Apparently, my name is meant to occupy the silence of a stupid mumbling comment. Awesome. Annerythinlikat | ||
Used in conjunction with a sentence during a pause in which you are deciding what to say next or ending a sentence to occupy the silence of your stupid mumbling comment or story. (and-every-thing-like-that) I was going to a meeting where I was going to be instructed on how to instruct, annerythinlikat. http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Annerythinlikat | ||
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Friday, July 2, 2010
According to Urban Dictionary....
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Cultural Capital
A kid at my job was sitting behind me earlier this week. And after messing up his computer clean up by accidentally pulling a plug, I tried engaging what seemed like an otherwise friendly dude in conversation. For some reason, my code switching kicked in, and this reason is not unknown to me. I tend to code switch depending on who I am talking to. But, often, when the actual switching of codes happens in front of the person I'm speaking differently to, the results are usually relatively awkward.
[Like the time I was saying good-bye to a friend by over-pronouncing all of my r's as I would speak to most of my college friends, and my proper good-bye got intercepted by a dude in Central Square saying, 'Ey yo, what up,'
And I, in my many years of experience with getting hit on in Central Square, just said,
'Wud up,' which, in turn, elicited an awkward response: 'Why you talkin' like that all the sudden?'
Ah! Cuz I adapt how I sound to who I'm talking to and I'm a confused bi-product of a multicultural context.]
So my slang kicked in at the office and the computer kid said,
"Please don't use that word ever again."
He says this with a sense of authority, as if he is the slang-keeper, holding the authority to approve or deny the use of slang terms to anyone he deems incompetent. And worst of all, he says this to me as if I'm some suburban white person trying to impress him or something. No offense to suburban white people, but that's just not who I am. And if I was, I would be writing a whole other post about the socially acceptable uses of certain terms and how who one is affects how well these terms are received.
Well, the conversation doesn't end here. He proceeds to challenge how Dominican I am, asking me to "say something in Spanish."
"You were born here?"
"Yes," I respond.
"Then you're American. Say something in Spanish, you probably can't speak it."
And here I am sitting in my cubicle with my pencil skirt and button down blouse, with client files stacked next to me, listening to this kid in baggy jeans with a modern day jerry curl challenge me to a cultural match, reminiscent of High School "yo' mama battles.'
I ignore it because...why wouldn't I? I'm done with my friendly attempt at conversation. This has now stepped into a realm I am not willing to engage.
My coworker happens to pass by, addressing me in Spanish, to which I respond in Spanish. And of course, he says: "See, you're not Dominican. You don't speak Spanish."
Ummm ok.... I ignore.
He proceeds to educate me about said Dominican spanish and explains, "See, you have to know about el tigeraje..." Now, tigeraje is actually not used correctly in this sentence. Tigeraje refers to street smarts, which he meant to use in order to explain that if I did not speak with Dominican slang I surely wasn't Dominican.
Although the encounter is laughable, it left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and with questions about our perceptions of people. Granted, I was born in the United States and went to a private college. But had he known my background, would he have treated me this way and questioned me so intensely? Had he seen me in a context other than my work environment where my language sounds different, would he have received my switch into slang as defensively as he did?
Of course I was not going to speak Dominican slang in the office, because 1. I'm in an office setting, which requires a certain degree of professionalism.2. I was not born in a rural town outside of the city in Dominican Republic, I was born in Cambridge. And 3. The Spanish I know as my first language comes from a family that is relatively proper.
Had he known that our backgrounds were probably not that different-that my mom was a single parent, that I grew up in project housing, that graffiti intrigued me as a 14 year old and that I was part of a rap group throughout my adolescence, known as the girl that raps; that I read Source magazine and followed the East Coast-West coast battle long before he was born (represented by Tupac and Biggie); that I cried when The Lox and Faith Evans sang We'll Always Love Big Papa--would this encounter have panned out differently? But listing my credentials is a waste of breath in this situation. The only reason I list them here is to get at a larger point: We assume things about people, especially when it has to do with culture. We use our "cultural capital" to lord over others sometimes, like-
"I grew up in the projects, my big brother is in the Latin Kings, my cousin snorts coke and my mother left me when I was two, what about you?"
Someone in this situation is not lamenting their childhood nor projecting their feelings of brokenness here. They are, in fact, gloating in a self-aggrandizing manner because the culture affirms this kind of background as evidence of cultural badges of honor.
And this attitude is not limited to people growing up in an urban context. I see this in suburbia all the time. Take the all too familiar post-Gordon party, for instance, I hear conversations like this often:
-"I went to community college for six months, so I was totally in shock when I went to Gordon," says the blonde kid from New Hampshire whose family is Republican, as he ostentatiously smokes a cigarette and blurts out the word "sex" every five minutes.
-"Six months!" Cries the other. "I went for two years before I transfered to Gordon! Ha! Take that, you ignorant fool!"
Well, friends, guess what? There are people in the world with even greater exposure to all things un-Gordon than you! Who have no clue what evangelical even means and who have never seen so many look alikes together in one place in their lives.
And the same goes for homeboy who was so proud of his knowledge of street Spanish. Listing my 10 years of bilingual schooling, my experience providing interpretation services and my experience tutoring Spanish is probably irrelevant here. Never-mind the fact that Spanish is my first language and it's the only thing I've ever spoken with my mother. I would be just like him if I began to engage him in his world of laying claims to cultural capital. Because in the end, there is someone who speaks even better Spanish, who is more Dominican than the both of us combined; namely, people who live in DR. So our cultural battle here would be nothing more than trying to prove one of us is more clueless than the other. So that it doesn't have to do with culture at all, but with pride.
[Like the time I was saying good-bye to a friend by over-pronouncing all of my r's as I would speak to most of my college friends, and my proper good-bye got intercepted by a dude in Central Square saying, 'Ey yo, what up,'
And I, in my many years of experience with getting hit on in Central Square, just said,
'Wud up,' which, in turn, elicited an awkward response: 'Why you talkin' like that all the sudden?'
Ah! Cuz I adapt how I sound to who I'm talking to and I'm a confused bi-product of a multicultural context.]
So my slang kicked in at the office and the computer kid said,
"Please don't use that word ever again."
He says this with a sense of authority, as if he is the slang-keeper, holding the authority to approve or deny the use of slang terms to anyone he deems incompetent. And worst of all, he says this to me as if I'm some suburban white person trying to impress him or something. No offense to suburban white people, but that's just not who I am. And if I was, I would be writing a whole other post about the socially acceptable uses of certain terms and how who one is affects how well these terms are received.
Well, the conversation doesn't end here. He proceeds to challenge how Dominican I am, asking me to "say something in Spanish."
"You were born here?"
"Yes," I respond.
"Then you're American. Say something in Spanish, you probably can't speak it."
And here I am sitting in my cubicle with my pencil skirt and button down blouse, with client files stacked next to me, listening to this kid in baggy jeans with a modern day jerry curl challenge me to a cultural match, reminiscent of High School "yo' mama battles.'
I ignore it because...why wouldn't I? I'm done with my friendly attempt at conversation. This has now stepped into a realm I am not willing to engage.
My coworker happens to pass by, addressing me in Spanish, to which I respond in Spanish. And of course, he says: "See, you're not Dominican. You don't speak Spanish."
Ummm ok.... I ignore.
He proceeds to educate me about said Dominican spanish and explains, "See, you have to know about el tigeraje..." Now, tigeraje is actually not used correctly in this sentence. Tigeraje refers to street smarts, which he meant to use in order to explain that if I did not speak with Dominican slang I surely wasn't Dominican.
Although the encounter is laughable, it left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and with questions about our perceptions of people. Granted, I was born in the United States and went to a private college. But had he known my background, would he have treated me this way and questioned me so intensely? Had he seen me in a context other than my work environment where my language sounds different, would he have received my switch into slang as defensively as he did?
Of course I was not going to speak Dominican slang in the office, because 1. I'm in an office setting, which requires a certain degree of professionalism.2. I was not born in a rural town outside of the city in Dominican Republic, I was born in Cambridge. And 3. The Spanish I know as my first language comes from a family that is relatively proper.
Had he known that our backgrounds were probably not that different-that my mom was a single parent, that I grew up in project housing, that graffiti intrigued me as a 14 year old and that I was part of a rap group throughout my adolescence, known as the girl that raps; that I read Source magazine and followed the East Coast-West coast battle long before he was born (represented by Tupac and Biggie); that I cried when The Lox and Faith Evans sang We'll Always Love Big Papa--would this encounter have panned out differently? But listing my credentials is a waste of breath in this situation. The only reason I list them here is to get at a larger point: We assume things about people, especially when it has to do with culture. We use our "cultural capital" to lord over others sometimes, like-
"I grew up in the projects, my big brother is in the Latin Kings, my cousin snorts coke and my mother left me when I was two, what about you?"
Someone in this situation is not lamenting their childhood nor projecting their feelings of brokenness here. They are, in fact, gloating in a self-aggrandizing manner because the culture affirms this kind of background as evidence of cultural badges of honor.
And this attitude is not limited to people growing up in an urban context. I see this in suburbia all the time. Take the all too familiar post-Gordon party, for instance, I hear conversations like this often:
-"I went to community college for six months, so I was totally in shock when I went to Gordon," says the blonde kid from New Hampshire whose family is Republican, as he ostentatiously smokes a cigarette and blurts out the word "sex" every five minutes.
-"Six months!" Cries the other. "I went for two years before I transfered to Gordon! Ha! Take that, you ignorant fool!"
Well, friends, guess what? There are people in the world with even greater exposure to all things un-Gordon than you! Who have no clue what evangelical even means and who have never seen so many look alikes together in one place in their lives.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Friday night
It's Friday night. 9:10 p.m. to be exact.
I'm sitting in my room listening to Erykah Badu, and I don't feel bored.
I don't even feel that eerie feeling that grips me when I've spent too much time inside my own head.
I don't need to go out tonight. Just ask Brad how surprising that is-in contrast to every other previous weekend where I complain about being a 23 year old locked up in suburban hippidom, oppressed by bonfires and blocked from going out- I'm totally ok tonight; just sitting here, chillin' with my girl, Erykah Badu; listening to her advice, her words and soaking up her soulful voice. And not only is this impressive in of itself, but listen to this: Up until 5 minutes ago I was without internet. Without internet! And although I was sure that my life would be exponentially better tonight if my wireless started working, I was ok.
I don't have a date. I'm not in New York City, caught up in a cloud of aesthetic bliss, surrounded by tons of other good looking people walking to vegan restaurants, jazz venues and getting hit on by the cute guy standing on the other side of the room. I'm not at a salsa club with pretty makeup and in my favorite cocktail dress. Not tonight.
And here's the realization: Whenever I am bored, anxious or unsatisfied on a given uneventful Friday night, it's only because of my expectations. I expect to constantly be surrounded by Monica, Rachel, Joey, Ross and Chandler; to always have Central Perk to go to and to always have a date lined up. So that whenever these things don't come to fruition I am let down and frustrated.
So, it must be that the reason I am content tonight is because I've abandoned those expectations. Tonight I'm thinking about the fact that every moment does not have to be filled with stimulation. Not every moment has to reach the peak of excitement. Not every Friday night has to be filled with lots of activity. Those moments are great, but so is this. When those moments are absent, I must take the time to take inventory, rejuvenate. Going on a run/walk, taking out my mat and practicing yoga. Or heck! Not doing a damn thing because how often do you get the chance to sit and do nothing without an assignment in the world hanging over your head?
Sure, it's nice to distract yourself once in a while, but isn't there a problem when we are in a constant state of wanting to escape time with ourselves? I can finally look at myself and answer truthfully: All you got is yourself, m'ija. But that's not all! You have had, and will have moments of fun, of travel, of laughter with friends. Let tonight be mellow and sit with yourself. And even if you do nothing else but lay on your bed, listening to Erykah Badu, that's ok. Chill back, relax and don't you dare call Tyrone's crazy cousin ;)
I'm sitting in my room listening to Erykah Badu, and I don't feel bored.
I don't even feel that eerie feeling that grips me when I've spent too much time inside my own head.
I don't need to go out tonight. Just ask Brad how surprising that is-in contrast to every other previous weekend where I complain about being a 23 year old locked up in suburban hippidom, oppressed by bonfires and blocked from going out- I'm totally ok tonight; just sitting here, chillin' with my girl, Erykah Badu; listening to her advice, her words and soaking up her soulful voice. And not only is this impressive in of itself, but listen to this: Up until 5 minutes ago I was without internet. Without internet! And although I was sure that my life would be exponentially better tonight if my wireless started working, I was ok.
I don't have a date. I'm not in New York City, caught up in a cloud of aesthetic bliss, surrounded by tons of other good looking people walking to vegan restaurants, jazz venues and getting hit on by the cute guy standing on the other side of the room. I'm not at a salsa club with pretty makeup and in my favorite cocktail dress. Not tonight.
And here's the realization: Whenever I am bored, anxious or unsatisfied on a given uneventful Friday night, it's only because of my expectations. I expect to constantly be surrounded by Monica, Rachel, Joey, Ross and Chandler; to always have Central Perk to go to and to always have a date lined up. So that whenever these things don't come to fruition I am let down and frustrated.
So, it must be that the reason I am content tonight is because I've abandoned those expectations. Tonight I'm thinking about the fact that every moment does not have to be filled with stimulation. Not every moment has to reach the peak of excitement. Not every Friday night has to be filled with lots of activity. Those moments are great, but so is this. When those moments are absent, I must take the time to take inventory, rejuvenate. Going on a run/walk, taking out my mat and practicing yoga. Or heck! Not doing a damn thing because how often do you get the chance to sit and do nothing without an assignment in the world hanging over your head?
Sure, it's nice to distract yourself once in a while, but isn't there a problem when we are in a constant state of wanting to escape time with ourselves? I can finally look at myself and answer truthfully: All you got is yourself, m'ija. But that's not all! You have had, and will have moments of fun, of travel, of laughter with friends. Let tonight be mellow and sit with yourself. And even if you do nothing else but lay on your bed, listening to Erykah Badu, that's ok. Chill back, relax and don't you dare call Tyrone's crazy cousin ;)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Compassion for the powerful
You can make me small. You can make me cry. You can make me ball my eyes out. Of course, that wasn't your intention, however. I am your threat. Threatening to the columns that hold up your secure world. So you were just retaliating. Of course.
You expected me to come at you with yells and stones. But once you saw my tears you realized I'm weaker than you thought. And you smiled inside because you regained your power and acquired the ability to say, I can help you.
But once my tears are gone and I regain a sense of perspective. That I, in fact, am not doing poorly. That I, in fact, am not bad at what I do. And that you, in fact, are the very thing I learned about in college and in life: We belittle the people we serve. I get angry once I realize this. And I misunderstand you.
Because see, I was trained to understand the downtrodden. I was trained to understand the oppressed and vulnerable, even as they yell at me. But I don't know how to understand you when you stand over me with your power and make me feel small. How can I be compassionate towards those in power-at the top? They need it too. In fact, they might need it more.
Because the downtrodden know themselves. They know they are downtrodden. But the powerful are deceived: They are addicted to their own status and it fuels their identity. And if you ever told them this, they would roar at you from the well of their need for security. "DON'T YOU DARE CHALLENGE MY IDENTITY."
But how can I not? When the oppressed who are in their hands will be crushed by their need for affirmation? How horrible is it that their affirmation comes from the knowledge that those under them need them to survive?
O powerful one, you can let your guard down. You have value beyond the need others might have for you. Even if no one needed you, you are valuable. People would in fact love you even if they didn't need you. People would be empowered if they learned they didn't need you. And you might be empowered by believing that they can survive on their own. You will be free the second you are comfortable with your strengths and weaknesses and when you remain unthreatened by someone with a different perspective and with a different strength. Resist the temptation to capitulate on their weakness, realize the strength you have that they may not. And share with them, learn from them in a spirit of reciprocity.
I want you to know you can help me. But I want you to know that if I can ever help you, that's Ok and you'll still be amazing at what you do.
You expected me to come at you with yells and stones. But once you saw my tears you realized I'm weaker than you thought. And you smiled inside because you regained your power and acquired the ability to say, I can help you.
But once my tears are gone and I regain a sense of perspective. That I, in fact, am not doing poorly. That I, in fact, am not bad at what I do. And that you, in fact, are the very thing I learned about in college and in life: We belittle the people we serve. I get angry once I realize this. And I misunderstand you.
Because see, I was trained to understand the downtrodden. I was trained to understand the oppressed and vulnerable, even as they yell at me. But I don't know how to understand you when you stand over me with your power and make me feel small. How can I be compassionate towards those in power-at the top? They need it too. In fact, they might need it more.
Because the downtrodden know themselves. They know they are downtrodden. But the powerful are deceived: They are addicted to their own status and it fuels their identity. And if you ever told them this, they would roar at you from the well of their need for security. "DON'T YOU DARE CHALLENGE MY IDENTITY."
But how can I not? When the oppressed who are in their hands will be crushed by their need for affirmation? How horrible is it that their affirmation comes from the knowledge that those under them need them to survive?
O powerful one, you can let your guard down. You have value beyond the need others might have for you. Even if no one needed you, you are valuable. People would in fact love you even if they didn't need you. People would be empowered if they learned they didn't need you. And you might be empowered by believing that they can survive on their own. You will be free the second you are comfortable with your strengths and weaknesses and when you remain unthreatened by someone with a different perspective and with a different strength. Resist the temptation to capitulate on their weakness, realize the strength you have that they may not. And share with them, learn from them in a spirit of reciprocity.
I want you to know you can help me. But I want you to know that if I can ever help you, that's Ok and you'll still be amazing at what you do.
Social services
You're so good at what you do.
You even work beyond the hours that are required of you. Time. Efficiency.
You have all of this quantifiable data about how you help people. And you feel great.
But hold on, someone comes along, saying that this job is actually not about you. It's about the clients. Someone comes along and says, 'Oh yea, food stamps are important. But there's something else there that makes them need the food stamps in the first place." You help. But you let them know you are their helper. Without you they could do nothing. These people are disgusting to you. Oh yes they are. These persons with God-given talents and dignity are the ungrateful scum of the earth to you. Why they don't respond to your many calls? You hypothesize: It's because they're lazy. It's because they are ungrateful.
These people are survivors.
Their supposedly disgusting bathrooms are part your imagination and part a reflection of the sexual abuse that happened from the ages of 5-7. Their inability to get up in the morning is not laziness and cannot be explained away with "they just don't want to." It's a reflection of the fact that their mother never got up to take care of them, never made them the breakfasts that you got to enjoy. When you were thinking about Barbie Dolls and your greatest worry was whether you were going to get the toy you wanted at Christmas, they were in bed worrying about whether daddy was going to come wake them from their slumber by slapping them across the face when he came home drunk. You think you are such an expert on their lives? You've been working with "people like them" for a period of a year maybe, maybe two, for the last 5 years or so. They--they have been living their difficult lives for 20 + years. They are experts on themselves. Have you ever thought to ask them, Why? Why are you in shelter? Why are you here instead of in college? Why are you with that abusive boyfriend instead of with a man who will love you? Why are you in shelter instead of living in an apartment like mine? What is the difference between you and I?
You don't ask because you assume the answers to these questions. And they all culminate in theories of laziness and "because they don't want to."
But you're so good at what you do. You manage their lives like they could never imagine managing their own.
But that's part of the system, isn't it? Let's keep tossing them left overs of fish, while never teaching them that they have the potential to fishermen. That they have the potential to be fisherwomen.
You even work beyond the hours that are required of you. Time. Efficiency.
You have all of this quantifiable data about how you help people. And you feel great.
But hold on, someone comes along, saying that this job is actually not about you. It's about the clients. Someone comes along and says, 'Oh yea, food stamps are important. But there's something else there that makes them need the food stamps in the first place." You help. But you let them know you are their helper. Without you they could do nothing. These people are disgusting to you. Oh yes they are. These persons with God-given talents and dignity are the ungrateful scum of the earth to you. Why they don't respond to your many calls? You hypothesize: It's because they're lazy. It's because they are ungrateful.
These people are survivors.
Their supposedly disgusting bathrooms are part your imagination and part a reflection of the sexual abuse that happened from the ages of 5-7. Their inability to get up in the morning is not laziness and cannot be explained away with "they just don't want to." It's a reflection of the fact that their mother never got up to take care of them, never made them the breakfasts that you got to enjoy. When you were thinking about Barbie Dolls and your greatest worry was whether you were going to get the toy you wanted at Christmas, they were in bed worrying about whether daddy was going to come wake them from their slumber by slapping them across the face when he came home drunk. You think you are such an expert on their lives? You've been working with "people like them" for a period of a year maybe, maybe two, for the last 5 years or so. They--they have been living their difficult lives for 20 + years. They are experts on themselves. Have you ever thought to ask them, Why? Why are you in shelter? Why are you here instead of in college? Why are you with that abusive boyfriend instead of with a man who will love you? Why are you in shelter instead of living in an apartment like mine? What is the difference between you and I?
You don't ask because you assume the answers to these questions. And they all culminate in theories of laziness and "because they don't want to."
But you're so good at what you do. You manage their lives like they could never imagine managing their own.
But that's part of the system, isn't it? Let's keep tossing them left overs of fish, while never teaching them that they have the potential to fishermen. That they have the potential to be fisherwomen.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
In theory...
I like many things in theory.
In theory, I like Turkey. And not the country. Just the pictures of the country. I've never been there and today, while looking at these gorgeous photographs of a half moon and a star, reds, vibrant yellows, coffee shops and cool outfits, I decided that I like the hypothetical country. Sure, the controversies over secularism and religiosity in Turkey are fascinating. But let me explain why I hesitate to say I like the country:
In theory, I like Croatia. I like the pictures I took when I was there. I like the Cathedrals, the iron railings, the mustard yellos and the skinny jean modelesque youngsters from Novi Zagreb. But I lived there for six weeks and I only actually liked living there 2 out of the six weeks. These moments of beauty are just that. Moments. They are not sustainable. We don't live in bubbles of beauty. We see glimmers of it.
I like reading. I like seeing the piles of books stack all over my room. I like their colors. I like that you can tell a lot about my interests by their titles, "Book of Hours," "Deep Economy," "Retrato en Sepia," "Cien Años de Soledad." But do I read them? Kind of. I read half of one book, a quarter of another, a chapter of this one, three chapters of that one.
But boy, do I want to read. And boy, do I want to travel to Turkey. But I want to do it in a Palestinian scarf with a coffee cup sipping espresso. In essence, I want the beauty.
Then there are things that I've managed to like both in theory and in practice. I like graffiti, in theory. I love it as a symbol of expression coming from the marginalized in our society; how talent oozes out through the hiss of a spray can from the fingers of those we thought were good for nothings. And I also love the way the spray can feels when I spray it against a wall or a canvas or a wooden slate. Even if I'm not good at it because I haven't had much practice. I like it, and am willing to spend hours practicing and sitting in front of random peaces of wood that I find in my house just so that one day I can proudly put my name on a free wall-beautifully.
Once I got into it, Retrato en Sepia, became my favorite book. I read it all the way from Boston to New York. I lost myself in Allende's pages and in the intricate details of Aurora's life.
In theory, I want to belong to boards, committees, get my voice heard. But, in practice, the work is not always fun. Sometimes it means pushing the envelope, having people get mad at you for doing so, and pushing through their anger anyways just because you believe in this cause. It means feeling bad about the work you do some days. It means researching and praying for connections that may or may not come-with the steadfast hope that one day they will. And even if they don't, all you have is this desire to push the system that keeps a people down; an inner desire to ruffle the feathers of those who maintain it. So even if I never get my connection, I have no other option but to push for them.
This difference between theory and practice is sticking with something through the discomfort. Beautiful pictures of Turkey don't make us uncomfortable. They inspire us. NYTimes articles about poverty, while they may elicit emotion, they mostly satisfy our thirst for knowledge. Again, they inspire us. But as tough as it may be to read the news, it's tougher to take the disappointment from a supervisor, the boredom of the every day. The theoretical helps us to stay inspired. The practice helps us get the job done.
So they're both important, huh?
Beautiful pictures give us perspective and help us see the forest. But the practice is where it's at. Let's keep practicing, people, until we reach the vision that the theoretical provides us with.
In theory, I like Turkey. And not the country. Just the pictures of the country. I've never been there and today, while looking at these gorgeous photographs of a half moon and a star, reds, vibrant yellows, coffee shops and cool outfits, I decided that I like the hypothetical country. Sure, the controversies over secularism and religiosity in Turkey are fascinating. But let me explain why I hesitate to say I like the country:
In theory, I like Croatia. I like the pictures I took when I was there. I like the Cathedrals, the iron railings, the mustard yellos and the skinny jean modelesque youngsters from Novi Zagreb. But I lived there for six weeks and I only actually liked living there 2 out of the six weeks. These moments of beauty are just that. Moments. They are not sustainable. We don't live in bubbles of beauty. We see glimmers of it.
I like reading. I like seeing the piles of books stack all over my room. I like their colors. I like that you can tell a lot about my interests by their titles, "Book of Hours," "Deep Economy," "Retrato en Sepia," "Cien Años de Soledad." But do I read them? Kind of. I read half of one book, a quarter of another, a chapter of this one, three chapters of that one.
But boy, do I want to read. And boy, do I want to travel to Turkey. But I want to do it in a Palestinian scarf with a coffee cup sipping espresso. In essence, I want the beauty.
Then there are things that I've managed to like both in theory and in practice. I like graffiti, in theory. I love it as a symbol of expression coming from the marginalized in our society; how talent oozes out through the hiss of a spray can from the fingers of those we thought were good for nothings. And I also love the way the spray can feels when I spray it against a wall or a canvas or a wooden slate. Even if I'm not good at it because I haven't had much practice. I like it, and am willing to spend hours practicing and sitting in front of random peaces of wood that I find in my house just so that one day I can proudly put my name on a free wall-beautifully.
Once I got into it, Retrato en Sepia, became my favorite book. I read it all the way from Boston to New York. I lost myself in Allende's pages and in the intricate details of Aurora's life.
In theory, I want to belong to boards, committees, get my voice heard. But, in practice, the work is not always fun. Sometimes it means pushing the envelope, having people get mad at you for doing so, and pushing through their anger anyways just because you believe in this cause. It means feeling bad about the work you do some days. It means researching and praying for connections that may or may not come-with the steadfast hope that one day they will. And even if they don't, all you have is this desire to push the system that keeps a people down; an inner desire to ruffle the feathers of those who maintain it. So even if I never get my connection, I have no other option but to push for them.
This difference between theory and practice is sticking with something through the discomfort. Beautiful pictures of Turkey don't make us uncomfortable. They inspire us. NYTimes articles about poverty, while they may elicit emotion, they mostly satisfy our thirst for knowledge. Again, they inspire us. But as tough as it may be to read the news, it's tougher to take the disappointment from a supervisor, the boredom of the every day. The theoretical helps us to stay inspired. The practice helps us get the job done.
So they're both important, huh?
Beautiful pictures give us perspective and help us see the forest. But the practice is where it's at. Let's keep practicing, people, until we reach the vision that the theoretical provides us with.
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