Archive for September 2010

Alanna in Afghanistan? Girls Raised as Boys Taste Freedom And Sadness.

September 21, 2010

The Shield of "Boyhood"

Today’s New York Times has a fascinating and rather sad article by Jenny Nordberg about families in Afghanistan raising a daughter as a son to cope with the pressures of a society in which boy children are incomparably prized.  The reasons for raising a girl as a boy differ – in some cases, the “boy” is the only one who can work in the world, providing support for a family of females who are not allowed to earn their keep; in others, it is to provide some protection from the rebuke and ill fortune deemed the lot of a family solely of daughters.  The selected girl (usually a youngest daughter, chosen when hope of a boy child wears thin) is raised as a boy till puberty or beyond (sometimes even till marriage) , despite the risk of the girl’s body betraying her.  The “change back” to traditional female comes as a brutal shock to women who have been used to the freedom–societal, mental, and physical–that only “boyhood” allows.  Such women have difficulty not only in assuming their circumscribed feminine lives, but also in relating to other women.

How do you regurgitate a taste of freedom?  Some women (such as one of the main mothers interviewed) hope that that the experience of boyhood will enlarge the ambitions of their daughters, empowering them even after they are forced to revert.

Obviously, the article–the phenomenon–raises lots of questions, many of which can be summed up by the word “how”?  But one obvious point is simply the difference in Afghani culture from the mainstream West.   This is the stuff of fantasy in the West  (setting aside transgender girls and boys, which are a somewhat different phenomenon).   Alanna!  The wonderful/horrible series of children’s  fantasies by Tamara Pierce about the girl who disguises herself as a boy to train as a knight.

It’s also the stuff of history–those ages in which women could not own or manage property.  (In the children’s book area, this territory has been beautifully mapped by Phillip Pullman in the Sally Lockhart series.)

Okay, I’m not saying that everything is so clear and straightforward for girls in the West now.  Factors in Western culture push girls to all kinds of self-distortions–i.e. anorexia, cosmetic surgery. I recently received an Urban Outfitters catalogue in which all the female models look like underage prostitutes on quaaludes.

Oddly, many of these distorted means to power have a stereotypically feminine aspect in the West.   Girls who can only roam with relative freedom when they can pretend to be boys?  Girls who shield their whole families through such conduct?   This is something apart.

Pauvresse Oblige

September 20, 2010

It sounds paternalistic; it is paternalistic; but the concept of noblesse oblige, or as Sergeant Colon of Terry Prachett’s Discworld calls it – nobblyesse obligay–used to make the wealthy and/or aristocratic feel guilty enough to do the right thing, at least some minor sacrifice which passed as the right thing.

The “right thing” in this paternalistic, but noble, world meant something that was fair-minded,  generous (i.e. not greedy).  This seems to have been a little more clearcut in times before trickle-down economics or of  ‘get as much of it while you can’ economics (the system we seem to have now.)

As Paul Krugman points out in today’s New York Times (“The Angry Rich”), many of the rich in the U.S are hopping mad.  They feel absolutely entitled to  (or perhaps psychotically defensive about) their hundreds of millions and are really really worried about a return to a tax system that was in place a mere ten years ago.   An especially angry billionaire, Steve Schwarzman, has compared President Obama’s proposals to tax the earnings of hedge fund managers as ordinary income to Hitler’s invasion of Poland.   (I’m not completely sure who is more injured by this type of statement–Obama or the people of Poland, whose suffering in World War II seems horribly demeaned by such an idiotic comparison.)

What’s crazier, and sadder, is that so many ordinary Americans are caught up in the defense of the rich and super-rich.  Such Americans, angered by the more visible entitlements of the poor (which in the big scheme of things are pretty paltry–that’s why they are poor). give the rich a free ride.   Many of the working and middle class seem to view the rich as a parallel (if luckier) group to themselves; hard-working folks who deserve to keep absolutely all of what they have.   They don’t seem to ask if the rich are really thousands of times more hard-working or deserving than a poor guy or gal with two low-paying jobs.

The idea has been spread that protecting a billionaire’s billions from a pre-George W. Bush level of tax is somehow incremental to protecting a middle or working class person’s thousands (or hundreds); the fact that it’s the Republicans who are holding tax reductions for the middle class hostage has also been obfuscated.   What’s saddest is that many of the working and middle class do not seem to recognize that by fighting any return to the former tax regime for the rich, they are unknowingly offering to make big sacrifices for them–sacrifices in safety, public services, decent schools, a civil society.

A not so minor sacrifice.

Pauvresse oblige.

Posting on Air (Not)

September 19, 2010

Isn't life grand!?

I am flying back from Florida to New York and the flight attendant has just announced that we are over 10,000 feet and that permitted electronic devices can now be turned on and also (omg!) that this airplane is equipped with WiFi service – ‘just check your sky magazine for details.’

I am not the kind of person who checks sky magazines for details any more than I am the kind of person who reads instructions before assembling a baby carriage.  There are screws and bolts and bits and pieces and  somehow you’ve got to jam them all together so that you only have one or two of the silly things left over.

You call my kind of people the bargers-ahead; the damners of the torpedoes.

But I digress.

Wifi on the airplane!

Yes, I was almost asleep.  Yes, I’d been actually reading print media.  Yes, I’d even been looking out the window.

But hey, yippee!

I don’t write this as a complete troglodyte.  Wifi on the airplane gives me a whole new reason to look out the window.  Now I’ll be able to write about what I see.  More importantly, I’ll be able to think about what I see.  (Looking silently is maybe just doable, but thinking silently?  Without pen or pad or laptop!?  No way, for a manic barger torpedo-damner.)

I compose my excited first line as I drag out my laptop:  I’m flying.  I’m posting.  I’ve got the Atlantic Ocean to my right, and two empty seats to my left!

 

 

(Hey, I can even post a photograph.   I drag out my camera and take a shot of this herd of beautiful little puffs of clouds and ocean and shoreline as my computer boots up.  Then try to log on.)

Yes, there is Wifi on the airplane. But it costs $10 per flight.

Do I really need to post right here, right now?

Wasn’t I about to go to sleep?

It’s not the money; it’s the principle of the thing.

I know the airlines will not give you a free lunch any more, but can’t they spare a little bandwidth???

The clouds are petering out.  The shore is no longer visible.  Enjoy the sky.  Still blue, still free, for now.

 

 

 

 

Better Make The Most of It (while still free).

Back to NY from FL

September 19, 2010

A New Yorker's Concern About Bare Feet

I have been in Florida these last couple of weeks and am returning home tomorrow.

I have to confess to being very happy to return home.  Not to leave my parents who have transplanted themselves here, but to get back to New York City.

Weirdly enough, what I will enjoy the most is a return to nature.

There is certainly nature down here–nature with a capital N as in the end of Ocean, the middle of Hurricane–Nature that is beautiful but so forceful people seem to need to insulate themselves from it.

I’m looking forward to the kind of nature that I can walk around in even at noon and open my windows to.   (This assumes no more NYC tornadoes.)

Actually, the main thing I’m looking forward to is simply walking.  People walk in Florida, but either (i) on the beach or (ii) early in the AM with big sneakers and determined elbows.

I try to do errands on foot.  These are not comfortable walks–aside from the heat, it feels a bit odd to schlep plastic shopping bags on the beach.   (BTW, butter melts if left on hot sand even in a bag covered by clothing.)

I’ve learned not to wear black.  But even in muted colors, I don’t really fit in.  I’ve started one fire and one explosion in the last two weeks. When I drive, which I hate, I roll all the windows down.  (Yes, it’s very hot without A/C.)

Maybe what I’m anxious to return to is my personal nature.

Why Jeter Wasn’t A Cheater

September 18, 2010
it?

Why Derek Jeter Wasn’t Cheating When He Pretended To Be Hit By a Pitch.

1.  It might have gotten his sleeve.

2.  And did get him on first base.

3.  If it had hit him, it would have really hurt.

4.  They do it in soccer. (And they have a World Cup that really does involve the whole world.)

5.  In fact, feigning/bluffing is a time-honored tactic in any game.  (See e.g. poker.)  (Forget soccer.)

6.  He’s a Yankee and I’m from New York.

7.  He’s Derek Jeter (and I’m from New York.)

On base

(PS – sorry these are a re-posting of last night’s drawings.)

Derek Jeter (A Biased View)

September 17, 2010

It’s a game.  He plays it very well. 

Very very well.

(If you like elephants, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson on Amazon or http://www.backstrokebooks.com.)

Missing New York Storm Draft Sonnet (From Florida)

September 17, 2010

Windswept, wind-littered

Missing New York Storm (September 16th) Sonnet  (From Florida)

September storm in New York hustles through
in one or two, at most a scant fifteen,
New York minutes, and I, the professed New
Yorker, wasn’t in it; I who would have been
proud to complain of the urban canyon wind,
to bemoan felled branches, the wild thwacking
of the flag outside my building, send
this poem from a far place lacking
in tall, grey, and even, it feels to me, speed,
where everyone seems required to beam
in public, but some with stern primness (no need
to bring up politics)–I miss my home!–
its nitty-gritty, windswept, wind-littered, stone.

(Karin Gustafson – suggestions welcome.)

Draft Poem Process – Blocking Writer’s Block

September 15, 2010

Okay (to the regular readers of this blog), I admit that the draft poem posted at about 1 a.m. this morning is blank verse in the truest (and possibly, worst) sense of the word.  I’d like to dignify it with some epithet like Creelyesque, but I’d hate to do that to the wonderful Robert Creeley.

Instead, I’ll explain away the poem by giving it as an example of an effort to block writer’s block.  If you want to write, you have to write.  It really is as simple as that.   You have to do it without being too precious about every single result.  That’s probably an elemental rule for getting yourself to do anything creative.

Waiting for the right conditions, the right mindset, even a modicum of brain power, may put you in a queue of one forever;  if you wait for inspiration, there you might be–in the abandoned mind bakery–holding a ticket that is never called.  (Even if it is called, all those wonderful half-baked goods may have gone completely stale by the time you actually get to the counter!)

Sure, an inner voice may tell you urgently that you are  a writer, an artist, but it’s unlikely to tell you in the hurly-burly of every single day exactly what to set down.

That’s where doggedness comes in (and not necessarily the doggedness of the wiggly happy dog that greets you at the door every evening.)  It’s more like the dog that is pawing pawing pawing at the zipper of your backpack because it is sure that somewhere inside nestles a treat.   Sometimes that treat is the old remains of a bagel; sometimes it’s chocolate!

Which, I know, yes, is terrible for dogs.  (More for us.)

If To Be (Draft Poem)

September 14, 2010

If To Be

If to be is not to be
challenged,
then how can I,
if you keep
telling me
when already,
all right,
I do.

If to be is to be
sure, then
didn’t I?
Sure.
All right.

Inconvenient Body (Draft Sonnet)

September 14, 2010

I think it’s Billy Collins who says something about poetry coming from a place where you start out with nothing to say.  (Something like that.)

I should probably not confess that I really have little that can be said (at least in a public forum) this evening.  So let’s try for a poem, a sonnet.

The Inconvenient Body

The body is not of the modern world.
Babies do not nurse only before nine
or after five. ( I remember how mine twirled
a finger against hair, cheek, breast, in a kind
of slow-mo dance even when demons
screamed to hurry up this time, nod off.)
They don’t grow out of it–older humans
too refuse to fall in space allotted,
to manifest symptoms in an orderly
fashion, to fit recovery into
a three-day weekend, but sordidly
succumb to ills that don’t begin to
improve till mid-week (if then), their tick-tock
measurable enough but off the clock.

(I know the last couplet doesn’t quite work but it’s late and last couplets are always the problem with sonnets.  I welcome suggestions.)