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.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
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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