Meandering Thoughts

Time To Start Again

2010-11-21T21:18:00.000-08:00

I spent the past few years essentially ignoring this blog. I had stopped traveling and was ready to get out of the blogosphere. I didn't have anything to say, or so I thought.

I'm out in Canada now, on the West Coast in Vancouver and seeing more of the world than I thought possible. I touched snow that covered trees - built a fire on top of a mountain. I wanted to share some of the thoughts I've had and to write them out. Thanks for indulging me.

Signing off from the North,

Marc

Garden Route

2008-06-05T15:15:00.000-07:00

Gas prices are expensive at 9.71 Rand per Liter - that's $4.89 / gallon for all of us customary people. (And that was last week - who knows what it is now). Gas stations are always open. Four, maybe five men stay up late, ready to make it possible for you to leave. It must be a lonely job.

Bright fluorescent lights break the monotonous darkness of a rural South African night with a flash, bang, and wizz. Magnesium Fireworks blinding my eyes with their obviousness in the night sky. So unlike the poor tin shacks we pass. Hidden except for the gleem of the moon sliding off corrugated tin, too poor for teh Goddess of the night sky to stay. A man wearing an Engen (one brand of gas station) hat proptly meets us at the pump, his eyes awake, pupils dancing in the spotlights of the gas station. We're the only customers - and have been the only one on the road for the past four hours. It seems he was waiting for us.

I think "Howz ca neone b wake?" in thoughtspeak still groggy from the nap I was taking in our comvee, head bent in that awkward sleep position, drool beading at my lip. Groaning, I will my eyes shut, "why would anyone want to be awake. It's 12:37. I'm in the middle of South Africa, close to Lesutho, the mountain kingdom. We're miles away from anything remotely like home. This is Affrikanner's country. Inside the comvee I burry my head deeper into my blanket, revelling in its safety, knowing that only the window separates me from a world I don't know. I'm a child in a new territory who is given a thimble full of brandy to keep my mind at ease.

I'm not even thinking about the attendant who must be cold. I'm not even worrying about where I am or what it's like here. I'm concerned with me.

463 km. Oomfrontaine to Knysa. We're not even there yet and it's been 3.5 hours. Slow Traffic and police. I beg for lumbar support. Geography games collapse as we deplete our limited knowledge of international destinations. We name geographical points in an alphabetized program: you call out something that begins with the last letter of the last Geographical construct "Essex." Some one drops the X factor. I bet no one in Maryland knows that they're county can be 'dropped.' Game over, no one has any knowledge of Chinese Geography. The game goes on even as the endless South African planes whip by our car. Grasses coming up to your waist. The Greeks got it wrong, the Allysian fields are in Southern Africa. But we are ignoring them, instead turning inward, playing games and learning about each other. Even when we do look out the world spins by at 120 km. We dont even see the polieceman until he pulls us over. "do you know how fast you were going" "120 kmp - just as the speed limit states" "You need to come with me" Apparently as a 'mini cab' we had different rules. The polieceman could offer no documentation. Our driver swore, he lives to far to challenge this one in court. Soon enough we were rolling on, huge cumulo nimbus clouds building and dischargind electric currents like our private theatre production. But soon the constant thrum of the moter and the tit tit of soft rain, lulls weary travelers heads to sleep. I notice the 'Empty" light inside the dashboard. A sign flashes by- Next Stop - 2 km.

"Could you check the tire pressure and fill her up with low grade" This time a woman fills us up. Her skin is dark, so different from her smile: bold and bright, so refreshing after the stale travel in the van. She is a big woman, tall and round, dressed from head to toe in blue, even the bandana around her hair was blue. I tried my new language skills (more on that later) "dumella ume." Awkward smile. "I don't speak Susutho. I abashedly resort to English and carry on plesentries. I am curious about the taxis that are all around us. Hundreds of them, constantly moving and honking, picking up and dropping off, transportation for the poor, in a country where rural infrastructure is for the wealthy. She tells me that it is a "Park and Ride" She uses it as well to take the 1.5 hour trip back home. "I get home just in time for my husband and children. I must cook and clean for them." She ends the conversation by pulling the pump out of the car. 583 Rand. She turns to the tires. None of my gas station conversations get far, they are always moving and I cannot risk missing a bathroom break.

This bathroom is spotless. Overseen by a local entreprenuer, it is maintained by donations from patrons. I could be in any bathroom all over the world, only difference is that here condoms on the walls are free - you don't have to pay for them. There's also that problem of neil diamond: they leave his CD on repeat. Never in America.

Stocked with snacks we head back to the car. The woman who had pumped our gas moved on. It was impossible to call out thank you, I dont know if should would have heard it anyway.

No gas this time, just a pit stop. We slam the door shut, a thousdan pounds of sliding steel closed firmly into place. I walk to the store where I hear something...voices, rhythems. Sh sh, thum, sh sh thum. Ka. Shuffles and voices from behind the gate. I step in side, seek two liter beer bottles littering the floor, shaddowd by two dancing gas attendents. Engene again. Blue Uniform Again. Tribal Dance - first time. "Shiyakooo_oool" Left knee kick, sholders back. Right knee kick. Sway , sway. "Umella, umella, stigovinia, omida." I join in, hands on sholders, right dip, up, up, up. Soft, slow but powerful. Hips thrusting over and over, a rhythem beling desire. "Its a song about freedom Mdellie said. "we xhosa men be in battle, but would need to go home." His friend chimed in grinning. "We would need to see our wives." Sex is sex. Everyone wants it.

We pull out from the last gas station bladders emptied. I want to go back and dance again, to be under the gas station spotlight, the seemingly one living place in rural south Africa at night.

Xenophobia (Sorry for the spelling, typing fast)

2008-06-05T15:13:00.000-07:00

There is a lot to discuss, but I want to put things in perspective for everyone about Africa, about South Africa and about what I am doing here.

First things first. I started this trip thinking I am going to Africa. What a mistake. What the hell is Africa? Is it a thing that Joseph Conrad discusses in a book on the darkness of this continent? Is it a place where colonialists sought their fortunes? Is it a single continent where everyone is totally underveloped without hope always hungry with catholic charitites always doing a story on it. What about violence, is it a place of genocide of military dictator ships and violence in ever which way?

Africa is a label that the west adopted during colonial times and has grown and become adopted even here on the continent. As soon as I say I'm from America three twenty somethings here in Lesotho ask me for a couple bucks because they are hungry. They know the western story, all Africans are poor and need western aid in order to be civilized (I'm extending how bad it is so you can see it, its much less obvious this idea about Africa, but just as strong). They're not hungry, but they know they can make a quick buck becuase that is what they think I want to see.

The whole concept of Africa, as one group. Youjust cannot lock in 54 countries to the same mindset. It's wrong. I am not in "Africa", I am in South Africa. The whole idea of Africa is a silly one. South Africa is not like the rest of the continent. True it is part of the same continent, but THEY ARE NOT ONE IN THE SAME. I am in Africa the continent, but the concept is a construct imposed by others. And although this concept is based in some truths, it is wrong to extend them everywhere.

The reason that I bring this up is because you have undoubtedly heard about the violence occurring here. The 'Xenophobic' attacks and the fear that people have. The concern that S. Africa will slide into a whole system of violence and we will be just like Kenya a few months ago. Two things. The violence is real, but not to be mistakn for a general direction. Second, S. Africas situation is not to be confused with other situations on the continent. Please do not read into these stories asif they are an extneiton of the violence in the Congo or in Zimbabwe. Turth these events impact those here in S.A. but they are not related in the same way.

A man came into our appartment last night. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap, his nose was flat and larger than my fathers - which is saying something. His beard was thin, and unkept as is the tradition for most of the men that I have met here. 6 foot eleven, the man was an nba player if he had been born in the USA. But he had not. He was rwandan. Fleeing his country in 92, he left to find work. In 94-5 he went back to rwanda to fight in the war there. This was the time of the rwandan genocide. I don not know for which side he fought. I do not know if he killed tutsi 'cockroaches' or if he himself was considered part of an infestattion. I do know that his passport denies him entry to rwanda, which does not look good. I am inclined to think that this man stanidng a few feet from me participated in a genocide. I am afriad and curious. Curious if this man really is such a man. Unbelievable. Genocide, here in my host fathers home.

He came to share a beer and his worries. As a rwandan he is afriad that he will be attacked. The rest of the house with whom he was staying had left the area. He was the only one left. Too afraid to use public transportation, he stayed at home, claiming he was unable to do the job requested of him from his employer. What to do? He showed us his documents and asked us the question. "Can you call your government to air lift me out of here" He asked me the american to do what no gov't did during a genocide in rwanda, help?

I did not know what to do. Loss of words met by frustration. Who am I to help you. I'm 21 years old, I dont work, I dont know your country I am a visitor, what Iam I to do. What Am i to do. I am a passer-by, I am not a part of this, they are not coming for me...how similar all this seemed. Its a poem written on the walls of every holocaust meuseam, of every book about genocide, of every point about human indifference. I must help, it is my duty not only as a spiritual person, but because it is what I would have wanted if it were me. Because few did it for the jews. Few did it for us.

I called the only contact that I had, our travel agent. She is part of Methodist church who is housing refugees there, until the violence blows over. We established a ride for him and the next day brought him there. It wasn't a permanent solution, but it was all that I could do. I was so fucking helpless. As we all feel so many times when we read all of these things on-line. Twot things had become real. The fact there there are real problems in south africa affecting everyone, and the fact that genocide was real and this man was a participant either as victim or as perpetrator. But in the end when he pleaded with me, begged even for me to help him, he was a human being. I couldn't judge - he deserves life just as much as I do.

The next day at the church I spoke with a Zimbabwean. We sang that dispatch song, elias - it has some of the Zimbabwean language Ndebele - it was a way to make contact to breach difficult subjects of violence of displacement. His name was Charles. He had left 2 weeks ago at threats from Mugabe's party that he would be killed. He is an open supporter of the opposition party. Charles left in a hurry. As a welder, it would be possible for him to find work in the new construction done for the world cup. Three days into south Africa he telephones his wife. His first born son has been murdered. Mugabe's men have killed him to get to Charles. Death is alive here in Southern Africa. I touched it with my head and we prayed together for peace. Charles was told he must leave the township or else he would be killed. 'DO Not REturn!"

Does anyone want him?

I tell you these stories of despair so I can explain to you that these things are real, but they are not the only stories coming out of S. Africa. A town ship rose up against the minority of people who are conducting the attracts. The whole community surrounding them and demanding that they give back their loot and to apologize to the people that they have harmed. (This was a town where some people had looted foreigners places, and tole them to vacate the premises. The community demanded justice. And that is exactly what they got.

My host father pointed to his gunshot wound in his lower abdomen. This, he said, is from criminals, just as what is happening now. You see, it is not this, he says pointing to his skin below his left eye, black dark brown like Swiss chocolate at 66& cocoa, that matters. You, he touches my arm, are white, but he points to his heart, but we are same. brothers.

He then offerers me the use of his car at any time...provided we pay for petrol.

The Rwandan returned next door after spending a few nights at the church. We spoke to his friends for some time. Someone asked where he was from. "guess" he said. "I dono, joburg? Zimbabwe? You look like your from here?" Exactly. skin is a ridiculous determinant for who you are.

That is what I want to tell you. Despite the violence, you don't hear about the good things, the way that communities have come together, the way that people have fought against the ridiculous ness about race. Good things are happening here. We're doing well. Violence might be occurring, but its declining, and the country is ashamed, black and white. and they are pushing it to stop.

Seconds flit at this internet cafe.

I'm not getting any older...and you aren't either

2007-12-22T08:09:00.000-08:00

What the hell. You expect that as you get older, you get this sense of understanding. That people can look at problems with wizened eyes, and laugh about how silly we're all being. No. I guess I should have looked at world politics to figure that one out. I guess I just had hope that people would be able to leave their fruitless frustrations behind and work together to find something they could both agree upon.

We get sucked into this mode of thinking, and it's so annoying. Everyday, in and out, its the same arguments that we make against the same old people. We cannot accept anything new. Is this because our brains are 'hardwired' now? Can we really not understand or learn things in a new way? Are we stuck in this rut, forever running our minds in circles without any clear focus on what the problem actually is.

Fuck.

I'm not going to be like that. I'm going to listen to others, try and understand where they are coming from and what they want. Then I'll do the same for myself. Try and really understand what I am looking for and what my goals are. Its so easy just to get in this mode of disagreement. Everything sounds like we are trying to get at two different goals, but maybe its just that we want the same things and have different ways of getting there.

Sit down and talk. Be honest. You might get screwed, but tell you the truth, you'll find a better way if you do it with honesty.

Open up and don't be so rigid.

You Said Your Name Was What?

2007-12-10T18:23:00.000-08:00

The emcee at Comedy Café crossed himself, giving praise to the comedy Gods and checking to see if the planets are just so aligned. He was three for three. A man named Roosevelt Swift, a dancer for the royal ballet theatre had shown up to provide comic entertainment between sets, a petite French girl with big bouncing curls named Fred sat in the front row, and me, a Jew ‘froed American, who just happens to live in that same state as that international idiot sitting in an oval office. The emcee had landed in comic heaven.

Roosevelt took a good thrashing, although I cannot even begin to think what it would have been like as a child. The playground must have been a battlefield. Strange Name + Dancing Skills = playground mincemeat.

As the night wore on, the jokes did too. I do not remember most of them, as I have taken up that ole’ English sport: drinking excessively and quickly. After my second pint, my gift for gab was unleashed. As this was my first time going to a night event by myself, I was feeling slightly lonely and longed for some sort of companionship. I ordered a third pint and plopped down next to two South Africans in the front row. We exchanged pleasantries.

“Is it not just disgusting weather today?”

I hate those kinds of conversations. Luckily, we broke the ice with a thorough pounding of the American president…and then went on to pummel Paris Hilton and Britney Spears (clearly equal evildoers). I found out that they had come to England to make some money and explore Europe. I had come to spend some money and explore Europe.

We were fast friends.

I lingered at the bar during intermission to hear a few jokes from the comics standing around making playful banter. I joined in with the best of them. The beer prevents me from recalling my words exactly, but the response I immediately wrote in my dairy. In sloppy drunken cursive: ‘when are you goin’ up man?’

That’s right. I am a comic, but I already knew that.

A man came over to our table just as I had returned, his shaved head gleaming with excitement.

“Hey,” he said to my South African companion, we’ll call him John, “Have I met you before?”

“Umm… I don’t know, where do you work, my shiny headed friend.” I’m ad libbing for effect, I’m a comic remember.

“Out by Camden.”

“No that’s not it, I work in the City. Oh, but I do live out in Marylebone.”

“Yeah, no, I’m over in East London…” Then he added nonchalantly, “do you attend any fetish parties?”

Without a blink of the eye, John replied, “Can’t say that I do.”

And this is why I love London

As the acts came and went, the crowd became tighter; laughing when the jokes were good, and trying to hide our shame when they were not. Regional jokes flew over my head; just where is Crawford? But thoughts of England were soon displaced by midgets, Amsterdam and Dildos, with a capital ‘D’! Could anything get better?

The last beer drained and the bill paid, I rose haltingly and stumbly from my seat in search of a good Kebab and a night bus home.

Talk, Talk, Talk

2007-11-25T16:20:00.000-08:00

I plug my Skype headset into the computer, bending underneath my desk, bum up like a flag in the wind. International calling is never an easy ordeal, it always requires some crawling around on your knees, but at least it is cheap. I look around the office at the other workers; they’re silently working at their desks or gabbing away on their own headsets about conflict diamonds or the impending Pakistani implosion. We are all on telephones at some point or another. It’s the only way to communicate with foreign governments or contacts. Putting thoughts into an email takes twice as much time as a quiz buzz, not to mention the information is easily misconstrued. When you’re dealing with sensitive issues – source protection, oil funds, blackmail – it is best not to leave tone up to interpretation.

Yet, emails fly around the office like nobody’s business. My boss fires them off at a dizzying pace. Where does she find the time to do any work? Most of them come forwarded with the lines, FYI written on top of them. No note. No personal touch. Just information. That is how Global Witness is. Rosie, my ‘next-door’ neighbour if you will, is an amazing worker. She can go on for four or five hours at a time without uttering a single word. But it leaves little time for personal communication. The other interns are not as focused. We have idle chat on the computer – google’s chat feature makes everything so easy. Face to face communication almost seems impossible. The quiet work area is not conducive to loud American banter. Even the tearoom is fairly quiet – unless there are free cakes…and lately there have been free cakes.

The other week during free cake time was fantastic. One of the girls working on international finance systems (specifically, policies regarding transparent and just ways of creating economic growth in developing nations) and I had a pleasant chat on sovereignty. What’s interesting is that all the conversations at Global Witness are so highbrow. Everyone is such a fantastic thinker with new ideas bouncing around their heads all the time. It’s absolutely fantastic. Of course, discussions regarding Congolese slavery cannot go on forever, and eventually the talk devolves into marijuana and children.

“Can you smoke pot and be watching a child at the same time?”

No, I think not.

Since the office is so small, it is difficult to find a good place to have a meeting. Meetings go on all the time behind cubicles or in the break room. Planning committees write grant proposals and prospectus reports, while team leaders receive feedback from their staff. Few formal documents exist, but everyone is always carrying around notes. Notes from your boss, volunteer, or from yourself.

Talking with my boss, Claire, is easy. She’s bubbly, like me, and is easily excited by new things. I like bringing up new ideas with her. It seems relaxed and informal, even though it is a formal relationship. I wish that I felt that way about the directors. They seem to be fairly aloof, but I guess that is in the nature of directors. Charmian is incredibly intimidating. As a powerful woman, she often reminds me of Hillary Clinton. Whenever we speak, I feel as if I am being patronized. It is the tone of her voice and the way that she cocks her head to the side when she looks at me, as if I was some ‘American Idiot.’ I know that she does not really feel this way (I overheard her saying to my boss that I was incredibly helpful). Yet, I just cannot shake the feeling.

Yet even that feeling begins to leave as we take the conversation to the pub -all pretences drop away at the door – it is truly an English organization. As the ale flows, so too do our mouths. Constantly joking and ‘taking the piss’ out of each other, we break away the cold walls that are put up at work. When discussing corruption that leads to human rights abuses, there is a need of some sort of isolation. You have to put up some protection. At the pub it all goes away. We start to buzz and hum, excited to have done a full days work and ready to enjoy the fruit of our labour.

Strangers and Rants

2007-11-16T07:26:00.000-08:00

Stand up tall
so the wind races through your hair
do not slouch or bend or crawl
rise up, smile back - show them you care
choose your grapes wisely
let them sit in the sun
drink them down
the day is won

I am feeling slightly reflective at the moment - the sun is beginning to set and my voice is quieting down, resting from a day of gabbing and of exploration. Here's my reflection on having lunch w/ a random person I met in the tube...wtf? How does that happen

Who are you? Who are you? Who am I? Why are you here? Who are you to me? How did we meet? Questions I posed to a stranger who now has a name. I met him on the tube...he happens to be a gay priest. Chances 1:9999999999999999999999....9999 Insane. Insane. The question though is not so much who is he, that doesn't really matter. He is human, I am human. Why are people afraid to have lunch w/ strangers. Why do we ignore each other? Why do humans fail to see that we can communicate w/ each other just by smiling, just by being a pleasent voice to a cash teller. Why can't we just treat each other as humans. Not rich, not poor, not a cleaner, not a class divided society. Why do we have technology that drives us apart? How can we get closer? Do we want to?

Hare Krishna Who?

2007-11-14T07:13:00.000-08:00

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna

Krishna Krishna Hare Hare

Hare Rama Hare Rama

Rama Rama Hare Hare

For some reason I did not equate ISKCON, with Hare Krishna. ISKCON was some temple destination for Pop culture class, not that airport cult that reprogrammed adults to sit and praise God. I saw Hare Krishna as a strange and dangerous ideology. I thought it was a free love, free punch, kind of organization. Last year I watched hundreds of teenagers, without shoes, pull an enormous mansion-sized carriage full of white robed Hare Krishna’s (as I called them) singing on the National Mall in Washington D.C. My own confused look was mirrored by parade goers everywhere…what the $£%^ is going on with that huge thing, and, wait a second… is that a Hare Krishna, I thought they would shrivel if they came into the light.

It’s clear that I was misinformed, ignorant, and judgmental. But I had heard some nasty things. Oliver Sacks writes in An Anthropologist on Mars about a patient with a brain tumor who became so embroiled in Krishna Consciousness, that it was only possible for him to function while singing or swaying in tune to Krishna Mantras. He gave away thousands of dollars to the organization, only to be left deaf, blind, and dumb.

Yet, when we stepped into the temple, I felt completely at home. I wasn’t expecting that. I was ready to fend off unwanted charity drop bags with strength and honor. I would use Judo to protect my wallet and my sanity from being stripped away by cultish fanatics offering punch. It was strangely peaceful there. I walked around, touching the guilded walls and asking questions about the doll-like Gods sitting on the alter.

“We change them twice a day. They have their morning clothes, and their night clothes. It is ritual.” Ok, I thought, whatever gets you closer to enlightenment.

The soul is an eternal spiritual object. Together, the soul, with the mind and body, creates a human. When I ‘die’, I am not speaking of my soul. My soul will live on, transferred to another body of sorts. And this process will continue until I have reached enlightenment and can join God.

I don’t think I buy one word of that.

But I do believe that every soul, every individual is important. The color of your skin is does not matter (unless you are green and asking for my leader). I recognize that my mind and body are awfully demanding of my soul. Listening to that still small voice is so difficult with the deafening roar of my belly and the endless jabbering of my mind. The woman who sat with us and explained Krishna Consciousness seemed not to have that problem. She could listen to sirens and be overjoyed. The world seemed so simple and easy to her, as if there was nothing that could possibly go wrong. She seemed happy and content, feelings that I so often strive for, frequently missing the boat.

It was her relaxed and carefree that really turned me on to ISKCON, converting my hostility to a curiosity and interest. I want to go back and learn more, trying out a mantra or two, or joining them for dinner. I think I might even try the punch.

Britishness Defined?

2007-11-14T01:49:00.000-08:00

I walked down the street last night in the heart of London’s night scene, in Hackney on the East Side. This was London – thousands of people, Anglo, African, Indian, and Asian all dancing inside warm clubs. Music was blaring. Outside I could hear Brazilian horns and drumbeats from the heart of Africa. Lamb meat glistened in the windows of Kebab shops, while air perfumed with samosa spices tumbled onto the street. Two Asian girls shuffle past me and into the hookah bar mumbling in some language that my Americanized ears just cannot understand.

It is strange to think that this is the land of the Anglos: a place where white Protestantism has its roots and imperialism was born. According to figures based on the UK’s 2001 Census, 24.81% of London’s population was born outside the United Kingdom; that’s 1.7 million people in a city of 7 million. And these are only official figures. They do not even pretend to include those who did not bother to fill out government paperwork (BBC News). London is not the Steak and Kidney Pie of my father’s day. Rather it is the unpronounceable Sanskrit meal ordered from a Polish man, who was once a chemical engineer in Krakow. Since the 90s, immigration into London has changed, as all things are want to do. Commonwealth state populations, like India and Australia, still dominate immigrant communities, but newer arrivals from Central Africa, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East are beginning to establish themselves (Bennedictus).

In the 1950s, as West Indians pulled up to British shores, race riots broke throughout the city. From Noting Hill to West London, youths entered the streets fuming at the perceived loss of ‘British Whiteness’ (BBC News). As immigration increased, so too did questions regarding ‘British-ness.’ What does it mean to be British if one is not white and protestant? In the 1970s, the governments answered that question through legislation that in practice allowed “children born to white families in the remnants of the Empire or the former colonies to enter Britain. Their black counterparts could not” (BBC News). White defined Britishness.

Racial misunderstandings and ancient grudges gradually gave way to modern ideas regarding race. In the 1980s, the Government guaranteed minority rights, despite maintaining strict allowances on entry (BBC News). Immigrants began to assimilate into the community, gaining voting rights and thus political power. Yet it was not until 1987 that the first non-white MPs sat in Parliament. In the following election in 1997, nine non-white MPs gained seats (The History Channel). Armed with a voice in government, immigrants would now be able to transform their economic might into political weight.

The government and private sectors have established programs promoting racial equality and encouraging more immigrants, from around the world, to come to the UK because of the economic boom immigration has powered. In October, the Immigration Minister reported that immigrants “added about £6 billion to our economy last year” (The Home Office: Press Office). Immigration has poured money into the national coffers and private accounts all over the United Kingdom.

Yet, not everyone is happy with the situation. Socially, many are still concerned with this concept of Britishness - just what does it mean to be a Brit? In the States, this question is simple to answer. An American believes in certain principles, namely: democracy, freedom of opportunity, capital entrepreneurship, a protestant (hard) work ethic, and a liberal rights doctrine. Of course, there are variations in such lists, but in general, these are principles that ‘American’s’ adhere to. Yet, here in Britain, it is not possible to create such a list. A long history steeped in tradition and yet slapped by modern forces, makes identity a much more difficult concept to pinpoint.

Nowhere is this more apparent than Speaker’s Corner on Sunday mornings. A blur of colors, pamphlets, and religious books attack me as I walk from the Marble Arch tube stop. Already the American born Muslim man has captured a humongous audience, but today I focus on Hannah on the far corner. She is dressed in her traditional green dress with ruffled lacy sleeves that belie a deep-set anger at immigrants – or anyone who might not be white and protestant. She stands on her soapbox, screaming vitriolic words at her audience. “Mongrels, you are all mongrels. Africans are coming and spoiling this country, destroying our moral fabric, and ripping our society apart” (Hannah). In a personal interview, her anger was visible as her hands shook with frustration. “They are just destroying this country.” When I press her further, she claims “immigrants are criminals, they flee their own countries and come here to suck off of [British] hard work.” Even I am not immune to her rage. “You Americans come, enjoy our standard of living and displace the heart and soul of this nation.” Despite the minority feelings that Hannah has, I observe that she is not a completely isolated voice. Others at Speaker’s Corner harangue listeners with speeches similar to Hannah’s. Frustration with defining identity is not solely found in Hyde Park. In Camden Town, I spotted Swiss political posters focusing on the criminality of immigrants. Clearly racist and uninformed, it is posters like this that spin hate messages like Hannah’s. These voices are unfortunately not just isolated individuals, but rather small groups who are incredibly vocal. These arguments make it clear that the public has not come to a consensus on what it means to be a Brit.

When speaking with a Bangladeshi restaurant owner in Brick Lane, he could not precisely define what it meant to be a national of this country. “To me,” he started for the fourth time, “Britishness means…” He trailed off (Hakim). He flirted with an idea that Britishness meant being white, but stopped short when I reminded him about the 7% non-white population and their contribution to sports and politics (Jeffries). This concept of Britishness is inherently illusive. It is a created idea, something that individuals and organizations recreate and redefine on a daily basis.

Some individuals see Britishness as a blood transferred blessing (or curse, depending on which side of the Atlantic you are from). Yet others ascribe Britishness to a fundamental concern for the land and her people. Immigration has made this discussion even stickier. As society begins to include Brits of different backgrounds and histories, society must also expand the definition of what it means to be British. Maybe history and tradition does not define Britishness. Maybe it is a fondness for this land and its success. Unless these definitions can broaden, there is great risk of alienating those people who do not fit the traditional British vision: white and protestant.

When I walk down Hackney, I realize just how jumbled this place is. Indian restaurants vie for space with Chinese buffets, while Russians buy up real estate. With more new and seemingly strange people working and Living in London everyday, it is impossible not to be affected by the influx of new culture and everything that comes with it: new languages, new flavours, and new religion. London is not only a city of tea, crumpets and monarchy, but also a smorgasbord of Indian spices, roasted duck and Hare Krishna. I do not understand just what it means to be British. I am sure it has something to do with waiting in long queues and enjoying weekend constitutionals. However, it is so much more complex than that. Choosing my reference points I set off looking for answers, armed with nothing more than a Union Jack flag, a pint of ale and a donar kebab.

BBC News. Born Abroad. 2001. 28 October 2007 .

—. "Long History of Race Rioting." BBC News 28 May 2001. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/1355718.stm

—. Short History of Immigration. 21 October 2007 .

Bennedictus, Leo. "All Together Now." The Guardian 26 January 2006.

Hakim, Abdul. Brick Lane Marc Schutzbank. 28 October 2007.

Hannah. Speaker's Corner Conversations Marc Schutzbank. 23 September 2007.

Jeffries, Stuart. "Workers of the World." 9 March 2005. Guardian Unlimited. 10 November 2007 .

The History Channel. "British Racism." The History Channel. 5 November 2007 .

The Home Office: Press Office. "The Home Office: Press Office." 16 October 2007. Byrne heralds new balance in migration policy. 30 October 2007 .

It's quiet here

2007-11-12T15:46:00.000-08:00

Cars roared past me on my way to find endorphins. I turned up my music.

On Wednesday November 6th, a pirate was caught running in down-town London shirtless singing U2 at the top of his lungs. Although neighbours were pleasantly surprised, questions arose as the pirate danced around light poles and punctuated his run with what have been called, 'sic,' dance moves.

Truth is, that was me. I ran, and ran and ran. I ran through Drury lane and across the queen's parks. I was so confused, so stressed, and so very lost. I needed to find my way again.

It's not so much the running that was important, but the singing. The full body of my voice puncturing the mechanical noises of a city night. It didn't matter where my voice went, or who heard it, only that it was out there joining that cacophonous orchestral piece.

I finished running and placed my ipod in my pocket. I paid my legs for the privilege of riding the escalator up to the top of Primrose hill and moved into a handstand. I found myself upside down in view of the entire city of London and the Northern Sky.

Look up and see it. Bright skies, cold breath and the knowledge that someone out there is the most amazing girl...or boy...you have ever met - that's all we really need, love and stars.

Go running - be a pirate - explore...you'll find it if you have not already.

There is Hope for the world

2007-09-28T08:29:00.000-07:00

It's not as if I can really sit here, look at the world and feel totally hopeless. Things might seem bad, but if you pick up your chin and look out there, you can find something to inspire you, to get you to believe in something.

For the past few days, I've done nothing but look at graphs and maps that detail when we are all going to die. There is no debate on what the end will look like...huge storms, less fresh water, no food, cannibalism...apparently the environment is going to change so much that sex will be impossible. Humidity levels will make cuddling impossible. Yet despite all this there is hope. People are beginning to realize that if it's too hot to have sex, it just might be too hot for anyone to live.

Today at work I found some amazing things...videos about people who are passionate about making change. There are thousands out there. Letters, and blogs, and emails all depicting how there is something that we can do about climate change. It just felt damn good.

Here's some of the videos that I watched today. It's so great, check it out. http://www.climateprotect.org/ac2

Not to mention, I had a fricken great time last night...There is nothing better than going out and actually dancing...not the dane cook bull shit that we all do at clubs, but rather spin moves and Michael Jackson wanna bes. That's when it is fun...

But let me say something about London transport...it's great if you travel from like 5 - 2400, but during those wee hours of the morning...it's terrible. You have to catch the night buses - it's so hard to even find where the night buses go and where they are, plus it's cold as Dante's hell. When you go out though, you don't have long underwear on or your heavy winter jacket...although i might start that. So when your leaving, your wearing light clothing, that happens to be drenched with sweat...your cold, wet and in need of some late night drunk food...oh god, is that hard. The least the London authorities could do is get their stuff together so that we can all get home at all times of night. This is where I was last night but over to the left from this picture!

Hey it will create jobs.

Life in the Bush

2007-09-26T16:55:00.000-07:00

Commenting on today is not particularly necessary. Work is work, even if it's good...although last night was something to comment on.

Mike Skirpan, Patrick Cooper, Sam Nelson and Cassidy Gruber and I enjoyed a beer at this great pub on New Oxford Street. Conversation drifted in and out of clarity, a gentle wave pattern of fantasticness. We debated the terrible tradition of Americans using 'like' as a method of communication. After clearly a year long discussion, we realized that like, was something that allows us to tell stories, to bring the mundane into an existential place. A place where everything is interesting - it's really neat to think about. I mean come on how can you explain exactly what is happening and be interesting at the same time: you can't. So what you have to do, is create and manufacture the story, using like, in order to refrain from lying. Anyway, this continued until more people entered our amazing room complete with leather couches.

We met with these physicists who were hilarious. Immediately politics became the forefront of
our conversation. We couldn't get anywhere. At the end of the day, I believe it is the responsibility of the United States, and whatever government to impose a level of morality - which was developed under international treaty - upon the world. If we do not, then there is no point to governments or to action in generaal. Everything should be towards some betterment. How one would define that is clearly a problem, but at the end of the day, it still has legitimacy in my eyes. This Scottish guy, wouldn't even listen to us. He was just right, which I can understand that feeling, but at the same time, it would have just been nice to have an open conversational air.

Anyway, twenty minutes after that, we had donar kebabs...damn were they good.

Anyway, I'm about to pass out. Love you guys!

Yom Kippur and Fantasticness

2007-09-22T17:01:00.000-07:00

It's not everyday that you can say that life hits you in the face and takes you into the Victorian Age without notice and without any sort of dangerous time traveling phenomena.

Today was/is depending on the way that you read these blog things - as timeless events, like a diary - or an account of the past - all needless babble. Today I met Charles Dickens, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Livingston, WG Grace - for all of you non Cricket players check out http://dialspace.dial.pipex.com/town/square/ad629/grace.
This here is Sherlock, he's about to bowl to the batter. Cricket is the most god damned most confusing sport in the world. No one should attempt to understand it without any sort of alcoholic beverage in their system. It involves wickets and pails and hitting and beer and more beer and going to get beer and travelling to go get beer and then occasional running, but only occasionally. These guys were out for a 'stag day' It was the last day as a free man, and they did it in full blown Victorian age clothing and activities. They spent the morning in Hampstead pool a bathing area about 10 minutes from me. They raced around on penny bikes, those ones with the big front wheel and then the small back one and then got drunk and played cricket, all in these costumes. Here you go check it out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cricket.

I was joined for services for Yom Kippur in the morning by Elyse Greenberg, which were actually fantastic. I am not usually one to say that, I need to feel services, not just be an empty vessel sitting there indefinitely...I just fall asleep. Of course I'm not saying that I did not fall asleep, because that would just be a lie, but I am saying that I slept far less than is typical of my time in religious ceremonies.

The concept for the sermon was great. Don't let your past determine you future. Think about it. We fuck up, sometimes over and over and over again and not just because it feels good, but because we don't see anyway out of it. We don't know what it means to 'do it right,' I know that sounds silly, but we can't see or imagine a new way...a different way of doing things. This was a great sermon because it said to ignore every time in the past. Those have no impact on your future choices...that's kinda bollocks (testicles, as I've just learned), but he is hitting on some interesting points. Take to heart your past screw ups, but make them positive lessons for you. It was a good message. Needless to say I took it to heart...just after the nap.

Anyway, there is much more to say, even about this day...just as a little teaser for the future it involves, how I got a job babysitting little terrors who are absolutely darling and how a Jewish mother is a Jewish mother everywhere...i can't even walk I'm so stuffed.

Cheers mates,
hope you're enjoying

Welcome.

2007-09-22T15:50:00.000-07:00

Hello all.

This is my first experience using a blog or getting involved in this online publishing craze. I'm excited because it can provide me to express my thoughts and ideas in some sort of semi-tangible way. I mean the Internet is not really any sort of tangible thing, but you know how it goes. Regardless, I want to write out my ideas so that not only I can prove that I do have thoughts, but also so that I can share them with you. I hope that you enjoy and I look forward to sharing them with you