Matt and I went to see the new Indiana Jones movie the other day, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. The movie takes place in 1957 during the Cold War, and the antagonists in this film are some hot headed Russians seeking a weapon to help them (of course) dominate the world. We got a kick out of the movie--were even willing to look beyond a few over-the-top CGI scenes--and left without thinking a heck of a lot about it.
The next day I saw an article about the new film titled: "Indiana Jones makes Russian Communists see red." The article describes how Russian Communist Party members condemned the film as as "crude, anti-Soviet propaganda that distorts history and called for it to be banned from Russian screens."
The article goes on to quote Communist Party member Viktor Perov as saying, "What galls is how together with America we defeated Hitler, and how we sympathized when Bin Laden hit them. But they go ahead and scare kids with Communists. These people have no shame." Another party member, Andrei Gindos states, "Harrison Ford and Cate Blanchett (are) second-rate actors, serving as the running dogs of the CIA. We need to deprive these people of the right of entering the country."
Now, part of me kind of laughs at this because this is clearly a fictional movie, using hyped up, stereotyped villains and subplots like all Indy films. So, you'd think that the Russians could just see the film and laugh it off for what it is, you know?
I'd like to think that the members of the communist party could go to the movie, get out and go to the local bar, pound some Vodka, slap each other on the back and laugh: You know, Comrade, we really had some good times with the Americans back then, didn't we? Remember good ol' nuclear proliferation? What a riot that was, huh? And man, the KGB--remember how we couldn't say anything about the current regime? Wow, that Indy film sure brought back some memories.
But no, they have to go and get offended by it.
I'm mostly joking here, because when you really think about it, their reaction is sort of understandable. I don't think too many Americans would like to have themselves depicted unfairly, running about U.S.S.R. looking for a weapon that would help us take over the world, destroying ancient ruins and Russian super heroes in the process. If roles were reversed, perhaps we might take offense (some of my Freedom Fry munching compatriots probably would, at the very least).
But this brings me to my point--and yes, there is one--what are the consequences of depicting another nationality as our enemy in our films? These days it seems hip to make (insert Muslim country here) our enemy in films, but is that appropriate? What does that do to further damage our relationship with those nations? And after we've healed our rift with the Middle East like we have with Russia, then what? Who will be the next enemy in our films?
Now that we are connected through the internet, through trade agreements, through travel and journalism, it is increasingly cringe-inducing to make some other nationality depicted as "The Enemy." Not only are there repercussions in our relationships with those nations, it's also really juvenile and over simplified. We the viewers buy into the same cliche stereotypes less and less now that we've traveled there, met coworkers from there, or read the latest New York Times bestselling novel that takes place there.
So in some way, the Russian Communist member's response, while a clear overreaction, also gives me a bit of hope. It seems that we've come to a place where there's a bit more accountability to how we portray other nationalities in the media, both in history and the present. In short, we have to be nice to each other if we want to get along.
It reminds me of being in third grade. I gossiped about about another friend of mine, only to have her find out and have her feelings bruised (as well as our friendship) as a result. We are now so inextricably linked internationally that we have a new responsibility to respect each other; to speak well of one another. I'm curious to see how this changes our political and cultural landscapes as a result.
And as for our film making--perhaps global warming will be the new enemy or some other human-induced natural destruction. Or maybe we're in for something fresh: unknown killer deep sea jelly fish that plan to take over the world, forcing us to unite and destroy their killer stinging tentacles.
Now that I'd pay 10 bucks for.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
A friend of mine--Melanie Abrams--just published a novel, Playing. I wrote a review on it, which will ultimately be published in MARY, a Saint Mary's College online magazine. I have a couple interviews published in there, but unfortunately they don't utilize Google's search engine optimization tools AT ALL, and it's impossible to find the magazine through Google. Not to mention the magazine's name is a little overdone--just try Googling MARY and see what comes up.
But, I digress. I'm super excited for Melanie who's been a great friend and literary support for me. So, here's the review I wrote:
But, I digress. I'm super excited for Melanie who's been a great friend and literary support for me. So, here's the review I wrote:
At first glance, it might appear that Melanie Abrams’ debut novel, Playing, revolves entirely around the subject of sexual games. The cover reveals a young woman tied with a teal sash, her blonde head bowed in submission, surrounded by a background of sumptuous satin. It’s seductive really, and yet it offers a warning for the potential reader: this book is not for the faint of heart.
Yet Playing’s appeal extends far deeper than its steamy bedroom scenes. This well-orchestrated novel centers on Josie, an anthropology graduate student in her twenties with an interest in burial rituals. An ethnography assignment leads to a placement in a first-grade classroom where Josie develops a relationship with Tyler, a six-year old boy with an obsession for counting and trivial facts. Tyler’s mother, Mary, offers Josie a live-in nanny position and Josie takes it—not because she needs it, but because of an inexplicable connection between her and Mary. But when Josie falls for Mary’s crush, Devesh, an Indian doctor ten years her senior, she embarks on a tumultuous journey of sexual domination that increasingly complicates her life as the lines blur between Mary’s family and her own.
It is this relational complexity, compounded with the protagonist’s inexplicable desires, that makes the novel so compelling. While the tension between Josie and Devesh is riveting, over half of the book takes place exploring the other equally important relationships in Josie’s life. Her relationships with Devesh, Tyler, and Mary all force Josie to look at how her childhood has shaped her, and to finally face the haunting memories of her past.
Abrams pursues these various narrative threads with brilliant pacing, razor-sharp language, and tightly wound suspense. As the story progresses, the reader ends up feeling much like the woman on the front cover: willingly tied to the page as Abrams maintains a tension that keeps us aroused, horrified, and enrapt. As Josie navigates through her relationships somewhat recklessly, at times both disgusted and excited by her experience, the reader feels a similar magnetic push and pull.
This is where Abrams is particularly daring—not only has she created an electric tension between the book’s characters; she creates a tension between the reader and the story itself.
Josie is not extremely likeable for much of the story. Though she is largely caring for the children she nannies, and her vulnerability is relatable as she falls in love; she is also deceptive, self-abusing, and at times apathetic, and her behavior becomes increasingly volatile as she unravels on the page. As Josie explores herself through her sexual relationship with Devesh, the reader wonders—almost frustrated at times—what motivates her need for such brutality, and how can she be redeemed? Yet just when you feel like you can’t stand the character, just when you feel like you can’t handle another violent act, Abrams expertly offers the necessary information that delivers the needed dose of compassion to keep you hanging on for the ride, breathless, unable to set the novel down.
In addition to the conflicted relationship with the protagonist, Playing presents several other edgy topics to wrestle with: sexual violence that beautifully entangles love and power, and the even more uncomfortable topics of childhood violence and sexuality. Abrams faces both unflinchingly while not veering at all into the sensational or melodramatic. This conflicted novel-reader relationship is not unlike the experience of reading Nabokov’s Lolita. The protagonist disturbs us and yet we continue on, compelled without reason, upending our own mores about what is right and allowed on the sexual playing field.
And yet, hopefully, the book ultimately cracks us open as well, expanding our minds about what love can and cannot contain. Though Abrams’ novel certainly makes bold strokes into the realm of erotica, its superb writing, deep characters, and plot complexity keep it solidly in the realm of literary fiction. The book has much more to offer than sordid bedroom scenes and cliché sadomasochistic representation. It offers an intimate view into the heart and mind of a woman who wants what society tells her she shouldn’t, a woman who must ultimately learn to love herself not on society’s terms, but on her own.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
There's an article circulating around called: Made in the USA: Spoiled Brats. It's been mistakenly attributed to Jay Leno, but was written by commentator Craig R. Smith. It talks about a poll that states that 67% of Americans are unhappy with with the direction the country is heading, and 69% are unhappy with the performance of the president. The article begins by asking what people are so unhappy about: their cars? the abundance of food? Their great education? And this, I feel is legitimate. A lot of Americans have no idea how blessed they are and how abundant their lives are. They are quick to complain about rather petty concerns without realizing how many people would die to live here--and do every day.
But then the writer goes on to lump ungrateful Americans (the spoiled brats) with political dissidents--basically, anyone who disagrees with the current president and the direction the nation is headed. This is an oversimplification. When people say they are unhappy with where the country is headed, it is not necessarily because they are ungrateful or unhappy with what they have. That would imply that people only think about the US in terms of their experience of living here, and not also in terms of the role we play internationally.
Let's take an example: I am very happy with my ability to have a car, but I'm not happy about the United States' role in global warming. And I know that our fuel consumption has lead to wars in the Middle East (let's be real about why we're really there; we knew they didn't attack us in Iraq, and there are horrible dictators in Africa that no one is complaining about or going to war over--what's the reward?). It's lead to rising global temperatures, and huge use of fresh water and materials to make our vehicles. And I also know that our president denied that global warming existed during his first term, and still refuses to abide by Kyoto protocols to this day. I know that he'd like to drill in pristine eco-preserves in Alaska instead of creating sweeping measures to switch to other energy sources.
Americans have a huge impact on the rest of the world--we're a super-power, essentially--and we have a responsibility to be a positive model for the rest of the world to follow. Many of us are disturbed by the huge drop in respect we've had globally, the anti-American sentiment that has nothing to do with our discontent and everything to do with our senseless wars, wasteful lives in the face of deep poverty, our ruthless border laws, our reckless consumption, and our rogue mentality.
This is why international citizens have "disdain" for American citizens, not because we don't like our president and are unhappy with where our nation is headed. I've traveled all over the world and spoken to people living in trash dump communities in the Philippines, single, starving women in Tijuana, and orphans begging on the street. I've also heard this from the wealthy elite around the world. I am not merely speculating--I know.
Smith's article ends with a rather disturbing call to arms:
This statement has haunting echoes of comments Bush made shortly after 9-11 which were that we should basically forget about what happened and get out and shop. Remember the shopping bag with the American flag posted everywhere? Here was an opportunity to reflect on what we have become as a nation, to reflect on how we want to respond to the terrorism, to talk with our neighbors and engage in creating a new nation. But instead we were encouraged to bury our heads in the sand and shop. To ignore what our government was doing and just get back to work and let them take care of it.
Smith's comment above does the same thing. We should, essentially, burn alternative media sources (I didn't see him tell us to turn off Fox news), and stop caring about what's going on. While I believe in positivity and gratitude, but I don't support chosen ignorance. A balance must be made.
We live in a nation whose choices have a huge footprint on the rest of the world, politically, socially, and environmentally. Unfortunately we don't have the choice to be disengaged. We don't have the option to stick our heads in the sand, and we do a great disservice to the world if we go down that path. Instead we need to choose the path of educated engagement while coming from a place of gratitude for all that we have.
Ultimately, I hope Smith--and those who think like him--would open their minds to another, greater possibility. Many of us are deeply grateful for what we have in this country, but we don't feel that we should have it at the expense of others. I think that those of us who are unhappy with where the country is headed are unhappy because we don't need America to be better for ourselves, we need America to be better for the world.
But then the writer goes on to lump ungrateful Americans (the spoiled brats) with political dissidents--basically, anyone who disagrees with the current president and the direction the nation is headed. This is an oversimplification. When people say they are unhappy with where the country is headed, it is not necessarily because they are ungrateful or unhappy with what they have. That would imply that people only think about the US in terms of their experience of living here, and not also in terms of the role we play internationally.
Let's take an example: I am very happy with my ability to have a car, but I'm not happy about the United States' role in global warming. And I know that our fuel consumption has lead to wars in the Middle East (let's be real about why we're really there; we knew they didn't attack us in Iraq, and there are horrible dictators in Africa that no one is complaining about or going to war over--what's the reward?). It's lead to rising global temperatures, and huge use of fresh water and materials to make our vehicles. And I also know that our president denied that global warming existed during his first term, and still refuses to abide by Kyoto protocols to this day. I know that he'd like to drill in pristine eco-preserves in Alaska instead of creating sweeping measures to switch to other energy sources.
Americans have a huge impact on the rest of the world--we're a super-power, essentially--and we have a responsibility to be a positive model for the rest of the world to follow. Many of us are disturbed by the huge drop in respect we've had globally, the anti-American sentiment that has nothing to do with our discontent and everything to do with our senseless wars, wasteful lives in the face of deep poverty, our ruthless border laws, our reckless consumption, and our rogue mentality.
This is why international citizens have "disdain" for American citizens, not because we don't like our president and are unhappy with where our nation is headed. I've traveled all over the world and spoken to people living in trash dump communities in the Philippines, single, starving women in Tijuana, and orphans begging on the street. I've also heard this from the wealthy elite around the world. I am not merely speculating--I know.
Smith's article ends with a rather disturbing call to arms:
Stop buying the negative venom you are fed everyday by the media. Shut off the TV, burn Newsweek, and use the New York Times for the bottom of your bird cage. Then start being grateful for all we have as a country. There is exponentially more good than bad.
This statement has haunting echoes of comments Bush made shortly after 9-11 which were that we should basically forget about what happened and get out and shop. Remember the shopping bag with the American flag posted everywhere? Here was an opportunity to reflect on what we have become as a nation, to reflect on how we want to respond to the terrorism, to talk with our neighbors and engage in creating a new nation. But instead we were encouraged to bury our heads in the sand and shop. To ignore what our government was doing and just get back to work and let them take care of it.
Smith's comment above does the same thing. We should, essentially, burn alternative media sources (I didn't see him tell us to turn off Fox news), and stop caring about what's going on. While I believe in positivity and gratitude, but I don't support chosen ignorance. A balance must be made.
We live in a nation whose choices have a huge footprint on the rest of the world, politically, socially, and environmentally. Unfortunately we don't have the choice to be disengaged. We don't have the option to stick our heads in the sand, and we do a great disservice to the world if we go down that path. Instead we need to choose the path of educated engagement while coming from a place of gratitude for all that we have.
Ultimately, I hope Smith--and those who think like him--would open their minds to another, greater possibility. Many of us are deeply grateful for what we have in this country, but we don't feel that we should have it at the expense of others. I think that those of us who are unhappy with where the country is headed are unhappy because we don't need America to be better for ourselves, we need America to be better for the world.
The Denver Rally was incredible yesterday, though I understand it was also bittersweet with so many who were not able to attend. Who knew there would be such an incredible turnout? And then there were so many who wanted to come but turned away or never drove out in the first place because of prior commitments, jobs, or the travel distance.
After the incredible talks--both at the rally and at the precinct captain strategy meeting afterwards, my friends and I sat around talking about our experience and feelings. We were all so "fired up" after hearing Barack's message of hope, change, and unity. My boyfriend and I mentioned we might attend Bill Clinton's rally later that evening, just to check him out and compare. We're committed Obama supporters, but also committed Democrats that feel we are responsible to listen to both candidates. We were also just curious what it would be like in contrast to the Obama rally.
"Besides," my partner said, "Bill Clinton is one of my personal heroes."
Our friend shook his head. "You know, he's one of mine too," he said, "But I wouldn't want to hear him speak right now, not at this time, not in this context."
I thought this was a fascinating comment that shed an interesting light on the "Billary" Campaign. No bones about it, if we elected Hillary, we'd be electing Bill back into office as well. But what does that mean about our progress as a nation? What does that say about the kind of America we're trying to create?
I read a few excerpts from Clinton's speech last night, and this one struck me deeply:
"If you vote for HIllary, she will send the world a very different message about America," Clinton said. "She will say, 'We're back'."
I find this--a comment that literally made me shudder--such a different tone to a comment Obama made in his speech at the rally. He spoke about how America used to be a country that people looked up to, that people admired, and that if he's elected as the presidential candidate we can say: America is Back.
This comment inspired us so much. We used to live in a nation we were proud of. But now, (and I especially experience this as a world traveler) I feel such shame of who we've become: a rogue, bully nation with a crippled economy. I want to be proud of my nation again, proud of what we stand for and how we interact with the rest of the world. I want to be an example of what to do, not what to avoid.
That's partly what makes him so appealing. The Clintons focus on how THEY are coming back, and Barack focuses on how America is coming back, how Americans are voting for a new nation, not just a new leader. I think that's huge. It says volumes about the Clinton dynasty of the past, and volumes about the new leadership possibility of the future.
After the incredible talks--both at the rally and at the precinct captain strategy meeting afterwards, my friends and I sat around talking about our experience and feelings. We were all so "fired up" after hearing Barack's message of hope, change, and unity. My boyfriend and I mentioned we might attend Bill Clinton's rally later that evening, just to check him out and compare. We're committed Obama supporters, but also committed Democrats that feel we are responsible to listen to both candidates. We were also just curious what it would be like in contrast to the Obama rally.
"Besides," my partner said, "Bill Clinton is one of my personal heroes."
Our friend shook his head. "You know, he's one of mine too," he said, "But I wouldn't want to hear him speak right now, not at this time, not in this context."
I thought this was a fascinating comment that shed an interesting light on the "Billary" Campaign. No bones about it, if we elected Hillary, we'd be electing Bill back into office as well. But what does that mean about our progress as a nation? What does that say about the kind of America we're trying to create?
I read a few excerpts from Clinton's speech last night, and this one struck me deeply:
"If you vote for HIllary, she will send the world a very different message about America," Clinton said. "She will say, 'We're back'."
I find this--a comment that literally made me shudder--such a different tone to a comment Obama made in his speech at the rally. He spoke about how America used to be a country that people looked up to, that people admired, and that if he's elected as the presidential candidate we can say: America is Back.
This comment inspired us so much. We used to live in a nation we were proud of. But now, (and I especially experience this as a world traveler) I feel such shame of who we've become: a rogue, bully nation with a crippled economy. I want to be proud of my nation again, proud of what we stand for and how we interact with the rest of the world. I want to be an example of what to do, not what to avoid.
That's partly what makes him so appealing. The Clintons focus on how THEY are coming back, and Barack focuses on how America is coming back, how Americans are voting for a new nation, not just a new leader. I think that's huge. It says volumes about the Clinton dynasty of the past, and volumes about the new leadership possibility of the future.
Okay, so I'm writing a lot about Obama lately. Well, he's inspired me. So, I'm going to caucus training on Wednesday, and then I've got to get in gear and start calling my precinct folks. Apparently I just have to call and try this script out, which I like alright:
1. I tell them I'm doing a survey and ask who they're voting for in the next election.
2. If they say anyone besides Obama, I tell them I'll make a note of it and thank them for their time.
3. If they say Obama, then I ask them to come to the caucus and give them the time and information that they need.
Then, I show up on caucus day and help get other voters excited about Obama and into our camp.
It's a strangely arbitrary electoral process, but fascinating as well. What I'm loving most about this campaign is learning about the election on every level. It's fascinating. I've never felt so in the loop before.
There's a slight possibility I might try to become a delegate. I hear you may have to campaign for it, but if it's light campaigning (like going door to door to introduce myself) then I just might do it. We'll see. My friend Kara is getting excited about helping too, and I'm just fascinated by the process and the power of politics.
Anyway--it's fun! Get involved. Now that I am, I'm amazed at how much we take our personal power for granted. I wish I'd known just how involved I could be long ago.
1. I tell them I'm doing a survey and ask who they're voting for in the next election.
2. If they say anyone besides Obama, I tell them I'll make a note of it and thank them for their time.
3. If they say Obama, then I ask them to come to the caucus and give them the time and information that they need.
Then, I show up on caucus day and help get other voters excited about Obama and into our camp.
It's a strangely arbitrary electoral process, but fascinating as well. What I'm loving most about this campaign is learning about the election on every level. It's fascinating. I've never felt so in the loop before.
There's a slight possibility I might try to become a delegate. I hear you may have to campaign for it, but if it's light campaigning (like going door to door to introduce myself) then I just might do it. We'll see. My friend Kara is getting excited about helping too, and I'm just fascinated by the process and the power of politics.
Anyway--it's fun! Get involved. Now that I am, I'm amazed at how much we take our personal power for granted. I wish I'd known just how involved I could be long ago.
Matt and I went out to the Denver Diner (one of the select few establishments open 24 hours) around 1am Sat night/ Sunday morning. Somehow the topic rolled around to the presidential campaign, which it tends to do often, these days. One of my friends believed that Obama didn't have what it took to be the next president. Her argument was that it would come down to two things: money--of which she believed Clinton had an endless supply, and experience--of which Clinton may have had arguably more.
As for experience, Abraham Lincoln--considered by many historians as one of the 3 greatest presidents of all time--only served in national politics for one (two year) term in Congress before running for president. His experience? Law (same as Obama) and 4 terms in the House of Reps, totaling 8 years. On a side note, those top three presidents are usually George Washington, Lincoln, and FDR.
As for financing, Obama has proven he can keep up with Hilary as well. He had an immense victory in Iowa, almost a tie in New Hampshire where people had recently said he didn't have a chance, and he's continuing to go strong and gain financial and political support. Every day I read more and more accounts of politicians who have dropped out (Kucinich) and cast their votes to Obama, as well as labor unions and other large political factions that are rallying behind Obama. He inspires us, and after 7 years of desperation, inspiration is a very important thing.
My point, however, is not that Obama will win--though I really hope he does--it's that it's still up in the air. It's going to (at least from this vantage point) be a fight to the finish.
But most importantly, I just hope this doesn't end being a huge dividing factor for Democrats. Because the fact is, we have two stellar candidates, both of whom represent a real evolution in American politics: a white woman, and a man of African American descent. Both are fairly environmentally concerned, both are focused on mending our international bridges, and both are concerned about ending the wars in the Middle East and getting our economic state more stable. Honestly, I'm thrilled. So, while I'm big time in the Obama camp, and far more inspired by him: his energy, what he stands for, his vision, his political strategy, I say we're truly fortunate this year to have two very worthy candidates. So--game on.
As for experience, Abraham Lincoln--considered by many historians as one of the 3 greatest presidents of all time--only served in national politics for one (two year) term in Congress before running for president. His experience? Law (same as Obama) and 4 terms in the House of Reps, totaling 8 years. On a side note, those top three presidents are usually George Washington, Lincoln, and FDR.
As for financing, Obama has proven he can keep up with Hilary as well. He had an immense victory in Iowa, almost a tie in New Hampshire where people had recently said he didn't have a chance, and he's continuing to go strong and gain financial and political support. Every day I read more and more accounts of politicians who have dropped out (Kucinich) and cast their votes to Obama, as well as labor unions and other large political factions that are rallying behind Obama. He inspires us, and after 7 years of desperation, inspiration is a very important thing.
My point, however, is not that Obama will win--though I really hope he does--it's that it's still up in the air. It's going to (at least from this vantage point) be a fight to the finish.
But most importantly, I just hope this doesn't end being a huge dividing factor for Democrats. Because the fact is, we have two stellar candidates, both of whom represent a real evolution in American politics: a white woman, and a man of African American descent. Both are fairly environmentally concerned, both are focused on mending our international bridges, and both are concerned about ending the wars in the Middle East and getting our economic state more stable. Honestly, I'm thrilled. So, while I'm big time in the Obama camp, and far more inspired by him: his energy, what he stands for, his vision, his political strategy, I say we're truly fortunate this year to have two very worthy candidates. So--game on.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
I am crazy, crazy, crazy about Barack Obama. My boyfriend Matt and I go onto his website every couple days and watch videos of his speeches and blurbs about his stances on various topics.
I read a recent New York Times Op-Ed article about the Obama Phenomenon. Basically, Obama has been blowing away the skeptics with his message of hope, unity, and change. At first many of those skeptics thought Obama's message was naive and fanciful. But now--just look at what happened in Iowa. A mid-western state full of mostly-white people turned out to vote for Obama, a black candidate with a Muslim name and only four years as a senator under his belt. It's unbelievable.
Obama's creating something new that I'm totally enamored with: a political campaign of unity and positivity. He's encouraging politicians to speak positively to each other, to not get caught up in mud-slinging. He's concerned about the environment, health care, and mending broken ties with other countries. He sounds and feels authentic, real, passionate, and alive--a great mix of JFK and MLK Jr. We need a leader like Barack after the last seven years. It's so refreshing from the rhetoric of us versus them, good versus evil, that I've heard for the last seven, painful, years.
So now I'm more inspired about the political scene than I have been in years. Like so many other young people that Obama has inspired, I've decided to get more involved in politics myself. I volunteered to be our precinct captain, and I'm excited to caucus on Feb. 5th as well. I'll also be--if I'm in the country--volunteering at the Democratic National Convention here in Denver in August. I can't wait. More than anything, I'm just excited to believe in something again, to be moved by a leader my generation has never seen, but has desperately needed.
I'll end with this great quote from the NY Times article I mentioned above:
Obama '08!
Get out and caucus for your candidate this year! Just go to their website and contact a local volunteer.
I read a recent New York Times Op-Ed article about the Obama Phenomenon. Basically, Obama has been blowing away the skeptics with his message of hope, unity, and change. At first many of those skeptics thought Obama's message was naive and fanciful. But now--just look at what happened in Iowa. A mid-western state full of mostly-white people turned out to vote for Obama, a black candidate with a Muslim name and only four years as a senator under his belt. It's unbelievable.
Obama's creating something new that I'm totally enamored with: a political campaign of unity and positivity. He's encouraging politicians to speak positively to each other, to not get caught up in mud-slinging. He's concerned about the environment, health care, and mending broken ties with other countries. He sounds and feels authentic, real, passionate, and alive--a great mix of JFK and MLK Jr. We need a leader like Barack after the last seven years. It's so refreshing from the rhetoric of us versus them, good versus evil, that I've heard for the last seven, painful, years.
So now I'm more inspired about the political scene than I have been in years. Like so many other young people that Obama has inspired, I've decided to get more involved in politics myself. I volunteered to be our precinct captain, and I'm excited to caucus on Feb. 5th as well. I'll also be--if I'm in the country--volunteering at the Democratic National Convention here in Denver in August. I can't wait. More than anything, I'm just excited to believe in something again, to be moved by a leader my generation has never seen, but has desperately needed.
I'll end with this great quote from the NY Times article I mentioned above:
However this election turns out, Mr. Obama can be credited with a great achievement. He has drawn tons of people, and especially young people, into the political process. More than anyone else, he has re-energized that process and put some of the fun back into politics. And he’s done it by appealing openly and consistently to the best, rather than the worst, in us.
Obama '08!
Get out and caucus for your candidate this year! Just go to their website and contact a local volunteer.
Well, it's ironic that my last real blog entry was about writing nonfiction--and in particular about the "joys" of it. Right about the time I wrote my last entry, I began to really struggle with my decision to write my book about the Philippines. I was having a grand ol' time writing about my previous three trips, but when it came time to write about my most recent experience there, I hit a wall. A big wall. A big, brick, solid wall. And that's how I broke my nose.
Seriously though (I only broke it metaphorically)...I struggled with writing about my experience so much that I began to hate writing, to despise it actually. Usually I enjoy writing in my voice, I get a kick out of relating an event and putting my own particular spin on it, but this time I felt like I was pushing it, like I was prematurely giving birth, and the story just wasn't ready to be born.
I began to agonize over my decision: Do I write this book about the Philippines, or do I work on an entirely different book, one I've been wanting to write for almost two years? The one I've been wanting to write is young adult fiction, quite a stretch from my two year master's degree in nonfiction, in addition to my half a year researching a nonfiction book in the Philippine rice terraces.
Well, here's what I decided. I'm not ready to write my book about the Philippines. And while I won't push my personal writing agenda onto other people, I will say that I think a book needs to be written with some distance from a topic or event, and I don't feel I have enough yet. While there is a freshness in the writing of a just-experienced event, I have to wonder: has the writer had time to discover the meaning of the event or series of events? Has the writer had time to discover which moments were most important to the over-arcing theme to be conveyed?
I decided that I could relate the entirety of my five months in the Philippines, but how would I pick and choose the important moments to relate if I didn't know the overall idea I was trying to get across, if I didn't have some distance from the experience to have a larger vision of that time of my life? I want to have some wisdom when I convey a story, some perspective. I think that's what makes nonfiction compelling for me--the double layer. The story, and the perspective on it, the wisdom gained.
But more importantly, I wasn't enjoying myself. And writing, while often a struggle, must at some level be a joy. Otherwise, why sacrifice the stable paycheck? Why risk spending years writing a novel/memoir that may never be published? Writing must be a joy in and of itself, and if I'm not enjoying myself at all, then I will never keep the momentum and discipline I need to finish the book.
So...now, onto some young adult fiction. I'm working on this novel I'm totally excited about, it's almost completely outlined (well, the first one is outlined, but the other two to follow are the ones I haven't finished yet), and I'm enjoying myself in the process. I felt a little weird delving head-on into fiction after so much nonfiction training, but ultimately, I went to school to be a better writer. And as long as I love what I'm doing and feel like it's meaningful for me, isn't that all that matters?
Seriously though (I only broke it metaphorically)...I struggled with writing about my experience so much that I began to hate writing, to despise it actually. Usually I enjoy writing in my voice, I get a kick out of relating an event and putting my own particular spin on it, but this time I felt like I was pushing it, like I was prematurely giving birth, and the story just wasn't ready to be born.
I began to agonize over my decision: Do I write this book about the Philippines, or do I work on an entirely different book, one I've been wanting to write for almost two years? The one I've been wanting to write is young adult fiction, quite a stretch from my two year master's degree in nonfiction, in addition to my half a year researching a nonfiction book in the Philippine rice terraces.
Well, here's what I decided. I'm not ready to write my book about the Philippines. And while I won't push my personal writing agenda onto other people, I will say that I think a book needs to be written with some distance from a topic or event, and I don't feel I have enough yet. While there is a freshness in the writing of a just-experienced event, I have to wonder: has the writer had time to discover the meaning of the event or series of events? Has the writer had time to discover which moments were most important to the over-arcing theme to be conveyed?
I decided that I could relate the entirety of my five months in the Philippines, but how would I pick and choose the important moments to relate if I didn't know the overall idea I was trying to get across, if I didn't have some distance from the experience to have a larger vision of that time of my life? I want to have some wisdom when I convey a story, some perspective. I think that's what makes nonfiction compelling for me--the double layer. The story, and the perspective on it, the wisdom gained.
But more importantly, I wasn't enjoying myself. And writing, while often a struggle, must at some level be a joy. Otherwise, why sacrifice the stable paycheck? Why risk spending years writing a novel/memoir that may never be published? Writing must be a joy in and of itself, and if I'm not enjoying myself at all, then I will never keep the momentum and discipline I need to finish the book.
So...now, onto some young adult fiction. I'm working on this novel I'm totally excited about, it's almost completely outlined (well, the first one is outlined, but the other two to follow are the ones I haven't finished yet), and I'm enjoying myself in the process. I felt a little weird delving head-on into fiction after so much nonfiction training, but ultimately, I went to school to be a better writer. And as long as I love what I'm doing and feel like it's meaningful for me, isn't that all that matters?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
What is creative nonfiction? To use a definition from a creative nonfiction website, it is:
Essentially, creative nonfiction uses literary skills to tell a true story. This is different from narrative or literary journalism--which uses narrative techniques to report--and from research nonfiction, which is more concerned with presenting accurate research, and not quite as interested in capturing the reader's interest with a story.
Some examples of narrative nonfiction writers: Joan Didion's Slouching towards Bethlehem, Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and a few recent and controversial books: Augusten Burroughs' Running with Scissors and James Frey's A Million Little Pieces.
Having written both fiction and nonfiction, I find that nonfiction is much more difficult for me. True, you skip the challenge of creating characters, a plot, and a narrative arc (plot points that lead to a climax and then a resolution) all on your own. You do, to some extent, have your characters, your plot, your scenes, your back story already in place. Easy right? I wish.
I think writing a book is like having sex with your reader. The narrative constantly needs moments of tension that build intrigue, and ultimately lead towards an exciting climax and a satisfying resolution. In fiction, a writer can manufacture this. Need some witty dialog? Make it up? Suddenly realize that the protagonist needs to have some kind of phobia of skyscrapers? Go for it!
In nonfiction however, we must work with the awkward tools that we have to construct a good story. And those awkward tools come from our memory...not always the most reliable resource. Can anyone ever remember exactly what someone else said even ten minutes ago without taking notes or recording dialog? How then, do we write an honest story without boring the reader? The most honest story would be a listed narrative: Well this happened, I think, and this happened, I'm pretty sure, and then I think she said this, but I could be wrong...
But no, we must write definitively; we must write with bold strokes; we must choose a color for the front door, even if we can't remember it. And then we get into the important issue of honest writing, and this is where James Frey and Augusten Burroughs get us into trouble with their sensationalist memoirs. So, the question is, how do we negotiate being honest with being a good story teller?
More on this soon.
Dramatic, true stories using scenes, dialogue, close, detailed descriptions and other techniques usually employed by poets and fiction writers about important subjects - from politics, to economics, to sports, to the arts and sciences, to racial relations, and family relations.
Essentially, creative nonfiction uses literary skills to tell a true story. This is different from narrative or literary journalism--which uses narrative techniques to report--and from research nonfiction, which is more concerned with presenting accurate research, and not quite as interested in capturing the reader's interest with a story.
Some examples of narrative nonfiction writers: Joan Didion's Slouching towards Bethlehem, Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and a few recent and controversial books: Augusten Burroughs' Running with Scissors and James Frey's A Million Little Pieces.
Having written both fiction and nonfiction, I find that nonfiction is much more difficult for me. True, you skip the challenge of creating characters, a plot, and a narrative arc (plot points that lead to a climax and then a resolution) all on your own. You do, to some extent, have your characters, your plot, your scenes, your back story already in place. Easy right? I wish.
I think writing a book is like having sex with your reader. The narrative constantly needs moments of tension that build intrigue, and ultimately lead towards an exciting climax and a satisfying resolution. In fiction, a writer can manufacture this. Need some witty dialog? Make it up? Suddenly realize that the protagonist needs to have some kind of phobia of skyscrapers? Go for it!
In nonfiction however, we must work with the awkward tools that we have to construct a good story. And those awkward tools come from our memory...not always the most reliable resource. Can anyone ever remember exactly what someone else said even ten minutes ago without taking notes or recording dialog? How then, do we write an honest story without boring the reader? The most honest story would be a listed narrative: Well this happened, I think, and this happened, I'm pretty sure, and then I think she said this, but I could be wrong...
But no, we must write definitively; we must write with bold strokes; we must choose a color for the front door, even if we can't remember it. And then we get into the important issue of honest writing, and this is where James Frey and Augusten Burroughs get us into trouble with their sensationalist memoirs. So, the question is, how do we negotiate being honest with being a good story teller?
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Matt and I just traveled to Iowa last week to attend the funeral of his 29-year-old brother-in-law, Gavin Granneman. We just rode across Iowa in RAGBRAI with him a few weeks ago, and we're all devastated by his loss. He was killed in a car accident, along with three other friends, on the way home from a football game on September 15th.I had a great time with him over the course of RAGBRAI; he was one of the most vivacious, gutsy, and wild characters I've ever met. But he was also really loving and understanding too. We talked about our numb hands and sore asses quite a bit more than I'd like to admit.
Matt and I had an amazing time over our past week in Iowa. The Granneman family amazed us both with their strength and emotional honesty. The service was inspiring, uplifting, and even funny at times: I mean, the pastor used the word "cheese-tastic" in the sermon--isn't that great? Over 800 people attended both the visitation and the funeral.
I remember being at the visitation with slide shows, pictures, letters, and lots of people. I walked over to the stand where Gavin's ashes had been placed. I walked over to one side where his bike had been propped against a stand and that's when I started to cry. I touched the seat and the handlebars which I'd seen him resting on for seven days. To me, this bike was an extension of Gavin, like his legs or arms. It hit me then--what we'd lost. How impossible it was. How goddamn painful.
One of the best parts of this whole experience has been Gavin's friends who graced the Granneman home all last week (and apparently many times when Gavin's parents were out of town). They regaled us with hilarious stories about Gavin's adventures and kind gestures--stories that helped us all get to know Gavin more completely. They even made a website, called "Hey Gavin" on myspace.
One thing I really took from Gavin's life was a story that his father, Terry, shared with us.
One day Gavin, just 9 or 10, went roller-blading with his older brother Jamie, about 16 or 17 at the time. Gavin took them to a spot that had a railing and several long sets of stairs. Gavin took some time to explain to Jamie how to jump the stairs so he wouldn't injure himself. He explained that Jamie had to get up a bunch of speed to jump the stairs and that he had to clear all of them to make it.
"You got to go big, or go home," he said to Jamie.
Jamie, a bit nervous, skated back from the stairs, got up speed and jumped the stairs. He made it.
Gavin cheered Jamie on, then skated back a little farther to get even more speed. Then he skated fast, picking up speed, and approached the stairs.
Then--not only did Gavin make it over the stairs--he jumped over the stairs, made a complete turn in the air, cleared the railing between the stairs, and landed backwards on his roller-blades--smooth as can be.
Go big, or go home.
Gavin, you'll be missed.
I recently learned about a group of Filipino inmates who did a cover of Thriller. While I checked out the website, I came upon the Indian version of Thriller, with hilarious English subtitles. You have to check this out:
And if you absolutely can't help yourself (as I couldn't) check out the chipmunk version as well...
And if you absolutely can't help yourself (as I couldn't) check out the chipmunk version as well...
I've recently become enamored with a phenomenon in a Philippines prison. According to an article on CNN, a prison overseer in a Cebu decided to make dancing mandatory for the inmates. If a prisoner refused to dance, he lost valued privileges--conjugal visits, for one. As a result, they've not only choreographed and filmed several music videos, one of which is a cover ofThriller, they've reduced violence in the prison compound as well.
But that's not all. A lot of the prisoners have regained confidence from themselves as a result. Check out a couple of these comments from the article:
And then there's my favorite:
Apparently violence hasn't broken out in their prison in a year and a half, which is amazing when you consider that, according the the prison overseer, it used to break out once a week.
Byron Garcia, the overseer, said, "We don't have dumbbells here. We don't have weights. We have dancing. These men learned they can dance and still be men. It makes them work together, it makes them exercise and they learn self-esteem."
He continued, "They no longer feel like lowly criminals." A smile [broke] his face, "Now," he says, "they feel like celebrity criminals."
Check out their video here, which has gotten over 6 million hits on the internet.
You'll probably notice quickly that the "woman" is played by Wenjiell Resane, a transvestite and accused meth dealer. I think she's better than the original actress.
You gotta love it.
But that's not all. A lot of the prisoners have regained confidence from themselves as a result. Check out a couple of these comments from the article:
Leo Suico, who's accused of mass murder, says dancing means "we don't think of bad things." Fighting back tears, he says the experience has taught him "love" -- pure and simple.
That sentiment is echoed by other prisoners, including Wenjiell Resane. An accused methamphetamine dealer and self-described "she-male," Resane shares a single prison cell with a dozen transsexuals. She has been waiting three years for trial.
Resane is the star of the "Thriller" video in which more than 1,000 other prisoners took part.
"I tried being a performer before, but no one took any notice," Resane says with the mock bashfulness of the practiced celebrity. "Now, in jail, I have become a star."
And then there's my favorite:
The Michael Jackson role is performed with flair by 36-year-old Crisanto Niere, an accused crack dealer who has been waiting five years for trial.
He loves the dancing and laughs at his unlikely fame, but says the video has brought him a reward he once thought would be forever beyond his reach. His son, Christopher, has only known him as a prison inmate.
"He used to be so ashamed of me," says Niere. "Now when he goes to school, he tells everyone the dancer on the Internet is his father."
He adds, "It makes me proud that my son is proud of me."
Apparently violence hasn't broken out in their prison in a year and a half, which is amazing when you consider that, according the the prison overseer, it used to break out once a week.
Byron Garcia, the overseer, said, "We don't have dumbbells here. We don't have weights. We have dancing. These men learned they can dance and still be men. It makes them work together, it makes them exercise and they learn self-esteem."
He continued, "They no longer feel like lowly criminals." A smile [broke] his face, "Now," he says, "they feel like celebrity criminals."
Check out their video here, which has gotten over 6 million hits on the internet.
You'll probably notice quickly that the "woman" is played by Wenjiell Resane, a transvestite and accused meth dealer. I think she's better than the original actress.
You gotta love it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Some interesting, and semi-devastating, articles on global warming just popped up that make the global warming epidemic a far more present reality.
First off, in a Discovery News article, the National Snow and Ice Data Center reported that there is less sea ice than ever on record, and that the melting is continuing. Satellite measurements showed 2.02 million squares of ice in the Arctic, down from the 2.05 million square miles recorded in September 2005.
First off, in a Discovery News article, the National Snow and Ice Data Center reported that there is less sea ice than ever on record, and that the melting is continuing. Satellite measurements showed 2.02 million squares of ice in the Arctic, down from the 2.05 million square miles recorded in September 2005.
This May 18, 2006 photo shows walruses on an ice flow in the northern Bering Sea off of Alaska.
So, what’s the big deal? Why is Arctic ice so important? Well, sea ice in the Arctic helps keep regions cool by reflecting sunlight that might be absorbed by darker land or ocean surfaces. The article states that “exposed to direct sun…instead of reflecting 80 percent of the sunlight, the ocean absorbs 90 percent. That causes the ocean to heat up and raises Arctic temperatures.”
Unusually hot and clear weather up in the Arctic has resulted in a large amount of solar energy in the region, which has sped up the melting process as well. For the skeptics out there, Mark Serreze, a senior research scientist, stated that while some natural variability is expected, "we simply can't explain everything through natural processes."
"It is very strong evidence that we are starting to see an effect of greenhouse warming," he said.
He then goes on to state another interesting, and concerning point. “The puzzling thing,” he said, “Is that the melting is occurring faster than the climate models have predicted.”
Several years ago, he would have predicted a complete melt of Arctic sea ice in the summer sometime around 2070 or 2100. But at the current rate, a complete melt could happen by 2030.
That’s twenty years. Yes, there still will be ice in the winter, but it will be gone in the summer. And what does that mean? Besides a myriad of apocalyptic possibilities, let’s keep it simple for the sake of this blog.
No ice in the summer means rising sea levels engulfing our coastlines.
And if you don’t take that seriously, perhaps you will once you learn this: insurance companies in the United States will no longer insure homes in at-risk areas for flooding from global warming. Even insurance companies are taking global warming seriously folks. Now that's saying something.
Thinking of moving to Miami? Don't expect any home insurance there...
But perhaps you still think that’s no big deal—we just need to move those folks move away from the coastline, right? Well, that might be kind of difficult considering that eighty percent of the world’s population lives less than thirty miles from the coastline. I can’t imagine that relocating five billion people would be all that easy.
Kind of makes me happy I moved to Denver…
But all this information does beg, and I mean beg, a very important question: at what point do we actually do something about it?
For more on how urban planners are responding to this, check out this article.
Both photos were taken from the original articles.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Picture this: You’re sitting in a hot spring in the middle of August, and it’s night. Because you’re so far from any city, the stars above you are vivid against the night sky. There are so many, in fact, that you can hardly make out any constellations besides the Big Dipper.
You’re leaning against the rocks that jut out of the hot water as a group of people begin to sing…Christmas carols. Turns out they’re an opera choir from Denver and they’re performing in a small nearby town the next day. They sound incredible.
It’s also a new moon, and there’s a meteor shower. You lay there, in the steaming water, a little heady from the heat, as a choir sings “Carol of the Bells,” and so many meteors pass through the night sky that you run out of wishes. In that moment, what’s there left to wish for?
You’re leaning against the rocks that jut out of the hot water as a group of people begin to sing…Christmas carols. Turns out they’re an opera choir from Denver and they’re performing in a small nearby town the next day. They sound incredible.
It’s also a new moon, and there’s a meteor shower. You lay there, in the steaming water, a little heady from the heat, as a choir sings “Carol of the Bells,” and so many meteors pass through the night sky that you run out of wishes. In that moment, what’s there left to wish for?
Matt and I went up to Strawberry Hot Springs just over a week ago. If you live in Colorado and you haven’t been there, you must go. We stayed in a covered wagon that we think was an actual wagon updated with some fresh canvas and other accoutrements. 
The WagonThe landscape is beautiful, with aspens and evergreen trees covering the mountain slopes. Anyway, we had a wonderful time there, though I’d definitely say that the private operatic performance during a meteor shower will go down as one of the most sublime moments of my life.
Friday, August 10, 2007
I’ve been keeping up to date with the trial for Julia Campbell’s murderer in the Philippines. Apparently Juan Duntugan’s lawyer was fined P100 for skipping the hearing. Not only that, but the man who originally confessed to her murder, Juan Duntugan, now pleads not guilty. Part of me would like to move on from the whole event, but I had an encounter during the last few weeks of my time in Banaue that has haunted me since. I didn’t feel safe writing about while in the country, and I’m not quite sure what to do with it now.
Duntugan’s original story didn’t make any sense. He claimed that he was hiking along one of Batad’s narrow trails and Julia “bumped” into him from behind. He says that he thought Julia was a long-standing enemy of his and, infuriated, he turned around and began to beat Julia and didn’t realize it was a white American woman until it was too late.
Unless Duntugan was under the influence of completely mind-altering drugs, than what he says doesn’t make sense. Julia was a 5’7, Caucasian blonde. Most Ifugao men are significantly shorter than that. As a 5’7 woman myself, I usually towered over the locals, especially in Batad which is about an hour-long bumpy ride from Banaue, but far more rural and un-developed. Juan’s enemy would have been a man most likely under 5’5, with very dark skin and black hair. How could anyone turn around and bludgeon someone to death without noticing that difference? It makes no sense.
Sometime shortly after Julia’s death, I was hanging out with Adam—my neighbor in Banaue and a Peace Corps Volunteer—down in Manila. He looked at his cell phone after receiving a text and gave me a strange look.
“I just got a weird message from Johnny,” he said. Johnny was a man we knew back in Banaue. “He says that he knows the real story behind what happened to Julia. He says that the Duntugan has been lying to the media. He says when I get back to Banaue, he’ll tell me.”
We both thought the message was a bit strange, but figured Johnny had heard some gossip and wanted to pass it on—a common occurrence in our region. The Peace Corps had warned Adam not to trust the escalating levels of gossip about the murder, so we didn’t think much more of it. Adam would never see Johnny again after Julia’s murder, because for safety reasons, the Peace Corps wouldn’t allow him more than a one-day excursion to pack his things and leave the region. When I returned there some time later, I only stayed for a few days here and there in between other travels. I didn’t think I’d see Johnny again.
Well, my last week in Banaue, I walked around the town to say goodbye to the people I knew. After I walked through the local market I ran into Johnny, whose wife sold produce at a stall. I sat down on the concrete next to him while he sorted through a large bag of potatoes.
Never one for small talk, Johnny asked me why Adam hadn’t returned to Banaue. I explained that the Peace Corps had kept him away for safety reasons. He scratched his chin and shook his head. “What happened to that girl…it is bad. I had a feeling he might not come back because of it.” He turned and leaned toward me, “You know, I told Adam that I knew the real story about what happened to Julia. I talked to Duntugan’s father a little while ago. He is a relative of mine. Duntugan went and stayed with his father at one point while he was hiding, until his father made him turn himself in. His father and I were talking the other day and he told me that Juan isn’t telling the truth.”
My interest piqued, so I figured I’d stay and listen to what Johnny had to say. This is the “real” story that Johnny proceeded to tell:
Juan and his wife own the small restaurant (canteen) where Julia was last seen drinking a coke. Juan had gone into Banaue either on the day before Easter or Easter Sunday (Johnny didn’t say) to buy supplies for their restaurant. Instead he’d gotten drunk and gambled all their money away. When he came home to tell his wife what he’d done, she got so angry that she began to yell and scream at him. In all Filipino culture, but especially in Ifugao, men really do not like to “lose face.” So, Juan tried to think of ways to shut her up. He told his father that he thought if he hit the American woman with something that it would shut his wife up. So he did. And once he did it, his anger for his wife and the situation took over that he ended up beating Julia to death. Johnny didn’t mention it, but knowing that alcoholism is rampant in Ifugao, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was drunk and or under the influence of drugs when it happened.
I didn’t know what to say or do with the information. It could have just been a rumor, but Johnny didn’t seem like the type. The story certainly made more sense and fit with what I’d seen before in some Ifugao men (the drinking, gambling, and irresponsibility). But, gossip, or chica-chica as they call it there, is a huge part of Philippine culture.
Why was it important? Because it would have been premeditated murder. That would have changed the charges—possibly to a death sentence. I wondered if while he hid for those couple weeks he tried to come up with a story that would make him less guilty somehow.
I also didn’t know what to do as far as safety went. I didn’t want to put my friend in danger (with local, vengeful Ifugaos) by telling the authorities what he’d said, and I didn’t want to put myself in danger either. I had a plane ticket to go home in a week and I didn’t want anything to stop that—especially not the corrupt and convoluted justice system of the Philippines. I ended up telling Adam to tell the Peace Corps office, which he did. I don’t think, however, that they ever took it seriously.
What was even more uncomfortable was that though Johnny agreed that what Dontugan did was despicable, he also shook his head and said this: “You know, this should be a lesson to (Duntugan’s) wife. Women shouldn’t talk to their husbands like that. They need to respect them. He could have been so angry that he killed her, or he could have jumped off a cliff. She is lucky that he didn’t do that.”
I got so angry that I couldn’t speak. I didn’t even know what to say. I wish I’d yelled at him—I wish I’d told him that it’s that kind of thinking that allowed Julia’s murder to happen. But I just shut my mouth, said goodbye, and walked away. I knew I wouldn’t change his mindset and I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I didn’t want to be there anymore. It disturbed me so much because I thought it was an isolated incident, with one crazy man. But if more than one man felt like this, if this was the underlying belief about women, couldn’t something like this happen again?
It wasn’t that there weren’t good men out there, but it was precisely that kind of sentiment that had killed Julia. The notion that women are indispensable. That woman are subservient and should respect their husbands no matter what they do. I did speak with other men that were disgusted by Duntugan’s actions—men who said that Ifugao culture highly respected women and it was a great crime to ever hurt a woman. But comments like Johnny’s are always the ones who haunt us, aren’t they?
It’s one of the great conflicts we deal with when we encounter shifting indigenous cultures—we so desperately want them to stay the same, a remnant of our past, or evolve, but only if they’re going to be just like us.
Duntugan’s original story didn’t make any sense. He claimed that he was hiking along one of Batad’s narrow trails and Julia “bumped” into him from behind. He says that he thought Julia was a long-standing enemy of his and, infuriated, he turned around and began to beat Julia and didn’t realize it was a white American woman until it was too late.
Unless Duntugan was under the influence of completely mind-altering drugs, than what he says doesn’t make sense. Julia was a 5’7, Caucasian blonde. Most Ifugao men are significantly shorter than that. As a 5’7 woman myself, I usually towered over the locals, especially in Batad which is about an hour-long bumpy ride from Banaue, but far more rural and un-developed. Juan’s enemy would have been a man most likely under 5’5, with very dark skin and black hair. How could anyone turn around and bludgeon someone to death without noticing that difference? It makes no sense.
Sometime shortly after Julia’s death, I was hanging out with Adam—my neighbor in Banaue and a Peace Corps Volunteer—down in Manila. He looked at his cell phone after receiving a text and gave me a strange look.
“I just got a weird message from Johnny,” he said. Johnny was a man we knew back in Banaue. “He says that he knows the real story behind what happened to Julia. He says that the Duntugan has been lying to the media. He says when I get back to Banaue, he’ll tell me.”
We both thought the message was a bit strange, but figured Johnny had heard some gossip and wanted to pass it on—a common occurrence in our region. The Peace Corps had warned Adam not to trust the escalating levels of gossip about the murder, so we didn’t think much more of it. Adam would never see Johnny again after Julia’s murder, because for safety reasons, the Peace Corps wouldn’t allow him more than a one-day excursion to pack his things and leave the region. When I returned there some time later, I only stayed for a few days here and there in between other travels. I didn’t think I’d see Johnny again.
Well, my last week in Banaue, I walked around the town to say goodbye to the people I knew. After I walked through the local market I ran into Johnny, whose wife sold produce at a stall. I sat down on the concrete next to him while he sorted through a large bag of potatoes.
Never one for small talk, Johnny asked me why Adam hadn’t returned to Banaue. I explained that the Peace Corps had kept him away for safety reasons. He scratched his chin and shook his head. “What happened to that girl…it is bad. I had a feeling he might not come back because of it.” He turned and leaned toward me, “You know, I told Adam that I knew the real story about what happened to Julia. I talked to Duntugan’s father a little while ago. He is a relative of mine. Duntugan went and stayed with his father at one point while he was hiding, until his father made him turn himself in. His father and I were talking the other day and he told me that Juan isn’t telling the truth.”
My interest piqued, so I figured I’d stay and listen to what Johnny had to say. This is the “real” story that Johnny proceeded to tell:
Juan and his wife own the small restaurant (canteen) where Julia was last seen drinking a coke. Juan had gone into Banaue either on the day before Easter or Easter Sunday (Johnny didn’t say) to buy supplies for their restaurant. Instead he’d gotten drunk and gambled all their money away. When he came home to tell his wife what he’d done, she got so angry that she began to yell and scream at him. In all Filipino culture, but especially in Ifugao, men really do not like to “lose face.” So, Juan tried to think of ways to shut her up. He told his father that he thought if he hit the American woman with something that it would shut his wife up. So he did. And once he did it, his anger for his wife and the situation took over that he ended up beating Julia to death. Johnny didn’t mention it, but knowing that alcoholism is rampant in Ifugao, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was drunk and or under the influence of drugs when it happened.
I didn’t know what to say or do with the information. It could have just been a rumor, but Johnny didn’t seem like the type. The story certainly made more sense and fit with what I’d seen before in some Ifugao men (the drinking, gambling, and irresponsibility). But, gossip, or chica-chica as they call it there, is a huge part of Philippine culture.
Why was it important? Because it would have been premeditated murder. That would have changed the charges—possibly to a death sentence. I wondered if while he hid for those couple weeks he tried to come up with a story that would make him less guilty somehow.
I also didn’t know what to do as far as safety went. I didn’t want to put my friend in danger (with local, vengeful Ifugaos) by telling the authorities what he’d said, and I didn’t want to put myself in danger either. I had a plane ticket to go home in a week and I didn’t want anything to stop that—especially not the corrupt and convoluted justice system of the Philippines. I ended up telling Adam to tell the Peace Corps office, which he did. I don’t think, however, that they ever took it seriously.
What was even more uncomfortable was that though Johnny agreed that what Dontugan did was despicable, he also shook his head and said this: “You know, this should be a lesson to (Duntugan’s) wife. Women shouldn’t talk to their husbands like that. They need to respect them. He could have been so angry that he killed her, or he could have jumped off a cliff. She is lucky that he didn’t do that.”
I got so angry that I couldn’t speak. I didn’t even know what to say. I wish I’d yelled at him—I wish I’d told him that it’s that kind of thinking that allowed Julia’s murder to happen. But I just shut my mouth, said goodbye, and walked away. I knew I wouldn’t change his mindset and I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I didn’t want to be there anymore. It disturbed me so much because I thought it was an isolated incident, with one crazy man. But if more than one man felt like this, if this was the underlying belief about women, couldn’t something like this happen again?
It wasn’t that there weren’t good men out there, but it was precisely that kind of sentiment that had killed Julia. The notion that women are indispensable. That woman are subservient and should respect their husbands no matter what they do. I did speak with other men that were disgusted by Duntugan’s actions—men who said that Ifugao culture highly respected women and it was a great crime to ever hurt a woman. But comments like Johnny’s are always the ones who haunt us, aren’t they?
It’s one of the great conflicts we deal with when we encounter shifting indigenous cultures—we so desperately want them to stay the same, a remnant of our past, or evolve, but only if they’re going to be just like us.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
You just gotta love this story...
Tue Jun 26, 2007 9:23 AM ET
MANILA (Reuters) - Philippine police chased down an unfit thief on Tuesday after he ran out of breath and asked his pursuers for a "time out."
"He was panting and gasping for air when we caught up with him after a 500 meter sprint," Erwin Buenceso, one of the arresting officers, told local radio station dzBB.
Buenceso said the man and an accomplice broke into a house in the Philippine capital and stole two expensive mobile phones. Screams from the residence alerted a local police patrol, which gave chase.
The robber asked for a "time out" using hand signals.
After he regained his composure, police seized the two stolen phones and brought him to a station for questioning.
Tue Jun 26, 2007 9:23 AM ET
MANILA (Reuters) - Philippine police chased down an unfit thief on Tuesday after he ran out of breath and asked his pursuers for a "time out."
"He was panting and gasping for air when we caught up with him after a 500 meter sprint," Erwin Buenceso, one of the arresting officers, told local radio station dzBB.
Buenceso said the man and an accomplice broke into a house in the Philippine capital and stole two expensive mobile phones. Screams from the residence alerted a local police patrol, which gave chase.
The robber asked for a "time out" using hand signals.
After he regained his composure, police seized the two stolen phones and brought him to a station for questioning.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
We crowd on the balcony overlooking the municipal square and wait as the drums approach. I stand wedged between May-ug (Mai-ohg), the teenage house helper, and May-yu (Mai-yoo), Auntie Lourdes’ daughter, and tower at least a foot over the two. May-yu holds a squirming Tanya in her hands who points at various things down below. We’re waiting for the town parade to culminate in the square, which will mark the beginning of Banaue’s annual cultural festival. Banaue locals love their parades.
May-ug peers over the ledge and searches the growing crowd below. “I don’t see any tourists,” she says, and then looks up at me and winks. “You’re not a tourist anymore.”
I smile a little and look away. May-ug doesn’t speak much and certainly doesn’t often give out compliments. Though she may not know it, her comment means the world to me.
From where we stand, we can hear the drumbeats get louder as the parade weaves its way up the street and towards the municipal square. We can’t see them yet, since the road is behind us and to the right, but we can hear the shouts and yells; we can feel the press of the crowd around us grow more anxious.
It is unusually hot in Banaue today, and my hair sticks to the back of my neck. Fortunately, the festival planners covered a large portion of the normally sun-baked municipal square with a gigantic tarp about fifty feet long and wide. I’ve never seen one so large before.
I can tell that I won’t be able to take good pictures from the second story balcony, so I excuse myself from the girls and head down to the ground. I weave my way through the crowd of people, almost all local Ifugao, who smile at me as I pass. The drumbeats sound like they’re just around the corner, and then I see the first group of people. Marty, my host brother, leads a group of uniformed Taekwando students with a banner introducing the festival and their Taekwondo school. The crowd begins to mill out of the way and many lean against the large market building as the parade approaches. I kneel at the edge of the procession, watching the Taekwondo teenagers smile shyly at the onslaught of photographers.
May-ug peers over the ledge and searches the growing crowd below. “I don’t see any tourists,” she says, and then looks up at me and winks. “You’re not a tourist anymore.”
I smile a little and look away. May-ug doesn’t speak much and certainly doesn’t often give out compliments. Though she may not know it, her comment means the world to me.
From where we stand, we can hear the drumbeats get louder as the parade weaves its way up the street and towards the municipal square. We can’t see them yet, since the road is behind us and to the right, but we can hear the shouts and yells; we can feel the press of the crowd around us grow more anxious.
It is unusually hot in Banaue today, and my hair sticks to the back of my neck. Fortunately, the festival planners covered a large portion of the normally sun-baked municipal square with a gigantic tarp about fifty feet long and wide. I’ve never seen one so large before.
I can tell that I won’t be able to take good pictures from the second story balcony, so I excuse myself from the girls and head down to the ground. I weave my way through the crowd of people, almost all local Ifugao, who smile at me as I pass. The drumbeats sound like they’re just around the corner, and then I see the first group of people. Marty, my host brother, leads a group of uniformed Taekwando students with a banner introducing the festival and their Taekwondo school. The crowd begins to mill out of the way and many lean against the large market building as the parade approaches. I kneel at the edge of the procession, watching the Taekwondo teenagers smile shyly at the onslaught of photographers.
Teenagers dressed in masks and shredded plastic skirts parade by. The boys and girls move through the crowd, dancing in a style similar to traditional Ifugao dancing, but with a modern twist. Several other groups of young people file by, some more shy and subdued, others dancing and playing the gongs or drums, excited and energized.
A group of men dressed in their traditional Ifugao “g-strings” follow behind, dancing and initiating mock battles. They grimace, lean forward, and knock their swords and shields together, then smile at the crowd and continue parading towards the municipal center. After the parade participants gather in the town center, each individual group does their own dance and performance, at the same time as the others. The elder women in their plastic dresses make small cooking fires and thresh rice, the groups of teens dance, the Taekwondo students kick and turn. The gongs and drums beat louder and louder and the dancers and performers move faster. Finally it reaches an almost unbearable crescendo—and then stops to an ocean of applause.
I snap hundreds of pictures as each group performs throughout the day. The Taekwondo students perform self defense and their black belt students catapulte through the air. The younger students dance in circles, their movements full of laughter and energy.Later in the day the festival focuses on a faux rice-terrace that has been constructed in the corner. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, they do abbreviated versions of the annual rice rituals (which are, for the most part are no longer practiced). The speaker—who narrates the rituals entirely in Ifugao—summons a local mumbaki, a man so old he needs assistance to stand up and walk to the native hut erected next to the terraces. A group of children and locals crowd near the base of the rock walls to watch.
The narrator’s lame leg hangs like a loose rope at his side, as he walks on a crutch and facilitates the events. He speaks about the three different classes in Ifugao culture, and their roles in Ifugao life. All classes work in the fields, which, the narrator adds, is considered a “noble job.” I find that interesting contrasted with the general disdain and dislike of field work among the Ifugao I have spoke to, as well as the desperation felt by many farmers who would do anything to get out of the fields. Some of them still see rice farming as noble, but it exhausts them as well, and they can’t find community help for it like that had before.The air is full of jingling bells, as young boys walk around hawking ice cream and pandesal—hot salted bread. Vendors sit and watch from the side selling betel nut and halo-halo, their products covered in plastic and sweating in the heat. I watch the kids’ expressions as they look at the feigned rice rituals. A young girl sits just feet away from me with a beaded necklace in her mouth that she slowly pulls out, each emerged bead now glossy with saliva.
I wonder what she, and the other people watching, thinks about as they watched a façade of their history unfold before them. I especially wonder what the elders think—they who had seen these rituals practiced for real as children and even as adults, they who had lost so much respect in the community as their once important roles and religion are now forgotten.A man brings out the chicken that the mumbaki carved inside the hut; her body limp in his hands now stripped of feathers and bones. He shows the “good” bile to the crowd and they cheer and clap. Two girls next to me whisper to each other in Hapit (Ifugao) and point at my notebook. One girl looks over my shoulder and tries to read my messy handwriting. I speak to them in Ifugao and they look at each other, shocked, and then back at me with a grin. We chat back and forth for awhile in Ifugao, and they seem to know what I’m saying, which amazes me too.
Watching the parade, I feel as if I am witnessing a great compromise. The elder women sit in their plastic dresses meant to mimic the bark twine dresses their ancestors wore just a generation before. Children watch on their haunches in native dresses and g-strings, sucking on orange drinks in foil pouches. Even the Ifugao men in their g-strings and shields had never fought before, had never used those shields in an actual battle. The entire festival is a performance—a celebration and demonstration of what once was.
A young girl next to me holds a white balloon and tugs on it every few minutes to make in bounce against her hand. Her friends look at me with wary eyes. Someone leads the old mumbaki back to the sitting crowd, his arms and legs trembles as he sits. The crowd laughs as the men in the faux rice terrace quickly plant the rice, the panicles standing out at awkward angles. I remember when I planted with Rita, how she showed me how to plant it straight down, pushing on the roots with my thumb. There was a special way to do it and it took time to learn. The man planting the rice looks at the crowd and laughs a bit, hamming it up for their amusement.
A “Super Crunch Choco-chip” wrapper floats from the sky and lands on the sitting mumbaki’s head. He picks it off his headdress and looks at it, then crumples it in his hand. I can hear the chanting from inside the hut as I stare at the mumbaki’s feet. They are brown and crooked from years perched in the terraces, and his toes stick out at angles like knots on ginger root. His skin hangs loosely on his arms and chest like a thin brown sheet. And I wonder what he sees as he watches this ritual, this piece of his past.I wonder.
For more pictures of the cultural festival--check out my slide show here:
I’m sitting in my house in Denver surrounded by piles of rubble. Whoever previously owned our house decided to cover the entire yard with concrete, which (as you can probably imagine) made it a bit hard for us to garden. So, Matt recently hired someone to rip out all the concrete, and the past few days have been filled with the sounds of a Bobcat jack hammering outside. It sounds like a machine gun. Matt and I constantly joke about living in a war zone—our house looks like it got bombed. Sometimes I’ll pretend I’m getting shot by a machine gun and lurch into his arms.
The BobcatWhen Matt and I sit on the front porch, or look out the window, we get all excited about the cement destruction. I saw my first bit of dirt last night as I walked up the broken path. My breath caught as I bent down and rubbed it between my fingers. It was very dry and clay, but it was dirt.
“Look!” I said, as Matt stood next to me with the groceries.
He smiled and said, “Soon there will be flowers!”
The front porch viewIt’s an apt metaphor for me though, I must say. After a very tumultuous re-entry to the U.S., I feel like my life’s been ripped up and tossed about but that something really good will come out of it. After five months in the Philippines, both Matt and I have gone through major transformations. I walk around the house and interact with people and I feel so different. Matt and I have had re-adjustments and recommitments to our relationship as well. On top of that, there’s culture shock, and the general question: What the hell just happened to me? And what’s next?
Well, here’s what I know for now. I’m in Denver, I’m catching up on my blog writing for the rest of the month, and working with Matt in real estate. Matt’s mom is coming to visit next week. In July, I’ll travel with Matt’s brother and sister-in-law (and her brother) to Iowa where we’ll bike across the state, and I plan to visit California soon. I’m getting settled, spending time with friends, and taking dance and pilates classes at the studio just down the block. I’m adjusting. I’m also eating lots of amazing food. Just the other day I went to our local market and found the exact kind of bread I was looking for (sprouted spelt bread) and I had to stop myself from shouting: “God Bless America!”
Do you know how amazing this country is? How abundant? You can find anything you want here! I could really go on and on. Like garbage disposals for one thing, and dishwashers. I mean, wow.
As for the place I left, it sounds like things are tumultuous back in Ifugao too. My neighbor and friend Adam, a Peace Corps volunteer, is getting transferred from Banaue to a site some 14 hours away. The Peace Corps will possibly evacuate all the volunteers in Ifugao. With the impending trial of Julia’s murderer, they’re worried about some kind of backlash from the locals. While I seriously doubt 99.9 percent of the people would do anything, there’s a lot of alcoholism in the region and I understand their concerns. I’m so sad Adam has to leave—he’s heartbroken after all the time and energy he’s put into the family and the place. But it also sounds like I left right on time.
I’ve got a ton of writing to catch up on—I haven’t written about my entire last month in the country. So much happened too—eleven days on the Bee Farm, two trips to Ifugao, a phenomenal retreat…anyway, I’ll fill you in. And then once I’m caught up, I’ll start working on my book about this whole crazy experience. Perhaps I’ll have more perspective by then.
For now, there’s nowhere to move but ahead. I’ll keep you updated on our cement project. It’s going to take a lot of time to heal the soil enough to garden, but I’m looking forward to seeing what emerges from the rubble.
• Bees pollinate 80% of our nuts, fruits, and vegetables• Bees have been around for almost 100 million years, and cave paintings show that honey collection dates back as far as the stone ages
• In ancient Egypt, citizens paid their taxes with honey
• European settlers introduced European honeybees to New England in 1638. Honey was used to prepare food and beverages, make cement, preserve fruits, concoct furniture paste, polish, and varnish, and for medicinal purposes.
• Fermented honey, known as Mead, is the most ancient fermented beverage. The term "honey moon" originated with the Norse practice of consuming large quantities of mead during the first month of a marriage
• Bees have 7,000 eyes in each big eye
• An average beehive can hold about 50,000 bees
• The queen may lay 600-800 or even 1,500 eggs each day during her lifetime. This daily egg production may equal her own weight.
• Foragers must collect nectar from about two million flowers to make 1 pound (1/2 kilo) of honey
• To make that same 1 pound of (½ kilo) of honey, that bee might fly a distance equivalent to two trips around the world
• To fuel a bee’s flight around the world, they would need to consume about two tablespoons of honey.
• To make 1kg of wax (2 lbs), a bee must consume 4 kg of honey (8 lbs)
• An average forager makes about 1/12th of a teaspoon of honey in her lifetime
• The queen makes one mating flight during her life, and stores the sperm from up to 20 drones that she collects on her flight
• A worker larva is fed an average of 1300 meals a day
• In the U.S., the honeybee is the official state insect in Missouri, Utah, New Jersey, Maine, and South Dakota
• Since honey has the ability to absorb and retain moisture, it is used in the baking industry to keep baked goods fresh and soft
• Honeycomb’s hexagonal interlocking structure makes it one of the strongest lightweight structures known to engineers
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