my favorite groups since high school. I listen to their current music, which is sometimes reggeton-esque, out of loyalty, but prefer the pure bachata of their early career. The two songs I added to this list are holding the place of all of their music.
All of my hip hop is underground, all of it is social commentary, and most of it is some degree of anti-capitalist. But then again, knowing me, that isn't surprising...
I know I kind of cheated with some of those "and/or" ones... but hey, it's my list.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Clarification
I originally wrote this as a response to Katy's comment on my last post, but I've decided to post it here, because I don't like the impression I've apparently given that meat consumption is evil, etc. So, here it goes:
Clarification:
I have no problem whatsoever eating meat. I'm trying out the vegetarian thing right now as sort of a challenge, as moral support for my beau who went vegetarian as his New Year's resolution (solidarity), and as an evironmental statement - the rate of cow consumption in this country especially is horrible for the environment. For example, for every pound of beef I do not eat, I save 2,500 to 5,000 gallons of water a year... and that's only one possible example of many.
That's why I need gross mental images to help me not eat meat - since I love it so much, I need something to control my cravings. And, I see nothing wrong with eating animals that have been treated well. I don't like the idea of animal abuse - it makes my stomach turn - but I would have no problem raising and eating my own chickens. That's no big deal.
People shouldn't stop eating meat because of animal cruelty, although I wish we would demand more humane treatment of the animals we do eat. We can demand that by choosing to purchase meat and eggs from free range chickens, etc. It's getting easier, too... for example, there's now a "Certified Humane" stamp you can look for if you so choose.
I think the environmental reasons are compelling enough to suggest that people cut their meat intake. Note, I don't say everyone should give it up. It tastes good. But we should reduce how much we consume. That is, if we care about the Earth.
Clarification:
I have no problem whatsoever eating meat. I'm trying out the vegetarian thing right now as sort of a challenge, as moral support for my beau who went vegetarian as his New Year's resolution (solidarity), and as an evironmental statement - the rate of cow consumption in this country especially is horrible for the environment. For example, for every pound of beef I do not eat, I save 2,500 to 5,000 gallons of water a year... and that's only one possible example of many.
That's why I need gross mental images to help me not eat meat - since I love it so much, I need something to control my cravings. And, I see nothing wrong with eating animals that have been treated well. I don't like the idea of animal abuse - it makes my stomach turn - but I would have no problem raising and eating my own chickens. That's no big deal.
People shouldn't stop eating meat because of animal cruelty, although I wish we would demand more humane treatment of the animals we do eat. We can demand that by choosing to purchase meat and eggs from free range chickens, etc. It's getting easier, too... for example, there's now a "Certified Humane" stamp you can look for if you so choose.
I think the environmental reasons are compelling enough to suggest that people cut their meat intake. Note, I don't say everyone should give it up. It tastes good. But we should reduce how much we consume. That is, if we care about the Earth.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Animal games
For the record, that sight (see post below) was all I really needed to reaffirm a vegetarian lifestyle.
Here's the game I play when craving meat (works 98.872% of the time... approximately):
Look at that beautiful, perfectly cooked and seasoned chicken breast. Now, think of it alive, jammed into a cage with 12 other miserable birds. They are sick, dirty and standing in their own... well, you get the picture. Now, how about splattered on the roadside after the daring escape from prison (aka the chicken truck)? Still want those nuggets?
Want to hear the cow game?
Mmmm, hamburger smells good. Really damn good. God, I want a steak. But wait... close your eyes... uh-huh, good. Now remember watching the cows being loaded onto our ship in the Amazon? The beatings, those poor animals. Skin and bones, slipping and sliding down the bank, falling into the water, with the rope forcing painful contortions - ways an animal's body shouldn't bend. Still hungry? Ok. Remember the sound? The crack that could be heard all the way on the top deck of the ship, as the deckhands folded the cow's tail and snapped it in two to get her to move?
Do you really want to support that with your consumption of meat?
I didn't think so.
Here's the game I play when craving meat (works 98.872% of the time... approximately):
Look at that beautiful, perfectly cooked and seasoned chicken breast. Now, think of it alive, jammed into a cage with 12 other miserable birds. They are sick, dirty and standing in their own... well, you get the picture. Now, how about splattered on the roadside after the daring escape from prison (aka the chicken truck)? Still want those nuggets?
Want to hear the cow game?
Mmmm, hamburger smells good. Really damn good. God, I want a steak. But wait... close your eyes... uh-huh, good. Now remember watching the cows being loaded onto our ship in the Amazon? The beatings, those poor animals. Skin and bones, slipping and sliding down the bank, falling into the water, with the rope forcing painful contortions - ways an animal's body shouldn't bend. Still hungry? Ok. Remember the sound? The crack that could be heard all the way on the top deck of the ship, as the deckhands folded the cow's tail and snapped it in two to get her to move?
Do you really want to support that with your consumption of meat?
I didn't think so.
Pondering Chickens
Driving to Wilmington a few weeks ago, my normally boring ride was punctuated by the most bizarre sort of roadkill. I wasn't sure it was roadkill at all, at first. It looked like a white furry teddy bear had been mauled on the side of the road, or as if perhaps an pillow had been gutted and its innards badly beaten and then run over by a few dozen passing vehicles. This one horribly abused pillow/stuffed animal object was multiplied and scattered at random intervals along Highway 74 - there must have been three or four within a 40-mile stretch. With each new sighting, I had more questions, including but not limited to: "What the hell is that?", "Who would carry that thing in their car?", "Who would throw that thing out of their car?", and "Is that a duck?"
My guess of duck wasn't too far off, actually. Forty-five minutes later, I overtook the roadkill-spewing culprit: an 18-wheeler stuffed with live chickens. They hadn't been childrens toys or home furnishings: they were poultry. All of the chickens were (quite tightly, as it appeared to me) locked in their respective cages (these are not the farmers from whom I purchase eggs!). How, I wondered, did they manage to escape their little mesh jails? What must that look like, to be driving behind a chicken truck and see poultry go flying out the side? Were they alive when they escaped? How many chickens are lost in transport each month, each trip? Do some die just from the terrible trauma of the wind rushing past at 70mph? If they arrive dead, are they processed and sold anyway? Do I really want to know the answer to that last one?
Seriously. How many chickens does one lose in transport?
My guess of duck wasn't too far off, actually. Forty-five minutes later, I overtook the roadkill-spewing culprit: an 18-wheeler stuffed with live chickens. They hadn't been childrens toys or home furnishings: they were poultry. All of the chickens were (quite tightly, as it appeared to me) locked in their respective cages (these are not the farmers from whom I purchase eggs!). How, I wondered, did they manage to escape their little mesh jails? What must that look like, to be driving behind a chicken truck and see poultry go flying out the side? Were they alive when they escaped? How many chickens are lost in transport each month, each trip? Do some die just from the terrible trauma of the wind rushing past at 70mph? If they arrive dead, are they processed and sold anyway? Do I really want to know the answer to that last one?
Seriously. How many chickens does one lose in transport?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I want to be Peruvian again
I'm going to repost something I wrote in Lima, 'cause I was trying to describe what it's like to live in that city, and I thought this kind of captured it. Since the past few blogs haven't been very writing-related, this one will be. This is one of the aspects of life that most foreigners hate - it happens to be one of the things I miss the most.
Window to a Peruvian Existence: My Lullaby is the Call of a Cobrador
Lima is a huge, sprawling, densely-packed mass of humanity ever pushing at the seams of its defined space. For those living on the seams, in the far reaches of the city, it has been cited that they will spend more than four years of their lives in public transit. For the Limeño, it is not just a mode of transportation: it is a way of life.
And for the visitor, it is a fascinating, frightening mess; quite possibly the most insane yet efficient form of public transit ("public transit" used in the loosest sense of the term) I have ever witnessed. To utilize this mess gives one an intimate look at daily life-- both at the lives of Peruvians and my life in Lima as a Peruvian.
There are three types of vehicles, and they all work the same way. The smallest are combis, essentially the size of a fifteen passenger van. Not including the cobrador and chaufer, they seat around 16, plus 3-4 people standing, hunched over in the low space. Those tall enough can brace themselves by bending at the waist and firmly steadying their upper backs against the ceiling; others can do this with their heads or shoulders. Next in size are the coasters, which I personally use the most. They are the size of a small bus. They are followed by micros, which are the size of large school buses. As for the last two: I've never been able to get a good head count. Suffice it to say it is many-- many more than should be legally or comfortably allowed.
All of these have two workers: the chaufer, who is charged with careening through the congested streets at breakneck speeds, and the cobrador, who manages the passengers. While the carro is racing down the road, the cobrador hangs out the window screaming the names of the route they travel. With a voice like an aluminum can, he yells all day long: yelling the routes, calling to let the driver know that passengers are getting on (sube) or getting off (baja), calling for passengers to have their fares ready or to advance to the back. In his free moments, he elbows his way through the tightly packed aisle, collecting fares of S/. 0,50; S/.1; S/1,20. The call of the cobrador, on constant replay, sounds something like this:
As a passenger, especially a North American passenger, getting around Lima really challenges my concept of personal space. Namely, I have none. I have been in micros so crowded that no part of my body was untouched - so sandwiched that I had no need to hold on, because even though the stomach-lurching traffic dodging, there was nowhere for me to fall.
There are thousands of different mircos and combis, and they all drive different routes. They have the names of the major roads in their route painted on their sides. To know which car you want, you read the side and listen to the call of the cobrador. This in itself can be a challenge, as few people speak fluent cobrador. In the repetitious cycle of yelling, words get distorted, and you must understand - for example - that Javier Prado will sound as: JaiPrauJaiPrauJaiPrau!
To get on, you need merely wave at the cobrador, who will beat on the side of the bus, signaling to the driver to stop. To get off, you must yell loudly, telling him exactly where you need to stop - as there are few designated bus stops, it is generally an on-and-off free-for-all. Buses can stop as frequently as necessary, sometimes every half block. Sometimes it requires forcefulness, and there can be no shame: if you don't yell, the chaufer is likely to blow right past your stop.
Don't be fooled by the frightening speed at which the micros travel - you do not actually arrive quickly to your destination. They provide an excellent opportunity to develop your "sleep-anywhere" skills, listen to music (with caution: keep your mp3 player and cell phone well hidden), perfect your sense of balance, or soak up the warmth of many, many bodies, all a tad too close for comfort.
Two hours a day in this weaving, rushing, death-defying mass of smushed-together humanity, and you may begin to understand what it is like to really, truly be Limeño.
Window to a Peruvian Existence: My Lullaby is the Call of a Cobrador
Lima is a huge, sprawling, densely-packed mass of humanity ever pushing at the seams of its defined space. For those living on the seams, in the far reaches of the city, it has been cited that they will spend more than four years of their lives in public transit. For the Limeño, it is not just a mode of transportation: it is a way of life.
And for the visitor, it is a fascinating, frightening mess; quite possibly the most insane yet efficient form of public transit ("public transit" used in the loosest sense of the term) I have ever witnessed. To utilize this mess gives one an intimate look at daily life-- both at the lives of Peruvians and my life in Lima as a Peruvian.
There are three types of vehicles, and they all work the same way. The smallest are combis, essentially the size of a fifteen passenger van. Not including the cobrador and chaufer, they seat around 16, plus 3-4 people standing, hunched over in the low space. Those tall enough can brace themselves by bending at the waist and firmly steadying their upper backs against the ceiling; others can do this with their heads or shoulders. Next in size are the coasters, which I personally use the most. They are the size of a small bus. They are followed by micros, which are the size of large school buses. As for the last two: I've never been able to get a good head count. Suffice it to say it is many-- many more than should be legally or comfortably allowed.
All of these have two workers: the chaufer, who is charged with careening through the congested streets at breakneck speeds, and the cobrador, who manages the passengers. While the carro is racing down the road, the cobrador hangs out the window screaming the names of the route they travel. With a voice like an aluminum can, he yells all day long: yelling the routes, calling to let the driver know that passengers are getting on (sube) or getting off (baja), calling for passengers to have their fares ready or to advance to the back. In his free moments, he elbows his way through the tightly packed aisle, collecting fares of S/. 0,50; S/.1; S/1,20. The call of the cobrador, on constant replay, sounds something like this:
SubeSubeSube!VienteochoTacnaAbancayAbancayVeinteochoTacna!SubeSube!AvancenPorFavor,AvancenAvancen
BajaEsquinaBajaBajaBajaSigueBajandoVamos!VienteochoTacnaAbancayAbancayVeinteochoTacna!
PasajesenlamanoPasajesenlamanoPorFavor!BajaSemáforo, BajandoBajando....
As a passenger, especially a North American passenger, getting around Lima really challenges my concept of personal space. Namely, I have none. I have been in micros so crowded that no part of my body was untouched - so sandwiched that I had no need to hold on, because even though the stomach-lurching traffic dodging, there was nowhere for me to fall.
There are thousands of different mircos and combis, and they all drive different routes. They have the names of the major roads in their route painted on their sides. To know which car you want, you read the side and listen to the call of the cobrador. This in itself can be a challenge, as few people speak fluent cobrador. In the repetitious cycle of yelling, words get distorted, and you must understand - for example - that Javier Prado will sound as: JaiPrauJaiPrauJaiPrau!
To get on, you need merely wave at the cobrador, who will beat on the side of the bus, signaling to the driver to stop. To get off, you must yell loudly, telling him exactly where you need to stop - as there are few designated bus stops, it is generally an on-and-off free-for-all. Buses can stop as frequently as necessary, sometimes every half block. Sometimes it requires forcefulness, and there can be no shame: if you don't yell, the chaufer is likely to blow right past your stop.
Don't be fooled by the frightening speed at which the micros travel - you do not actually arrive quickly to your destination. They provide an excellent opportunity to develop your "sleep-anywhere" skills, listen to music (with caution: keep your mp3 player and cell phone well hidden), perfect your sense of balance, or soak up the warmth of many, many bodies, all a tad too close for comfort.
Two hours a day in this weaving, rushing, death-defying mass of smushed-together humanity, and you may begin to understand what it is like to really, truly be Limeño.
question: essay 2
are we allowed to write ourselves into our writing for this essay #2? what I mean by that is, even though it isn't a personal essay, can the author (that's me) be present? for example (and no, this isn't what I'm writing) can I say, "when I first met Prof. Renfroe, he was..." or something like that??
sunshine and puppies
since the last few entries were sort of whiney/bitchy, here's a happy one. things I actually like:
so yeah, I can do things other than complain. Fancy that!
- reading (my own books on my own time)
- studying the following topics (without the pressure of grades and deadline): African studies, postcolonial studies, literature, theology, latin america, sociology, refugee and human rights issues, etc.
- being a complete and total dork: my boyfriend and I have a book club-y thing together: we read the same books and talk about them. We'll be together over Spring Break, and have two more Vonnegut books to dig into, hooray!
- babies. babies, toddlers, infants, little kids. love them. would nanny for free, except (a) I need the money and (b) it pays pretty well
- freedom to do what I want, when I want
- travel, other cultures. I've found that I'm pretty adaptable (no real culture shock anywhere I've been) and I love it
- adventures and the outdoors (cruising down the Amazon on a cargo ship, trekking through the Andes, and hopefully soon: hiking up the NC coast from SC->VA, the MST, the AT, the PCT, moving to Eastern Europe, Mexico, back to Peru...)
- helping others
- my intended
- learning other languages
- traditional and tribal cultures
- incessant blogging for Creative Nonfiction!!
so yeah, I can do things other than complain. Fancy that!
For some (anti)inspiration!
This week's inspiration comes from a Mr. Tyler Durden. If you don't know who that is, rent Fight Club. Or, since this is an English class, I guess you could read the book.
You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're
not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not
your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
The problem with this is that it doesn't exactly inspire me to do my work. I mean, if I'm not my khakis, it serves to reason that I'm also not the bachelors degree for which I am completing so much mindless busywork (no, not for you, Renfroe. I'm thinking more along the lines of that detesable requirement known as Core412).
Yeah, yeah, so I'm not actually gonna drop out or anything. Hooray pressure and obligation, my nemeses that keep me here!
work? why the hell would i want to do that?
I've decided that I don't want a job. That's not to say that I want to sit on my ass all the time and do nothing (although I do sometimes have that dream). There are lots of things I want to do. But, very few of them involve getting paid... as a matter of fact, I'd rather not get paid for most of them. It's not that I don't want the money. I just don't want the freedom of my actions restricted by a job description. For example, I'd love to do sociological research within immigrant and refugee communities. I'd like to continue working within refugee communities, period. But I don't want to be tied and bound and obligated and pressured by what I'm being paid to do and what I'm not.
And, I am absolutely unexcited by the idea of working every day and each week looking forward to the weekend when I can have "my time." I mentioned this to my mother, and she said something like, "well, working all week makes you appreciate your freedom more on the weekends." shoot me now. my freedom? that's what I don't want... to be bound to something in which I don't feel free, with the exception of 60 hours each week (starting Friday evening). And everyone knows its not really 60 hours, because by 4PM on Sunday you're dreading and preparing for the following morning, when the whole routine begins again. So really, its only 48 hours that are "yours," 48 hours of complete liberation before you once again have to play the game to prove that you are, in fact, worthy to continue living. And all because they locked up the food. (don't ask. if you really want to know, read My Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. Seriously. read it.)
Okay, okay, that's a total downer, I know. I will concede that some people do manage to find something that they love, for which they can get paid, and they are thrilled to begin each week anew because it's just so damn rewarding and fulfilling. And I don't doubt that I will have that, because I won't have anything less; I simply refuse. What bugs me is that I have to worry about getting paid for it. I want to serve my community, teach ESL, work in refugee camps, make the world a better place. Can't I be left alone to do that and not have to stress over how I will eat at the end of the day?
And, I am absolutely unexcited by the idea of working every day and each week looking forward to the weekend when I can have "my time." I mentioned this to my mother, and she said something like, "well, working all week makes you appreciate your freedom more on the weekends." shoot me now. my freedom? that's what I don't want... to be bound to something in which I don't feel free, with the exception of 60 hours each week (starting Friday evening). And everyone knows its not really 60 hours, because by 4PM on Sunday you're dreading and preparing for the following morning, when the whole routine begins again. So really, its only 48 hours that are "yours," 48 hours of complete liberation before you once again have to play the game to prove that you are, in fact, worthy to continue living. And all because they locked up the food. (don't ask. if you really want to know, read My Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. Seriously. read it.)
Okay, okay, that's a total downer, I know. I will concede that some people do manage to find something that they love, for which they can get paid, and they are thrilled to begin each week anew because it's just so damn rewarding and fulfilling. And I don't doubt that I will have that, because I won't have anything less; I simply refuse. What bugs me is that I have to worry about getting paid for it. I want to serve my community, teach ESL, work in refugee camps, make the world a better place. Can't I be left alone to do that and not have to stress over how I will eat at the end of the day?
essay 2
so, about this essay #2... I'm utterly uninspired.
Well, thats only kind of true. There are things I want to write about, but they are all so serious... if only I could have taken this class in some lighter, funnier time in my life. Unfortunately, everything floating around in my head right now is just sorta heavy. Death... no, you don't want to read about that. Poverty... you already read about that, and although I have a million stories, I don't want to beat a dead horse, since it's the same audience. Et cetera, et cetera.
Sorry folks, it'll be another serious one. Different topic, of course. No preaching, I promise. It's just not a laugh-and-tell-jokes kind of semester.
Well, thats only kind of true. There are things I want to write about, but they are all so serious... if only I could have taken this class in some lighter, funnier time in my life. Unfortunately, everything floating around in my head right now is just sorta heavy. Death... no, you don't want to read about that. Poverty... you already read about that, and although I have a million stories, I don't want to beat a dead horse, since it's the same audience. Et cetera, et cetera.
Sorry folks, it'll be another serious one. Different topic, of course. No preaching, I promise. It's just not a laugh-and-tell-jokes kind of semester.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The bane of my Wednesday
It is my strong suspicion that lab reports were designed for one of two purposes: A) to incite suicidal tendencies in the poor students forced to write them; or B) to rapidly produce entire generations of students who abhor science.
Never mind that the lectures might actually be fascinating - or at least vaguely interesting - and certainly applicable to everyday life. The misery of the lab report shrouds the entire experience in a general unpleasantness, in turn doing the opposite of what requisite science classes have set out to do: rather than generating interest or encouraging students to further pursue such a useful field, they are instead found running as quickly as possible in the opposite direction at the mere mention of the S-word.
And don't you dare speak that 9-lettered abomination.
f'-ing L*b R#p&t...
Never mind that the lectures might actually be fascinating - or at least vaguely interesting - and certainly applicable to everyday life. The misery of the lab report shrouds the entire experience in a general unpleasantness, in turn doing the opposite of what requisite science classes have set out to do: rather than generating interest or encouraging students to further pursue such a useful field, they are instead found running as quickly as possible in the opposite direction at the mere mention of the S-word.
And don't you dare speak that 9-lettered abomination.
f'-ing L*b R#p&t...
He IS a MP-WASP. What a Dick.
Someone *ahem* pointed out the fact that Mike Collins (NPR, Charlotte Talks) is hard to listen to because he's clearly a Myers Park uppity WASP dick. Today, I listened... and I heard it. Nearly eight years of listening to Charlotte Talks (high school, college) albeit intermittently (I couldn't listen as much when I wasn't in the country)... I'd never noticed before. Maybe it didn't strike me as odd because he sounds like my Myers Park neighbors. Who knows, Mike could very well be the guy sitting next to me at my grand MP church. (Which I do recognize as antithetical to me, although I continue to attend)
Anyways, I'm not ready to give up on Charlotte Talks yet. I still think he asks good questions, and I often like his guests (Dr. El-Nawawy this morning!). But... I hear it.
Anyways, I'm not ready to give up on Charlotte Talks yet. I still think he asks good questions, and I often like his guests (Dr. El-Nawawy this morning!). But... I hear it.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Write by Numbers
But, I've diverged. I meant to tell you about this one particular episode that I loved... and that I wish I could mimic when writing my own essay. See, these artists observed how everything in the world seems determined by polling and statistics. So they thought, why not art? Paintings, music? They commissioned a study to find out what the greatest numbers of people wanted in a painting, and then in a song. They painted two paintings: what people want, and what people don't want. The one that people want has blues and greens, a mountain, a lake, a family... and George Washington.
They did the same for music. The most hated song is hilarious. They included everything that people do not want in music: accordion, banjo, bagpipes. It is 21 minutes long and features an opera singer. Who raps. About cowboys. There are intervals of children's voices - people apparently hate children's voices - and bits about random holidays. In my dream last night, I heard one of the children's bits, and woke up singing it. It goes something like "It's Labor day! Labor day, labor day. Schools are closed and pools are opened... Labor day, la-labor day..." (hear episode here or visit artists' website here... really, you should go listen)
I was thinking. I'd kind of like to write the rest of my essay by poll. Just survey all of you to find out what you want to read, now that you already have a general idea of the essay's direction. Find out what parts you like, what you want to know more about, what you want me to delete. I'd like to write by numbers. The customer's always right. So, I could just find out what you want and give it to you. It worked for painting and music...
We're Supposed to Blog About the Editing Process
I must say, I was really surprised that no one criticized/complained about/put large Xs through the preachy/rant-y sections of my essay. Those were the sections that bothered (and continue to bother) me the most... maybe you didn't want to insult me? I'm actually a little confused... but, those will certainly be the first sections to go. Or maybe I won't delete them entirely... but they'll certainly get tweaked.
For Andrew, I will see if some of the dashes can go... which is tough because I think in dashes. If you could see my thoughts (er... maybe that wouldn't be a good idea) typed out, it would be all sorts of dashes and dots. But my writing doesn't have to look exactly like my thinking. Hopefully, at least, my writing will be more linear... less never-ending forever-branching rabbit holes.
Thankfully I don't have to add much in terms of length... maybe just erase some superfluous stuff and elaborate on the more meaningful stuff (and I'm identifying what was meaningful by looking at the parts in which there was consensus about it being impact-ful)
Oh boy, this is gonna be fun.
A spectre is haunting Europe
Historical fact of the day:
161 years ago today, in 1848, the Communist Manifesto was first published, becoming one of the world's most influential political tracts.
Some things you may not know:
- The Manifesto was originally written by Engels, but when he gave it to Marx for revision, Marx tore it apart and rewrote it. Engels later wrote in an introduction to the Manifesto that the thought was entirely Marx's.
- Marx's wife, Jenny, was from a wealthy family; to support herself and her husband, Jenny slowly pawned inherited silver throughout the years (Marx wasn't widely known or read during his life).
- Before the publication of the Manifesto, Marx was jailed in Brussels for revolutionary activity. He defended himself in court, and the jury later wrote to thank him for the interesting lesson he gave on the activity for which he was originally arrested.
- Marx spoke German, English, French, Latin, and read Russian. His early manuscripts were written in Latin.
- The Manifesto contains the essence of Marx's theory.
- The Manifesto was commissioned by the Communist League of London
Workers of the world, unite!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Diane Rehm is my "wake up early" motivator
I hate waking up late.
Ok, that's only sort of true. I love waking up at a reasonable hour, rolling over, and going back to sleep. That feeling is something along the lines of "pure joy".But I hate starting my day late, of feeling like I lost hours and wasted time.
More than anything, I despise waking late on weekdays for one specific reason: Diane Rehm.
NPR, and especially WFAE, is something of an addiction. One of the greatest feelings of elation while living abroad was the realization that I could get the live stream of WFAE... in my room in Lima.
But when I wake up late, I miss Morning Edition. I miss Charlotte Talks. No Steve Inskeep. No Renée Montagne. Instead, my ears are assailed by Diane Rehm. Which, for the record, is a rather undesireable way to wake up. As my boyfriend says, its something like awaking in a hospital... or a nursing home.
Okay, okay. She's a good interviewer, fine, I'm not disagreeing. But that's akin to telling me that olives or pickles are good for me, therefore I should like them (don't you dare approach me with a pickle). Or that Johnny Depp is an excellent actor. I don't care how good he is, he scares me.
Diane Rehm is good. Great, even. Yet the mornings I sleep through the soothing voices of intelligent morning news, that's it. I try -I try hard- to listen to her. And then, after 5 minutes, I inevitably change the station.
Which means that, not only does waking up to Ms. Rehm devestate my morning, it leaves me in an uncomfortable, news-less state for the rest of the day.
That's all the motivation I need to wake up early.
Ok, that's only sort of true. I love waking up at a reasonable hour, rolling over, and going back to sleep. That feeling is something along the lines of "pure joy".But I hate starting my day late, of feeling like I lost hours and wasted time.
More than anything, I despise waking late on weekdays for one specific reason: Diane Rehm.
NPR, and especially WFAE, is something of an addiction. One of the greatest feelings of elation while living abroad was the realization that I could get the live stream of WFAE... in my room in Lima.
But when I wake up late, I miss Morning Edition. I miss Charlotte Talks. No Steve Inskeep. No Renée Montagne. Instead, my ears are assailed by Diane Rehm. Which, for the record, is a rather undesireable way to wake up. As my boyfriend says, its something like awaking in a hospital... or a nursing home.
Okay, okay. She's a good interviewer, fine, I'm not disagreeing. But that's akin to telling me that olives or pickles are good for me, therefore I should like them (don't you dare approach me with a pickle). Or that Johnny Depp is an excellent actor. I don't care how good he is, he scares me.
Diane Rehm is good. Great, even. Yet the mornings I sleep through the soothing voices of intelligent morning news, that's it. I try -I try hard- to listen to her. And then, after 5 minutes, I inevitably change the station.
Which means that, not only does waking up to Ms. Rehm devestate my morning, it leaves me in an uncomfortable, news-less state for the rest of the day.
That's all the motivation I need to wake up early.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Most Random Wedding Reception Ever
So, I was thinking about weddings recently - a lot of people I know are getting married. Parents, friends...one of my best friends is going to 11 weddings this year!
And as more time passes, I decide that I don't have much interest in a super-typical reception. Not that there's anything wrong with typical and traditional. I tend to be pretty traditional myself. What I want isn't completely off in left field, either. But I think, when I get married, I just want the reception to be a huge party with all of the random stuff I love but can't have in my normal life.
I want one of those ridiculous mall photo booths that print the strips of 5 photos.
I want a soft-serve ice cream machine with a friend calling out "Que Rico! Que Delicioso! Helado de Maquina! How Rich! How Delicious! Ice Cream from a Machine!" (long story), accompanied by a table of sundae fixins.
Instead of a little man and woman atop the cake, I want two turtles stacked on top of one another.
Our first dance might be a gag... but only if we can both do it with a straight face (this ridiculous dance we call "the love dance" that was invented to make me feel better but instead makes me cringe) and only for a few seconds and then we'll dance for real. I can't even watch it with a straight face, so... we'll see.
I won't be getting married for awhile, but I can't wait. I can't wait for the romantic part, sure. But I'm really looking forward for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to have the random things that make me (us...since it won't just be my party) happy. And, no one can say a thing... its whatever we want it to be...its our day, damn it.
And as more time passes, I decide that I don't have much interest in a super-typical reception. Not that there's anything wrong with typical and traditional. I tend to be pretty traditional myself. What I want isn't completely off in left field, either. But I think, when I get married, I just want the reception to be a huge party with all of the random stuff I love but can't have in my normal life.
I want one of those ridiculous mall photo booths that print the strips of 5 photos.
I want a soft-serve ice cream machine with a friend calling out "Que Rico! Que Delicioso! Helado de Maquina! How Rich! How Delicious! Ice Cream from a Machine!" (long story), accompanied by a table of sundae fixins.
I want my most favorite street food vendor from right outside my university in Lima to come and fix his to-die-for Sandwich Royal (shredded chicken, potato sticks, cheese, a fried egg, shredded lettuce, ají, and good bread). AND, his name is Tio Bigote (Uncle Mustache) which is unbeatable. His Royal is the sandwich by which all other Sandwich Royales are judged.
Tio Bigote, the love of my (culinary) life.
Instead of a little man and woman atop the cake, I want two turtles stacked on top of one another.
Our first dance might be a gag... but only if we can both do it with a straight face (this ridiculous dance we call "the love dance" that was invented to make me feel better but instead makes me cringe) and only for a few seconds and then we'll dance for real. I can't even watch it with a straight face, so... we'll see.
I won't be getting married for awhile, but I can't wait. I can't wait for the romantic part, sure. But I'm really looking forward for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to have the random things that make me (us...since it won't just be my party) happy. And, no one can say a thing... its whatever we want it to be...its our day, damn it.
Book Binge
As sometimes happen when I get bored with real life (or even when I don't), the past week or so I've been on a Book Binge. I'm always -always- reading something, but every couple of months that will go into overdrive and I'll just devour everything I can get my hands on.
So, here's the overview of what I've slammed down recently:
My Ishmael, Daniel Quinn. What can I say, other than... read it. Actually, read the other first: Ishmael. But be sure to read both of them. Some people think that they're "nice stories" and then write them off... but for those who are affected by them, they can be paradigm-shifting. As for me, Quinn manages to articulate what has bothered me so much in all I've seen, so both books hit home. Maybe you'll be affected and find yourself like one friend, drunk on your birthday and on camera, disturbed and yelling "they locked up the food, man, they locked up the food!"
Change of Heart, Jodi Picoult. Picoult is my (not-so) secret indulgence in "beach reads" and other bestsellers that I usually regard as fluff. She's my way of completely disappearing from the world; this book I read in one sitting on a Sunday. It is well written, the plot moves quickly, and this one made me think. She has this style of writing from a different person's perspective each chapter, which is interesting and she does very well. The story was still sinking in several days after I finished it.
Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut. Another one I read within a day and a half. Vonnegut is freakin nuts, and its great. I read Sirens of Titan a couple of months ago, and loved that as well. He writes absolutely insane things in the most matter-of-fact way, which, especially in Sirens of Titan, is hilarious. I really like Slaughterhouse Five's perspective on death. I just wish we could actually visit those moments in the past where our loved ones still exist. So it goes...
Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole. I'm in the middle of this one right now. It took me a little while to get really hooked, but its another preposterous, hilarious novel. The characters are so absurd that it is captivating.
We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, Philip Gourevitch. I'm reading it for a class, but it is one that has been on my "to read" list for years. The writing is excellent - for once, journalistic style done well in a longer book. And thank God, because the topic is done justice (its about the Rwanda genocide, which happens to fascinate me).
I feel like I am missing a book or two, because I know this isn't all I've read... maybe its because I'm not including the school reading? There are a few more that I started last month that I am just now finishing up, but I don't consider them part of my binge... they're just normal reading. If any happen to be must-reads, I'll be sure to pass them on. Oh, and I musn't forget that book by that cynical bastard Klosterman...
So, here's the overview of what I've slammed down recently:
My Ishmael, Daniel Quinn. What can I say, other than... read it. Actually, read the other first: Ishmael. But be sure to read both of them. Some people think that they're "nice stories" and then write them off... but for those who are affected by them, they can be paradigm-shifting. As for me, Quinn manages to articulate what has bothered me so much in all I've seen, so both books hit home. Maybe you'll be affected and find yourself like one friend, drunk on your birthday and on camera, disturbed and yelling "they locked up the food, man, they locked up the food!"
Change of Heart, Jodi Picoult. Picoult is my (not-so) secret indulgence in "beach reads" and other bestsellers that I usually regard as fluff. She's my way of completely disappearing from the world; this book I read in one sitting on a Sunday. It is well written, the plot moves quickly, and this one made me think. She has this style of writing from a different person's perspective each chapter, which is interesting and she does very well. The story was still sinking in several days after I finished it.
Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut. Another one I read within a day and a half. Vonnegut is freakin nuts, and its great. I read Sirens of Titan a couple of months ago, and loved that as well. He writes absolutely insane things in the most matter-of-fact way, which, especially in Sirens of Titan, is hilarious. I really like Slaughterhouse Five's perspective on death. I just wish we could actually visit those moments in the past where our loved ones still exist. So it goes...
Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole. I'm in the middle of this one right now. It took me a little while to get really hooked, but its another preposterous, hilarious novel. The characters are so absurd that it is captivating.
We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, Philip Gourevitch. I'm reading it for a class, but it is one that has been on my "to read" list for years. The writing is excellent - for once, journalistic style done well in a longer book. And thank God, because the topic is done justice (its about the Rwanda genocide, which happens to fascinate me).
I feel like I am missing a book or two, because I know this isn't all I've read... maybe its because I'm not including the school reading? There are a few more that I started last month that I am just now finishing up, but I don't consider them part of my binge... they're just normal reading. If any happen to be must-reads, I'll be sure to pass them on. Oh, and I musn't forget that book by that cynical bastard Klosterman...
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs
What a cynical bastard.
yeah, ok, the first two chapters made me laugh. but a whole book of this? really?
I have spent much of my post-elementary school life perfecting my MTV avoidance skills. (I happen to hate MTV with a passion...and it all started with hatred for the Real World. See, those ridiculous supposed-to-be-sexy teen-idol TRL guys irritated me, but what made me want to throw glass bottles at every TV tuned to MTV... that was all Real World) So imagine my joy in reading about this detestable piece of television trash for an entire 13 pages!
yeah, ok, the first two chapters made me laugh. but a whole book of this? really?
I have spent much of my post-elementary school life perfecting my MTV avoidance skills. (I happen to hate MTV with a passion...and it all started with hatred for the Real World. See, those ridiculous supposed-to-be-sexy teen-idol TRL guys irritated me, but what made me want to throw glass bottles at every TV tuned to MTV... that was all Real World) So imagine my joy in reading about this detestable piece of television trash for an entire 13 pages!
Untitled
I have absolutely nothing to say. That may be why I hate my personal essay with a passion - I actually can't bear to reread it, although I know I'll have to eventually. Its odd because I usually have plenty to say, usually just observations about the world around me. It was nice to hear that encouraged in the last class - that we should try and "see" the world around us - because that's typically the way I see, anyways.
But I promise, you really don't want to read what I see in the world right now. I'm usually an optimist, an idealist, blah blah all those wonderful descriptors. Well, that's flown out the window. I open my pantry in the morning and see: excess. I look at the grass in my yard and oaks in the woods and see: the pavement we've used to separate ourselves from this beautiful natural world. I watch the sunset: I miss the way the sun set over the Pacific in Lima, filled with passion and drama. What the hell is this, this puny Eastern seaboard faded watercolor show?
Uh-huh, yeah, see the bright side, yadda yadda.
Maybe I'll fake it. Girls are sposed to be good at that, right? (Er...that is, if you've dated the guys my friends and I have...) From now on, pretty happy sunshiney.... fuck. Sunshiney what? Its raining today. Hell, I'm going back to bed. I'll try on those rose-colored glasses later.
But I promise, you really don't want to read what I see in the world right now. I'm usually an optimist, an idealist, blah blah all those wonderful descriptors. Well, that's flown out the window. I open my pantry in the morning and see: excess. I look at the grass in my yard and oaks in the woods and see: the pavement we've used to separate ourselves from this beautiful natural world. I watch the sunset: I miss the way the sun set over the Pacific in Lima, filled with passion and drama. What the hell is this, this puny Eastern seaboard faded watercolor show?
Uh-huh, yeah, see the bright side, yadda yadda.
Maybe I'll fake it. Girls are sposed to be good at that, right? (Er...that is, if you've dated the guys my friends and I have...) From now on, pretty happy sunshiney.... fuck. Sunshiney what? Its raining today. Hell, I'm going back to bed. I'll try on those rose-colored glasses later.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Untitled Post
I find myself to be incredibly boring. That is the main obstacle to this personal essay thing: I don't have anything of substance to write about myself. I mean not that I am bored with my life. I love my life. I have done some really amazing things and met some incredible people. I'm in a wonderful (wow listen to all of these bland, generic descriptors!) relationship that sounds more like a romantic movie than real life. But that doesn't mean anyone else wants to actually read those things. I don't even write them for myself. My own personal writing is more focused on processing the world around me - the intense experiences I have had in poverty, with refugees, in isolated rural communities and overcrowded urban slums, in extreme wealth, with abuse of all types, etc. I process those experiences, I process my intense and growing dislike and discomfort with almost all aspects of American culture. The challenges are A) to weave that into some sort of narrative about myself and B) to not rage against the US and the screwed-up-ness of the world for 15 pages.... which I could do, but it would be neither readable nor effective. Looks like it might be a long night.
Overload
So, here's the deal. I am overworked and over-stressed. I've been trying to work on my essay for the past week, and as it turns out I can't seem to write anything that I like even a little bit. My real goal for this essay is to write something that will not make everyone else in the class reach for their pens... that is, reach for them not to edit but to stab themselves. My goal is not to induce desires of self-harm in every poor soul who must read my work.
Not that I think I'm a terrible, should-be-banned-from-purchasing-pen-and-paper, god-awful writer. Its just that, on top of this essay, I have the Borges presentation (damn you, you blind bastard), the critiques of the first four personal essays, varying degrees of busywork for other classes, and a veritable buttload of reading.
Perhaps this is a forewarning, or an apology. Or maybe its a plea for gentleness... may my writing not come into contact with your shredders, and may I not see you walking around campus with any sort of bandage.
And, for everyone else in the same position as I, happy writing!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Just biding my time.... (senioritis, anyone?)
Most people would agree that biding one's time is not an ideal use of time at all. This is certainly a mantra of every self-help section of every bookstore I've ever seen: live in the now, appreciate today, be present each moment. Not to say that it is incorrect, although the mere thought of those shelves of books, each proclaiming the right way to be happier now, does make me a bit ill.
Maybe its an act of belated adolescent rebellion against all wisdom, or maybe I am just sick of the now, because this semester I am doing just what I should not: I am biding my time. I'm sitting around, dragging my feet through my readings and assignments and appointments; I'm waiting for my real life to begin.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know it's not good. But it is. As a second semester senior, I have more than a vague idea that my life will really begin sometime after May. Or, the life that I choose. Sure, I chose this - I needn't be reminded. And I like learning, I really do. I will read and study and debate and learn without being enrolled in a degree program. But I'm bored, antsy, and ready to move on.
It may have something to do with the fact that I am in a long-distance relationship, and most of my fabulous future plans involve Alex. Or maybe that I can't see myself in the Carolinas long-term, which means that each subsequent week is just another week spent waiting to leave.
I don't even know what I want to do when I graduate. That's deliberate - I have never had a period of time in my life when I didn't have a plan or something upcoming. Other than the impending poverty and lack of health insurance, the terrible job market is reassuring because it means that the forthcoming rejections won't be personal, per se - its just the economy. It will be culturally sanctioned unemployment, allowing me to think about what I really want to do.
Maybe its an act of belated adolescent rebellion against all wisdom, or maybe I am just sick of the now, because this semester I am doing just what I should not: I am biding my time. I'm sitting around, dragging my feet through my readings and assignments and appointments; I'm waiting for my real life to begin.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know it's not good. But it is. As a second semester senior, I have more than a vague idea that my life will really begin sometime after May. Or, the life that I choose. Sure, I chose this - I needn't be reminded. And I like learning, I really do. I will read and study and debate and learn without being enrolled in a degree program. But I'm bored, antsy, and ready to move on.
It may have something to do with the fact that I am in a long-distance relationship, and most of my fabulous future plans involve Alex. Or maybe that I can't see myself in the Carolinas long-term, which means that each subsequent week is just another week spent waiting to leave.
I don't even know what I want to do when I graduate. That's deliberate - I have never had a period of time in my life when I didn't have a plan or something upcoming. Other than the impending poverty and lack of health insurance, the terrible job market is reassuring because it means that the forthcoming rejections won't be personal, per se - its just the economy. It will be culturally sanctioned unemployment, allowing me to think about what I really want to do.
So what do I want to do? There is a list, already long and constantly growing. Less than .01% of the ideas involve earning money; none of them have a time frame. What I know is that none of them can be done here or now, so I must sit around waiting for the here and now to end before the list can begin.
The List: Things that make me even more antsy as I bide my time
- Hike the Appalachian Trail (AT)
- Hike the Mountains-to-Sea Trail (MST)
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT)
- Volunteer with No Mas Muertos, an organization that provides humanitarian assistance on the US-Mexico border
- Return to Peru, where I lived for the past year, with Alex, to complete the adventures we began there
- Live in the same city (!) as Alex
- Engagement and all that follows...
- Learn the United States: I have currently seen more countries in the world than states in the US
- Climb Mt. Kilimanjaro
- Work in/visit the Democratic Republic of the Congo
- Master's, PhD
- Live on the West Coast (Seattle?)
- Seminary
- Live with/near my grandparents (1month-ish) and other important friends (not in the Carolinas!)
- Play chess over breakfast, have intellectual conversations over lunch, and laugh until I gag over dinner (e.g. life with Alex...)
- Hike the Wonderland Trail (around the base of Mt. Rainier)
- Extended time in Mexico?
- Staff or participate in another Global Urban Trek
- Anthropological/Sociological research among refugees in the US and/or camps around the world
- Live in a city where I don't need a car
etc, etc, etc.....
The List: Things that make me even more antsy as I bide my time
- Hike the Appalachian Trail (AT)
- Hike the Mountains-to-Sea Trail (MST)
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT)
- Volunteer with No Mas Muertos, an organization that provides humanitarian assistance on the US-Mexico border
- Return to Peru, where I lived for the past year, with Alex, to complete the adventures we began there
- Live in the same city (!) as Alex
- Engagement and all that follows...
- Learn the United States: I have currently seen more countries in the world than states in the US
- Climb Mt. Kilimanjaro
- Work in/visit the Democratic Republic of the Congo
- Master's, PhD
- Live on the West Coast (Seattle?)
- Seminary
- Live with/near my grandparents (1month-ish) and other important friends (not in the Carolinas!)
- Play chess over breakfast, have intellectual conversations over lunch, and laugh until I gag over dinner (e.g. life with Alex...)
- Hike the Wonderland Trail (around the base of Mt. Rainier)
- Extended time in Mexico?
- Staff or participate in another Global Urban Trek
- Anthropological/Sociological research among refugees in the US and/or camps around the world
- Live in a city where I don't need a car
etc, etc, etc.....
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Blogging as an act of laziness
I have never found my life quite interesting enough to blog about. It is interesting to me, sure. But sometimes it doesn't even warrant keeping a journal; I don't record my days for fear that I would fall asleep upon any subsequent reading.
That all changed when I packed up my life in January 2008 and moved to Lima, Peru for a year. I most certainly didn't plan to call my family daily, weekly, or even monthly, and the prospect of corresponding individually with dozens of people on a regular basis was daunting at best. The solution was, naturally, a blog. My update-starved family could know that I was still alive. Or, of course, they could choose disinterest. Either way, I had done my part. So was formed the blog Con Mis Manos, containing updates from my life, studies, mission work, and travels in Peru.
In addition to the chronicle of my Peruvian life, I have a journal from a 10-day trip into the heart of the Andes, where were were more than 10 hours by foot from the nearest village with electricity or roads, and where I was the first foreigner to ever visit. The journal is long-winded and ridiculously detailed - it is my journal, mind you - and was borne out of my reluctance to re-tell the epic story to everyone who asked. It is called Journey to the Land that Time Forgot and is at www.quebuenapaisana.blogspot.com.
That all changed when I packed up my life in January 2008 and moved to Lima, Peru for a year. I most certainly didn't plan to call my family daily, weekly, or even monthly, and the prospect of corresponding individually with dozens of people on a regular basis was daunting at best. The solution was, naturally, a blog. My update-starved family could know that I was still alive. Or, of course, they could choose disinterest. Either way, I had done my part. So was formed the blog Con Mis Manos, containing updates from my life, studies, mission work, and travels in Peru.
In addition to the chronicle of my Peruvian life, I have a journal from a 10-day trip into the heart of the Andes, where were were more than 10 hours by foot from the nearest village with electricity or roads, and where I was the first foreigner to ever visit. The journal is long-winded and ridiculously detailed - it is my journal, mind you - and was borne out of my reluctance to re-tell the epic story to everyone who asked. It is called Journey to the Land that Time Forgot and is at www.quebuenapaisana.blogspot.com.
Reading Shouldn't Make Me Yell and Curse
Why are biographies of living individuals so often disappointing? It seems that many accounts I have read - of fascinating people - have left me utterly unsatisfied. Occasionally, they are so bad that I want to take out a red pen and edit as I read. Or perhaps rewrite them - and it takes a spectacularly bad book for me to feel that I could surpass the writer's effort.
There are commonalities - and I am thinking now of 3 books in particular. They are Mountains Beyond Mountains, Three Cups of Tea, and Mbutu's Congo. All three have what are, to me, captivating subjects. Paul Farmer, the man who "would cure the world" - he has almost single-handedly brought a semblance of modern medical care to the central plateau of poverty-ravaged Haiti and worked to cure tuberculosis and treat AIDS around the world. Greg Mortenson, who has built hundreds of schools in the most inaccessible areas of Afghanistan and Pakistan, promoting peace and changing the lives of women and girls in the region. And, less inspiring yet equally as interesting, Mbutu Sese Seko, the dictator of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) for 32 years (1965–1997) whose name became synonymous with kleptocracy as he plundered the country's resources and drove the country into desperate poverty.
What potential there is in each of these subjects! So why was I left angry while reading - at times yelling at anyone who would listen when I stumbled across a sentence such as, "The United Nations reported that more than 500 people got killed". Got killed? Really?
One of the main similarities, stylistically, is the insertion of the author into the books. It is almost like extended journalistic reporting - the reader is aware of the journalist's presence; the experiences of the journalist as he researches his subject are as much a part of the narrative as the subject himself. The University of Hawai‘i's Mānoa Book Project notes this characteristic in the description of Mountains, saying, "In a stylistic departure from most of Kidder's previous books, he writes in the first person, offering himself as a character and even as a foil, so that his own reactions of admiration, skepticism, exasperation and awe provide a second lens by which to see Dr. Paul Farmer."
The tone of all three works is very casual, chatty, and it feels to me, dumbed-down. This has its benefits and was most likely deliberate: the books are ready-made for a "Summer Reads" display at Barnes and Nobles, designed for maximum accessibility. I will admit that accessibility is especially crucial, as our popular culture could use more world awareness. But must I feel like I'm reading a chatty op-ed in some second-rate travel journal? I should hope that the reading public is more (dare I say it?) intelligent than that.
Maybe the authors and publishers are on to something. Many of these sub-par journalism-meets-biography endeavors are recommended to me by my less literary-inclined friends who gush over the books' excellence. And while I am glad that these issues are receiving wide exposure, I wish there were a middle ground. When passed among my more academic, book-addicted friends, these books are handed over with qualifiers and apologies. We say, "You don't know Paul Farmer?! Well, you must read this book. But I have to warn you: the writing kind of sucks. The author pisses me off. But the subject - well, you just have to read it". I am weary of these conversations and long for "summer reads" for which I do not have to compromise my literary standards.
Is there a way to create accessibility while maintaining stylistic integrity? Could these stories be told (with similar impact) without the author's presence? Or, could the journalistic feel be preserved and simply improved?
I hope to one day read a well-written biography of a living person. I will continue reading, of course - I won't give up - but will continue with skepticism, lowered expectations, and -perhaps- a red pen.
There are commonalities - and I am thinking now of 3 books in particular. They are Mountains Beyond Mountains, Three Cups of Tea, and Mbutu's Congo. All three have what are, to me, captivating subjects. Paul Farmer, the man who "would cure the world" - he has almost single-handedly brought a semblance of modern medical care to the central plateau of poverty-ravaged Haiti and worked to cure tuberculosis and treat AIDS around the world. Greg Mortenson, who has built hundreds of schools in the most inaccessible areas of Afghanistan and Pakistan, promoting peace and changing the lives of women and girls in the region. And, less inspiring yet equally as interesting, Mbutu Sese Seko, the dictator of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) for 32 years (1965–1997) whose name became synonymous with kleptocracy as he plundered the country's resources and drove the country into desperate poverty.
What potential there is in each of these subjects! So why was I left angry while reading - at times yelling at anyone who would listen when I stumbled across a sentence such as, "The United Nations reported that more than 500 people got killed". Got killed? Really?
One of the main similarities, stylistically, is the insertion of the author into the books. It is almost like extended journalistic reporting - the reader is aware of the journalist's presence; the experiences of the journalist as he researches his subject are as much a part of the narrative as the subject himself. The University of Hawai‘i's Mānoa Book Project notes this characteristic in the description of Mountains, saying, "In a stylistic departure from most of Kidder's previous books, he writes in the first person, offering himself as a character and even as a foil, so that his own reactions of admiration, skepticism, exasperation and awe provide a second lens by which to see Dr. Paul Farmer."
The tone of all three works is very casual, chatty, and it feels to me, dumbed-down. This has its benefits and was most likely deliberate: the books are ready-made for a "Summer Reads" display at Barnes and Nobles, designed for maximum accessibility. I will admit that accessibility is especially crucial, as our popular culture could use more world awareness. But must I feel like I'm reading a chatty op-ed in some second-rate travel journal? I should hope that the reading public is more (dare I say it?) intelligent than that.
Maybe the authors and publishers are on to something. Many of these sub-par journalism-meets-biography endeavors are recommended to me by my less literary-inclined friends who gush over the books' excellence. And while I am glad that these issues are receiving wide exposure, I wish there were a middle ground. When passed among my more academic, book-addicted friends, these books are handed over with qualifiers and apologies. We say, "You don't know Paul Farmer?! Well, you must read this book. But I have to warn you: the writing kind of sucks. The author pisses me off. But the subject - well, you just have to read it". I am weary of these conversations and long for "summer reads" for which I do not have to compromise my literary standards.
Is there a way to create accessibility while maintaining stylistic integrity? Could these stories be told (with similar impact) without the author's presence? Or, could the journalistic feel be preserved and simply improved?
I hope to one day read a well-written biography of a living person. I will continue reading, of course - I won't give up - but will continue with skepticism, lowered expectations, and -perhaps- a red pen.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A year in Peru, and now I can't eat sugar
I never expected that a year in South America would ruin for me life in the United States. Perhaps it is not just American life that has been tainted. The things that I witnessed directly and learned about the world over the course of the past year have challenged the way I see the world, and I suspect that much of life— life as a consumer, that is— has been irreversibly changed.
Sure, I expected that I would have trouble shopping at Michael’s, having heard a friend's experience with the brutally exploitative practices in the Philippines. And I assumed it would be difficult to purchase high-priced jewelry in the tourist district of Lima, since many of my friends are the grossly underpaid and oppressed artisans.
But sugar?? I reached for the bag this morning, reading the enthusiastic description of the “rich taste with caramel flavor notes” from the “tropical paradise” of Mauritius. All I could think was, How are the laborers treated? How desperate are the poverty and exploitation? What about the environmental degradation of the island, how many acres of tropical forest were leveled to bring me this fantastically flavorful sugar? And on the back of how many forgotten men and women, mothers and fathers?
It isn’t just sugar that has been ruined – no, that would be manageable. Add to the list both Brazilian beef and soybeans – the two biggest products for which nearly 2 acres of rainforest disappear each second. It is neither safe to be carnivorous nor vegetarian, as the production of both products has forced thousands of indigenous communities from their ancestral lands – all for my culinary delight.
Don’t even get me started on every other consumer good. Clothes and shoes? I know the conditions under which they are produced. Stores actually produce a physical reaction: in Target, I suppressed my quickly rising lunch; in Harris Teeter, I fought back a faint. How many corners have been cut, workers exploited, or environments ravaged to bring me these shockingly low prices?
Can I indulge my Diet Coke addiction, knowing that mobsters have been employed to curtail the formation of labor unions in Coca-Cola factories around South America, resulting in the intimidation and assassination of those fighting for their rights? Can I eat seafood imported from Peru after hearing a close friend’s account of his years in a packing facility— disturbing from both humanitarian and nutritional perspectives? Can I drive my father’s Land Cruiser knowing the working conditions in the Japanese factories— where workers are, literally, worked to death? Can I buy fake Christmas foliage knowing that women in the slums were paid less than $1 for a man-sized bag, its contents assembled by hand?
Behind every consumer good, I see faces, sweat, tears, and suffering. The paper aisle, lumber store, and food in my freezer induce flashbacks from the Amazon – I cannot help but vividly recall the lush forest, populated by beautiful people and breathtaking ecology, punctuated by desecrated, empty swaths of land, still smoking as the unlogged brush is burned. In every bracelet and pair of earrings I am brought back to my friends Ofelia and Lucy, in the human settlements of Lima and their homes of ignoble material, creating jewelry for which they receive less than two percent of the final selling price.
I am now faced with the difficult question: What to do with this knowledge? How do I meet my needs— food, clothing— while not participating in the dehumanizing exploitation I have witnessed? I wish sometimes I carried not this knowledge. It is burdensome; as if putting on glasses, I saw the world more clearly; I am unable to take them off, I cannot return to my previous nearsightedness. Perhaps I could continue as before, but I cannot unsee what I have seen. I cannot unknow.
There remains only to continue from here, forever reconciling my needs and wants with my knowledge. I must continue learning the reality, no matter how it challenges my daily life. Condoning oppression and suffering around the world is unacceptable, and deliberate ignorance is no less insidious than knowing support of the worst corporate offenders. Perhaps someday I will encounter another alternative; perhaps, with work and belief in change, these practices can be transformed. Perhaps I will once again eat sugary cereal and know that it need not be ruined because neither man nor nature has cried out under the burden of my consumer demands.
Sure, I expected that I would have trouble shopping at Michael’s, having heard a friend's experience with the brutally exploitative practices in the Philippines. And I assumed it would be difficult to purchase high-priced jewelry in the tourist district of Lima, since many of my friends are the grossly underpaid and oppressed artisans.
But sugar?? I reached for the bag this morning, reading the enthusiastic description of the “rich taste with caramel flavor notes” from the “tropical paradise” of Mauritius. All I could think was, How are the laborers treated? How desperate are the poverty and exploitation? What about the environmental degradation of the island, how many acres of tropical forest were leveled to bring me this fantastically flavorful sugar? And on the back of how many forgotten men and women, mothers and fathers?
It isn’t just sugar that has been ruined – no, that would be manageable. Add to the list both Brazilian beef and soybeans – the two biggest products for which nearly 2 acres of rainforest disappear each second. It is neither safe to be carnivorous nor vegetarian, as the production of both products has forced thousands of indigenous communities from their ancestral lands – all for my culinary delight.
Don’t even get me started on every other consumer good. Clothes and shoes? I know the conditions under which they are produced. Stores actually produce a physical reaction: in Target, I suppressed my quickly rising lunch; in Harris Teeter, I fought back a faint. How many corners have been cut, workers exploited, or environments ravaged to bring me these shockingly low prices?
Can I indulge my Diet Coke addiction, knowing that mobsters have been employed to curtail the formation of labor unions in Coca-Cola factories around South America, resulting in the intimidation and assassination of those fighting for their rights? Can I eat seafood imported from Peru after hearing a close friend’s account of his years in a packing facility— disturbing from both humanitarian and nutritional perspectives? Can I drive my father’s Land Cruiser knowing the working conditions in the Japanese factories— where workers are, literally, worked to death? Can I buy fake Christmas foliage knowing that women in the slums were paid less than $1 for a man-sized bag, its contents assembled by hand?
Behind every consumer good, I see faces, sweat, tears, and suffering. The paper aisle, lumber store, and food in my freezer induce flashbacks from the Amazon – I cannot help but vividly recall the lush forest, populated by beautiful people and breathtaking ecology, punctuated by desecrated, empty swaths of land, still smoking as the unlogged brush is burned. In every bracelet and pair of earrings I am brought back to my friends Ofelia and Lucy, in the human settlements of Lima and their homes of ignoble material, creating jewelry for which they receive less than two percent of the final selling price.
I am now faced with the difficult question: What to do with this knowledge? How do I meet my needs— food, clothing— while not participating in the dehumanizing exploitation I have witnessed? I wish sometimes I carried not this knowledge. It is burdensome; as if putting on glasses, I saw the world more clearly; I am unable to take them off, I cannot return to my previous nearsightedness. Perhaps I could continue as before, but I cannot unsee what I have seen. I cannot unknow.
There remains only to continue from here, forever reconciling my needs and wants with my knowledge. I must continue learning the reality, no matter how it challenges my daily life. Condoning oppression and suffering around the world is unacceptable, and deliberate ignorance is no less insidious than knowing support of the worst corporate offenders. Perhaps someday I will encounter another alternative; perhaps, with work and belief in change, these practices can be transformed. Perhaps I will once again eat sugary cereal and know that it need not be ruined because neither man nor nature has cried out under the burden of my consumer demands.
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