These Girls are In MY Binder

Third-grader Stella Erhart totally rocks. Since second grade, she's gone to school every day dressed as a historical figure, ranging from Queen Elizabeth to crooner Billie Holiday to Nobel Peace Prize-winning activist Aung San Suu Kyi. How encouraging to see a young girl find self-expression while also educating herself and others.

Another young girl comes to mind, one from the other side of the world: Malala Yousufzai, the 14-year-old Pakistani schoolgirl whom the Taliban tried to assassinate barely a week ago. She spoke up to defend her right to education, and they shot her in the head. Let me repeat it, in case the utter wrongness of that statement didn't strike you the first time. She wanted to be able to go to school, and they shot her in the head. 

Yes, the world in which a girl like Stella Erhart can not only go to school but also emulate hundreds of women role models, is also the same world where some girls can look forward to being child brides or facing death merely for wanting to improve their minds.

Stella, I hope you'll choose to dress as Malala one of these days. And Malala, all my fervent hopes for your full recovery and continued activism. I share your vision for girls the world over to be able to flourish intellectually and expressively like Stella.

Plus, you've got more balls than all the Taliban combined.

On Servitude...

I live in a pretty well-to-do Brooklyn neighborhood, and often on my way to work I'll see something like this:

And it makes me think of this:

...which brings up a whole host of questions about history, our current society, the nature of employment, race relations, power relations, and the economy. And I have to uncomfortably reflect on my own role in this whole web, my complicity as well as my contributions.

*Read more about domestic workers today!*

On the Irresistible Charm of "Less is More"

Period porn (n). A drama set in the 18th or 19th centuries wherein a gentleman reaches unbelievable heights of sexiness by loosening/removing his cravat, diving still-clothed into a pond, or thanking his employee with a hand-clasp after she saves his life. See also: BBC literary adaptations.

If you recognized the above scenes* without even having to click on the links, you know what I'm talkin' about. There's nothing like the restraints of class, society, and numerous layers of clothing to ramp up the sexual tension as the two protagonists stay apart, every glance or slight touch filled with significance and longing. Not a naked torso or bedroom romp in sight - just the way I like it.

Now, I'm very much a 21st-century woman and a proud feminist, but in terms of romance I just find these period dramas to be far superior to the typical contemporary chick flick in which girl meets/hooks up with guy, is separated from guy due to some crisis of the plot and then finally reunites with him, interspersed with bouts of chocolate, shopping and "empowering" advice from a bevy of girlfriends who each represents a personality type. Yawn. Give me the allure of things left unsaid, the agony of love expressed but indirectly, the seething passions carefully curbed so that when finally glimpsed the contrast is intense...it's the ultimate tease, and so very enjoyable.

*North and South, Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre, respectively

On Simple Happinesses

It's a marvelous spring day, painted in quirky shades of Amélie, and I'm loving life.

Among other things, I love:
- the French language
- sitting on a sunny bench in the park
- little children speaking French
- watching a boy of about 8 work on mastering a two-wheeler...and then seeing a tiny girl who looked 4 or 5 tearing around on her two-wheeler
- the prevalence of interracial couples here
- journaling
- my neighborhood
- flowering trees
- alone time
- the nostalgia from reruns of "Boy Meets World"
- Easter being in spring
- singing "How Can I Keep From Singing," Irish-style

That is all. For now. Joy to you, this Passover/Easter/spring weekend.

A Belated Discovery of Hot Sauce

Sriracha - it seems to me that this chili sauce of Thai origin is becoming ever more ubiquitous, moving beyond Southeast Asian restaurants to show up at burger joints, food carts, swanky bars, and even on the communal food cabinet at my office. The sauce clearly has some devoted enthusiasts, inspiring an Oatmeal comic and even an attempt at a documentary.

It's been a bit of an adjustment for me, having been accustomed to seeing the rooster-branded bottles only at the houses of relatives or family friends, or on the shelves of the local Asian supermarket, but for my part, I had grown up avoiding "Rooster sauce," and never saw the appeal. I've never been a fan of condiments or pre-made sauces, and to me, Sriracha belonged in the same class of anathema as ketchup, mustard, mayo, hoisin, peanut sauce, or anything else usually found in a little plastic packet or squeeze bottle. There was just something off about its far-too-vibrant-to-be-natural color, its suspiciously smooth texture, saturated in preservatives, no doubt.

And then I discovered Rooster brand chili-and-garlic paste. It was similar to the homemade paste my mother made, but much more accessible (you can't plant that many chili peppers in a New York window box!). I added it to stir-fries. Pastas. Curries. It added garlic and kick, elements I incorporate into much of my cooking, with a fraction of the effort. Heading down the Slippery Slope of Convenience Cooking, I had to admit, as so many of my friends proclaimed, that Sriracha made lots of things better.  I found myself thinking, "Oh, Sriracha, where have you been all my life?" as I dug into a suitably garlicky and spicy kale-and-tortellini dish for lunch.

Right there in front of me, of course. Fine, Rooster sauce, you win. I do like you.

I'm still not taking up ketchup, though.

A Cynic in the Holy Land: East Meets Middle East

Despite the fact that she started supporting her orphaned siblings at the age of 21, survived through several wars and ended up living in another country halfway around the world, in some ways, my mother has maintained a sheltered life. When you spend most of your life in mostly homogeneous Vietnam and then end up in the mostly homogeneous American Midwest, chances are you're not going to regularly meet and engage with those of different (ir)religious, socioeconomic, racial or even culinary backgrounds.

Thus it was that before this trip, my mother had had very little knowledge of Jewish religion or culture - she didn't even have the minor educational benefit of having seen Fiddler on the Roof, since she'd been sick and missed a production I did back in high school. And though she's visited me in New York several times, there's very little to be gotten from a bagel-and-schmear (apart from delicious calories and a happy stomach).

So there we were at JFK International Airport a few hours before our flight, watching as the waiting area slowly filled with other travelers bound for Tel Aviv. There were numerous retirees from the Midwest, with matching T-shirts and tour nametags already around their necks, a few priests in somber black and clerical collars, and, about fifteen minutes before boarding began, a whole contingent of Hasidim: all coats and jackets and beards; hats and hatboxes for the men and carefully wrapped headscarves for the women (the only trace of color in that mass of black and white); babies on hips and in strollers, often tended by older siblings; suitcase wheels rumbling under the guttural murmurs of Hebrew. I'm sure it made quite an impression on my mother. For my part, as we filed through the second (!) security check, found our seats and stowed our luggage, it was all I could do to stop myself from singing "Tradition" - the general chaos was so like that of the village in the opening scene.

The aforementioned chaos continued, especially as the flight wore on and Jews and Gentiles alike circulated about the cabin to stretch their legs, talk to friends, or, in the case of the former, consult a learned rabbi and/or say their prayers. It was this last that completely nonplussed my mother.

"This man had to do all this stuff before he could pray," she whispered, shaking her head. "He put on this shawl, and then he wrapped these weird boxes on his head and his hand, and then he was bobbing back and forth mumbling...it was like he was doing a spell or some other magicky thing."

I sighed and refrained from telling her that as a Catholic, she might want to consider how her own traditions also looked strange and ritualistic to outsiders.

"Jesus was a Jew, too, Mom," I reminded her. "He followed these same traditions." I went on to explain what phylacteries were and why Jewish men used them to pray, and handed her my guidebook, which had a section on Jewish religion and history. She shook her head again, but took the book and started reading. It wouldn't be till later during the tour that she would get a better grasp on all this and feel less uncomfortable around Orthodox and Hasidic Jews, but it was a start. Still, it wasn't long before she turned her mind away from the puzzle of exotic others to a subject closer to home: me. Specifically, what I was doing with my life.

"Now then," she began, closing the book, "Are you seeing anyone right now? You may have a job and friends but I'll just keep worrying about you till I see you settled down with a nice young man. I'd like to have grandchildren before I die, you know. And I don't like the way you've been eating lately. Tofu's well and good, but you're just going to waste away if you don't eat some proper meat more often."

If only she knew just how much she and Jewish mothers had in common. Oi vey.

A Cynic in the Holy Land: Introduction

Because my mother has always wanted to take a family trip to "see the Holy Land just one time before [she] die[d]," I went to Israel and Palestine this past November/December with my parents: a marathon journey around a country the size of New Jersey on what I call "Ye Olde Bible Lands Bus Tour," hitting about 50 sites in eight days. It was exhausting, it was interesting, it was...a mixed bag, in terms of my impressions and reactions. Certainly not the life-changing, wondersome mountaintop experience of the starry-eyed pilgrim, nor even an exotic tourist adventure stuffed with Kodak moments. I differed from my traveling-companions in a number of ways, not the least of which was a much more skeptical approach to the bells and whistles (or should I say camels and keffiyehs?) of the tour.


The following posts, then, are a recollection of moments and stories from my trip, some of which particularly cried out for snarky commentary, which is the reason behind the series title. My commentary also follows in the spirit of the ancient Greek philosophy of Cynicism: "the example of the Cynic's life (and the use of the Cynic's biting satire) would dig up and expose the pretensions which lay at the root of everyday conventions" (Kidd 2005).

Believe me, there was much to satirize on this trip. Enjoy. 

*DISCLAIMER*
While I have no hesitation ridiculing the foibles and failings of institutions, religious and otherwise, this is NOT meant to  demean or mock individual beliefs/faith. As a somewhat postmodern, deeply spiritual (and fairly religious) person, I know better than to try judging the highly personal and unique ways that people experience truth.