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.

Chant d'un cygne

La gloire ne sait point ma demeure ignorée,
Et je chante tout seul ma chanson éplorée,
Qui n'a de charme que pour moi.

- Charles Brugnot, Gaspard de la nuit.

Je m'en fiche de la gloire; mais en tout cas je me noie dans la musique.

Companionable Copy

Normally, interactions between these two parties aren't too cordial, sometimes outright hostile.

I'm talking about the people who hand out copies of rival free newspapers AM New York and Metro every morning at subway entrances and exits, each trying to out-hawk the other and distribute papers to thousands of commuters in transit. I've even heard of fisticuffs occurring between overzealous newsies. I imagine newsprint flying as two people, perhaps middle-aged, grapple and yell in a whirl of thick coats, sturdy shoes and orange vests - vests in which copies of the day's issue are displayed, and are now getting irreversibly crumpled.

It was different this morning as I got off the train and sloshed through the turnstiles. As I climbed stairs and fought to get out my umbrella, I passed an AM NY guy, who was clearly in the middle of a lively conversation with the Metro newsie stationed at the next landing. He threw a comment I couldn't catch over his shoulder in between cries of  "AM New York!" and boisterous morning greetings. I did, however, hear the amusing reply as I climbed past the man handing out copies of Metro:

"Oh man, if I had that kind of money, I'd have six or seven kids running around, and I wouldn't even know where some of'em came from!"

Not sure I want to know....but I'll take that over fights during my morning commute.

The Indigence Monster

"I slept with Lady Gaga last night. Now look where I am."

This was the boast, not of some B-list celebrity or rich socialite, but on the cardboard sign of a man begging for change during lunch hour in the Financial District. He sat, cross-legged in the recessed doorway of a soon-to-be-opened store, in the posture typical of New York beggars in winter: bundled up and hunched over the sign and plastic cup before him.

This is all I can observe of him in the glimpse I have as I, too, hurry by. And I wonder for the umpteenth time where these people sleep, how they survive, and how often a passerby resists the current's flow and the pull of multiple destinations to stop and give some change, or, even rarer, talk with the person. Coward that I am, I don't have these conversations, but I imagine this man's sign would lead to an interesting one.

One thing's for sure, though. He would not be telling me that he was "born this way" to sit on the street risking cold and indifference. No one is.

Carb-14 Freebies

There appears to be a predictable, asymptotic rate of consumption when free food is left among people who share an office or living space, given the unspoken rule that the person who eats the last bit must be the one to clean the mess up.

Consider: a plate of bagels and a knife is left in the office kitchen. On my first few passes by the kitchen, they appeared to be disappearing rapidly, two or three at a time. Then, for awhile, a lone bagel sat on the massive plate. The next time I walked by, someone had taken the top half. Later, the bottom half, too, had been halved. The resemblance to the half-life of radioactive substances was both startling and amusing.

Knowing this rate of carbohydrate "decay", one could theoretically predict the original number of bagels. Except for that pesky tendency of certain humans with low tolerance for messes who'll grumble to themselves and just clean the damn thing up.

Leavening the Lexicon

Certain words are just too fun to pass up or let die. They're hidden, imprisoned, aquiver with forced inactivity in the dusty tomes of classic literature. They demand to be taken off the shelf and dusted off, set loose among the staid, tech- and pop-culture-heavy parlance of today. It'd be like bringing back Ben Franklin, Aphra Behn, Jane Austen or Leonardo da Vinci and seeing what they'd do with a blog or tweeting....

Here are just some words with which I've decided to spice up my lexicon:

• kerfuffle
• lollygag
• traipse
• gallivant
• vexed

A shot of linguistic champagne straight to the brain. Isn't it the cat's pajama's?

Idle Ponderment

A couple of questions that have broken into my idle or distracted moments:

- Regarding Wikileaks' recent publication of secret diplomatic cables - Has anyone else been struck by the strange lexical anachronism of "sending cables" in today's age of texting, Twitter and posts?

- Why do garlic, onions and coffee smell so delicious, yet produce the most foul breath?

Occupational Hazards

This, from a description of a U.S. Dept of State job posting:

Many overseas posts are in small or remote countries where harsh climates, health hazards, and other discomforts exist and where American-style amenities frequently are unavailable. Personal security frequently becomes an area of concern, particularly in countries where there is political unrest or terrorist activity. Family members are not permitted at an increasing number of posts. However, careers in the Foreign Service offer special rewards, including the pride and satisfaction of representing the United States and protecting U.S. interests abroad.

Translation: You will be far away from your family, your burger-and-fries, and the latest episode of Jersey Shore. You could die. But you'll have a super-cool employer.

*This is not to devalue the work  our foreign service officers do under often difficult circumstances, but the dispassionate and distant language in this paragraph just made me laugh.

Slow Salam

This client was not to be rushed. He insisted on filling out the intake form himself, writing in neat block letters with the slow deliberation of a coffee-making ritual. I spaced out for a moment, gazing at a spot just over his sleek white head as he hunched over the paper. When I asked him for an estimate of his monthly income, he drew out a folder, thumbed through for his tax returns, and began doing calculations on the back of one sheet.

"I was an accountant for 40 years," he explained. "I want to be accurate."

Accuracy applied to more than numbers, apparently. He entered the clinic office, and in the course of exchanging familiar greetings with the staff, one of them asked him what country he was from. He paused.

"I am human being. I don't like it when people ask what country I am from. I was born in Egypt, without my permission. I live in America - I am American. Do people want me to say I am Egyptian?"

I lost the thread of conversation as I set up a computer for him, but he took it up again on rejoining me.

"Were you hearing what I said?"

"Some, yes."

"So you see we are all human beings. We do not give permission where we are born. Why do we fight each other? You fight something like the government, not human beings."

Would that we human beings took enough time to see each other as such.

The rusty knife of justice.*

Justice is not swift.

It is no duel that ends quickly with a clean bullet or a piercing thrust. No, justice is trench warfare: its wheels are grimy and caked with weary sweat and bloody frustration and the dust of endless dawns spent reporting to the battlefield. It grinds slowly on, and some combatants fall by the wayside, too exhausted and disheartened to continue. They have no more resources; they have other pressing needs; their time spent fighting has taken them away from livelihoods and families. Those who remain persevere through doggedness, fatalism, belief in the cause...they endure, and so, persevere.

Few people see beyond the first burst of publicity surrounding the filing of a lawsuit. There are months of investigations, research, appearances and re-appearances, motions and cross-motions, judgments and appeals. Clients, so filled with energy and purpose at commencing action at last, must be encouraged: must be told to buck up, to settle in and keep coming back to the courthouse, to keep asking for more leave from work, to wake early and pass through the metal detectors to wait still more in the crowded court hallways where tempers flare and children wail. After all this, sometimes their patience is rewarded. Sometimes not.

Slow, creaking, lumbering justice. The price of civilized society.

*First published July 2009.

From the hotline

Some quotes from calls to the hotlines I manage at work:

Stuck in the 40s
"A man, or any person, has more than one face. He's an ugly traitor and I think a German spy in addition."
- from a rather elderly lady with a rather strident yet trembly voice. She's a repeat caller, thinks her neighbors are spying on her.

PC? What's that?
A lady whose tones were slightly tinged with the South, once I'd given her my name, asked me, "Is that Oriental?" quickly followed by: "You sound exactly like an American."

Well thank you, ma'am, as a matter of fact, I am.

A Dish Best Served Cold
A rather vindictive caller said of her landlord: "I had visions of garroting the old bitch. Her husband dropped dead recently, which was one of the highlights of my summer."

Having detailed her fruitless efforts contacting various government and business agencies, she sighed with resignation.

"I guess the only thing left to do is to hire a hit man. The problem is, every time someone hires a hit man they get an undercover cop."

I wonder what kind of environment she grew up in.

New York: Sound

Tuesdays are the rattle of aluminum cans, the dull tink-clink of bottles knocking against each other. It's the night before recycling collection, and bags of metal, glass and plastic line the sidewalks in haphazard piles - a monstrous xylophone dismembered and scattered up and down the New York grid.

What other musicians to play the giant sidewalk instrument, but the homeless? Some rake through the piles con fuoco, producing a rapid cacophony of cans, while others search slowly enough for one to distinguish between the different pitches of empty or partially-filled bottles. Sometimes the tumbling glass crescendoes to a halting shriek as a particularly large bag is hauled a short distance.

Singly or in groups, with gloves or bare hands, loading backpacks or bulky shopping carts, they rifle through countless bags of recyclables, searching for the right containers to turn in. In colonial times you could cheat the natives into selling you huge tracts of land for glass and metal beads. Nowadays all you get is enough change for a burger.

Tuesdays ring with the sound of trash en route to becoming not treasure, but survival.

Memory I: Taste

Raspberries will always taste of Paris. The burst of that intense tartness on my tongue, undercut with a hint of something floral, brings me back to the summer of 2004, when I spent five weeks exploring the city and studying French at the Institut Catholique de Paris.

I shared a small room with another student at the Maison des Mines, the dormitory for the engineering, technical and social science school Ecole des Mines. There were two beds, a long desk against the windows, and a small kitchenette comprised of a sink, mini-fridge and cupboard. Carrie and I mostly bought our own food, but each week we split a large carton of yogurt mixed with fruit. Strawberry yogurt I'd had before, and peaches and bananas, but it was my first encounter with raspberries. I would later enjoy them in jams or coated lightly with powdered sugar atop desserts, but there was something more vivid about the taste of that yogurt in my humble dorm room in the Latin Quarter, a slice of la vie boheme. (Or as close as to the bohemian artist's garret as I was going to get.)

That summer was filled other flavors, too: of juicy doner kebab pitas and dark chocolate tinged with orange, of dark-red wines and late-night runs for crepes and Orangina juice. I ate cheese of all types, chocolate-studded pain Viennois, the offerings of the local student cafeteria Resto U. But none of these evokes Paris so much as the nubbly texture and tart sweetness of raspberries.

Eight Years Later

Here we are again
mundanity overlaid with memorial
just a Friday workday
mere blocks from where it happened
my jeans are soaked
where the sky let fall its tears

Routine maintains its endless pace
though we pause today to look back.

I headed to work in miserably wet and cold weather, and the strangeness of living out my everyday in a place so central on the world stage was intensified for me as I emerged from the subway in New York's Financial District. Grey skies, grey buildings, dark cars, punctuated by a cop in neon orange poncho directing traffic. I walked east, where once others ran. I took the elevator up, where once others dashed down the stairs. And as I sat at my desk, listening to the live broadcast from the memorial service a few blocks away, I heard a tolling bell - where once the snapping, rumbling roar of a collapsing tower razed the air. September 11 in New York City. I wasn't there, and now I am.