One of my greatest online discoveries of late is Ted Talks.com, a riveting collection of video lectures recorded annually at the technology, entertainment, and design conference held in Long Beach, California. The central premise of TED is to disseminate "ideas worth spreading"; to bring in top name lecturers from a variety of fields, to share their research in a palatable format in 18 minute videos. I heartily recommend that you check out the 'most-favorited' tab on the video selection page and browse some of the entries. The videos are jaw-dropping at times, informative, and always thought provoking.
The video I am attaching below is novelist Chimamanda Adichie speaking on the importance of finding one's authentic cultural voice and warning against the perils of telling a single thread of a story. Trust me when I say, these videos are worth 18 minutes of your time.
Tuesday, June 29
Sunday, June 27
Into the Black
Today is cloudy and quiet, a calm after the storm. Please be forewarned that this post is not for the faint of heart, and that it contains graphic violence and imagery.
Vivi and I are in Recife, on vacation, and yesterday was my birthday. It began as most birthdays do with smiles and well wishes. We are staying with Vivi’s half sister Suzana in a small off-white house on a quiet dirt road. It is a quaint little neighborhood in the middle of the city and just the kind of place we were looking for to relax and get away from things. At seven in the morning, the house was already a stir with relatives heating up bread, drinking their morning coffee, and getting ready for work. Her half brother, Pedrinho, chatted for a bit then left the house on his motorcycle. I had just gotten to know the guy a day before. He seemed to be a laid back twenty-two year old, the kind of person that enjoys simple things like playing videos, hanging out with his girlfriend, and who needs some time before he can really warm up to you.
Suzana and her husband Anderson head out the house a few minutes after Pedrinho, leaving Vivi and I to chat about how we should spend the rest of the day. As I stood in the kitchen barefoot getting ready to heat up a sandwich, Vivi’s cell phone rings. She picks up the receiver and cringes, furrowing her brow at the hysteric screams of her sister on the other end of the line.
“Get your things” she says tensely running out the door. “My brother crashed his bike.”
“Grab a clean towel”, I reply, realizing how serious the accident might be by the chilling sound of her sisters voice.
We run out the door in a flash. Vivi starts barreling down the street as fast as her legs can carry her. She turns the corner onto the main road and I stop. The crash site is probably a lot farther than she thinks, I mumble to myself. Looking around, I see one of her neighbors pulling out of a driveway and I flag her down. I ask her if she knows Pedrinho and she nods. I tell her about the crash and she agrees to give us a ride. We pick up Vivi a quarter mile down the road and proceed toward the accident.
“What horrible traffic”, her neighbors says her knuckles turning white as she wraps her hands tightly around the wheel. “My god, my god, oh dear god. I’ve known Pedro since he was a kid. Oh Jesus help him.”
We inch forward in the car behind honking lines of vehicles and eventually make it to the site. Vivi and I bolt out of the car and cross the street. Anderson is there, his face a ghostly white as he desperately tries wave on traffic and free a space for the ambulance that is on its way. I walk forward and time seems to slow. On my left is a large green pickup truck with Pedro’s moto sticking out the front end. It looks like a petrified sculpture of metal, toy-like, joined together by an artist playing god.
Suzana’s voice suddenly rises above the noise of the crowd. “My god, my god, my god”, she screams hysterically. I walk towards here voice and see Pedro lying contorted on the ground. His body is a mass of blood. I place the towel around his head to try and secure his spine and survey the damage. There are large scrapes and cuts over his entire body. I can see deep lacerations on his legs, broken toes, and an ear severed almost in two.
“My back, my back” he screams.
“Pedrinho, Pedrinho, look at me”, Vivi says calmly. “Spit out the blood. Pedro, breath through your mouth. Look at me. You’re going to be ok.”
As she calms him down, I look around nervously. A large crowd has gathered, and people continue to drive by slowly trying to get a glimpse of the damage. A gray car behind the truck is also smashed up, and must have been involved in the crash. Suddenly, an ambulance pulls in beside us and two medics hop out. They tell the crowd to make room, and begin dressing Pedro’s wounds. The hysteria around us seems to grow. Suzana is pacing the sidewalk screaming, clearly in a state of shock. Blood from Pedro’s wounds runs on the cold concrete of the street. My stomach tightens as I try earnestly to keep a grip on my emotions. I feel helpless and lost.
“Get in the ambulance,” Vivi says grabbing my hand. The medics seem to be in an argument trying to decide which hospital to take him to. In seems like years before they reach a decision, but eventually stuff both of us in the back of the van and shut the door. The ambulance begins to race down the street, darting in between cars and around intersections like the lance point of a spear. My hands grip tightly to the body board shifting around the car, as I try vainly to keep Pedro’s body from moving around. Eventually we hit a traffic jam and no one wants to let us by.
“Get out of the way!” screams the driver honking his horn. “There is a guy dying here!”
Vivi tells me later that ambulances often use their sirens to get through traffic, even without patients, and that nowadays few respect their right of way. We sit behind a delivery truck for what seems like hours. Pedro is dipping in and out of consciousness, mumbling weakly for water. One of the medics turns to me and says, “Ahh, meu deus, eu não gosto de moto.” (Oh lord, I don’t like motorcycles). I hear her wrong and think she says, “Eu não gosto de morte.” (I don’t like death). The words sound remarkably similar, and I think to myself man, this kid is a goner. (I can laugh about this little vocabulary mishap now, but it was far from amusing at the time. I kept thinking, how unprofessional! How could this medic in her right mind imply such an outcome under the circumstances).
Eventually we make it to the public hospital, and Pedro is rushed inside. Waiting on the ER entryway ramp for word of his condition, we find out how the accident had occurred. Various witnesses on the scene of the crash would recount how Pedro, being the young bull headed Paulistano that he is, was passing the green truck when he was cut off. In São Paulo there is an unwritten code about keeping the corridor open for passing bikes. Generally riders band together and sometimes damage cars that invade their space. After being cut off, Pedro rode up beside the truck, took off his helmet, and slammed it into the driver’s side mirror of the vehicle. It broke off. The driver, unaware of having cut him off, thought that Pedro was assaulting his vehicle, slams on the gas, and tries to run him over. In the process, the truck crashes into another car and eventually takes Pedro down. His salvation was that the bike lodged up into the front bumper of the truck and stopped the vehicle. If it hadn’t, he would have been run over completely.
At the hospital, family members gather in response to the tragedy. Anderson’s brother slips folded bills of cash into the hands of doctors, nurses, and hospital staff, hoping to bribe his way towards preferential treatment (this is common in Brazil). One of the family members knows a guy who knows a guy, who just happens to be the director of the hospital. He makes the call, and one of the director’s personal staff comes down to visit Pedro in the ER. When it comes to surviving in a public hospital in the developing world, who you know and how much you pay makes all the difference.
We find out hours later that Pedro will likely survive. He has suffered loss of skin over his entire body, deep lacerations on his head, back, and leg. He has three broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken collar bone, and his ear will need to be surgically reconstructed. Everyone is mad at him for his machismo and stupidity, knowing full well that the accident could have been prevented. There has been a wave of motorcycle shootings in Recife lately, and it is no wonder that the driver reacted as he did. In a world where violence is common, when and how it strikes unpredictable—where the smallest action can have dire consequences, stupidity is not something that is easily forgiven.
For me, this will be a birthday worth remembering, not so much for the horror, and the stress, and the tragedy of Pedro’s actions, but for the clear and unadulterated reminder that life is short and worth living. The more violence and injustice I see in the world, the more confused I become about the possibility of a just God, who looks down benevolently on his perfect micro mess of a world. It’s hard to know what to think about the innate savagery of existence without being confused. But what is clear is that, this is all I have, my life, Pedro’s life, Vivi’s life, and if anything, emergent from the greatest threshold of simplicity, I must capture the present here and now, and live the life worth living.
Vivi and I are in Recife, on vacation, and yesterday was my birthday. It began as most birthdays do with smiles and well wishes. We are staying with Vivi’s half sister Suzana in a small off-white house on a quiet dirt road. It is a quaint little neighborhood in the middle of the city and just the kind of place we were looking for to relax and get away from things. At seven in the morning, the house was already a stir with relatives heating up bread, drinking their morning coffee, and getting ready for work. Her half brother, Pedrinho, chatted for a bit then left the house on his motorcycle. I had just gotten to know the guy a day before. He seemed to be a laid back twenty-two year old, the kind of person that enjoys simple things like playing videos, hanging out with his girlfriend, and who needs some time before he can really warm up to you.
Suzana and her husband Anderson head out the house a few minutes after Pedrinho, leaving Vivi and I to chat about how we should spend the rest of the day. As I stood in the kitchen barefoot getting ready to heat up a sandwich, Vivi’s cell phone rings. She picks up the receiver and cringes, furrowing her brow at the hysteric screams of her sister on the other end of the line.
“Get your things” she says tensely running out the door. “My brother crashed his bike.”
“Grab a clean towel”, I reply, realizing how serious the accident might be by the chilling sound of her sisters voice.
We run out the door in a flash. Vivi starts barreling down the street as fast as her legs can carry her. She turns the corner onto the main road and I stop. The crash site is probably a lot farther than she thinks, I mumble to myself. Looking around, I see one of her neighbors pulling out of a driveway and I flag her down. I ask her if she knows Pedrinho and she nods. I tell her about the crash and she agrees to give us a ride. We pick up Vivi a quarter mile down the road and proceed toward the accident.
“What horrible traffic”, her neighbors says her knuckles turning white as she wraps her hands tightly around the wheel. “My god, my god, oh dear god. I’ve known Pedro since he was a kid. Oh Jesus help him.”
We inch forward in the car behind honking lines of vehicles and eventually make it to the site. Vivi and I bolt out of the car and cross the street. Anderson is there, his face a ghostly white as he desperately tries wave on traffic and free a space for the ambulance that is on its way. I walk forward and time seems to slow. On my left is a large green pickup truck with Pedro’s moto sticking out the front end. It looks like a petrified sculpture of metal, toy-like, joined together by an artist playing god.
Suzana’s voice suddenly rises above the noise of the crowd. “My god, my god, my god”, she screams hysterically. I walk towards here voice and see Pedro lying contorted on the ground. His body is a mass of blood. I place the towel around his head to try and secure his spine and survey the damage. There are large scrapes and cuts over his entire body. I can see deep lacerations on his legs, broken toes, and an ear severed almost in two.
“My back, my back” he screams.
“Pedrinho, Pedrinho, look at me”, Vivi says calmly. “Spit out the blood. Pedro, breath through your mouth. Look at me. You’re going to be ok.”
As she calms him down, I look around nervously. A large crowd has gathered, and people continue to drive by slowly trying to get a glimpse of the damage. A gray car behind the truck is also smashed up, and must have been involved in the crash. Suddenly, an ambulance pulls in beside us and two medics hop out. They tell the crowd to make room, and begin dressing Pedro’s wounds. The hysteria around us seems to grow. Suzana is pacing the sidewalk screaming, clearly in a state of shock. Blood from Pedro’s wounds runs on the cold concrete of the street. My stomach tightens as I try earnestly to keep a grip on my emotions. I feel helpless and lost.
“Get in the ambulance,” Vivi says grabbing my hand. The medics seem to be in an argument trying to decide which hospital to take him to. In seems like years before they reach a decision, but eventually stuff both of us in the back of the van and shut the door. The ambulance begins to race down the street, darting in between cars and around intersections like the lance point of a spear. My hands grip tightly to the body board shifting around the car, as I try vainly to keep Pedro’s body from moving around. Eventually we hit a traffic jam and no one wants to let us by.
“Get out of the way!” screams the driver honking his horn. “There is a guy dying here!”
Vivi tells me later that ambulances often use their sirens to get through traffic, even without patients, and that nowadays few respect their right of way. We sit behind a delivery truck for what seems like hours. Pedro is dipping in and out of consciousness, mumbling weakly for water. One of the medics turns to me and says, “Ahh, meu deus, eu não gosto de moto.” (Oh lord, I don’t like motorcycles). I hear her wrong and think she says, “Eu não gosto de morte.” (I don’t like death). The words sound remarkably similar, and I think to myself man, this kid is a goner. (I can laugh about this little vocabulary mishap now, but it was far from amusing at the time. I kept thinking, how unprofessional! How could this medic in her right mind imply such an outcome under the circumstances).
Eventually we make it to the public hospital, and Pedro is rushed inside. Waiting on the ER entryway ramp for word of his condition, we find out how the accident had occurred. Various witnesses on the scene of the crash would recount how Pedro, being the young bull headed Paulistano that he is, was passing the green truck when he was cut off. In São Paulo there is an unwritten code about keeping the corridor open for passing bikes. Generally riders band together and sometimes damage cars that invade their space. After being cut off, Pedro rode up beside the truck, took off his helmet, and slammed it into the driver’s side mirror of the vehicle. It broke off. The driver, unaware of having cut him off, thought that Pedro was assaulting his vehicle, slams on the gas, and tries to run him over. In the process, the truck crashes into another car and eventually takes Pedro down. His salvation was that the bike lodged up into the front bumper of the truck and stopped the vehicle. If it hadn’t, he would have been run over completely.
At the hospital, family members gather in response to the tragedy. Anderson’s brother slips folded bills of cash into the hands of doctors, nurses, and hospital staff, hoping to bribe his way towards preferential treatment (this is common in Brazil). One of the family members knows a guy who knows a guy, who just happens to be the director of the hospital. He makes the call, and one of the director’s personal staff comes down to visit Pedro in the ER. When it comes to surviving in a public hospital in the developing world, who you know and how much you pay makes all the difference.
We find out hours later that Pedro will likely survive. He has suffered loss of skin over his entire body, deep lacerations on his head, back, and leg. He has three broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken collar bone, and his ear will need to be surgically reconstructed. Everyone is mad at him for his machismo and stupidity, knowing full well that the accident could have been prevented. There has been a wave of motorcycle shootings in Recife lately, and it is no wonder that the driver reacted as he did. In a world where violence is common, when and how it strikes unpredictable—where the smallest action can have dire consequences, stupidity is not something that is easily forgiven.
For me, this will be a birthday worth remembering, not so much for the horror, and the stress, and the tragedy of Pedro’s actions, but for the clear and unadulterated reminder that life is short and worth living. The more violence and injustice I see in the world, the more confused I become about the possibility of a just God, who looks down benevolently on his perfect micro mess of a world. It’s hard to know what to think about the innate savagery of existence without being confused. But what is clear is that, this is all I have, my life, Pedro’s life, Vivi’s life, and if anything, emergent from the greatest threshold of simplicity, I must capture the present here and now, and live the life worth living.
Friday, June 18
Whirl Fup
Here it is fellow bloggers. The World Cup rundown. My neighborhood looks like a bee hive in spring with everyone running about, painting their tribal colors, and preparing for the games. I took the following video and pictures on Brazil vs. North Korea, day 1. I wanted to document my first world cup experience in this country doente for futebol. I was told that the city goes crazy when our buddies of blue, yellow, and green score a goal--that the city screams in unison. As you can see from my little documentary, I wasn't disappointed.
This is why I love living in a bairro popular. The people really get into the spirit of things. Our drab cement and brick favela of brown and grey is transformed. Plastic ribbons are strung between houses; soccer balls painted on walls and sidewalks. People write Jesus next to the name of their favorite player, hoping the good lord would send his blessings.
USA, Brazil, Switzerland, naturally my favorite teams. 
Futebol truly is the greatest unifier of the Brazilian experience. We look forward to the next month of games.
Go Team Go!
Sunday, June 13
Life ADD
I have life ADD. I started to realize this a few years ago when I noticed how addicted I was to change. Many people, from my observation, are afraid of change. In fact, I think that it scares the hell out of them. From the time we are children, we all, to some degree, establish a buffer of normalcy around ourselves and seek security in our own daily rituals and routines. As we grow life becomes known to us, predictable, and hopefully under our control.This sanctuary of the known—as it were—is not the place for me (at least I used to think so). Perhaps it has something to do with my restless, hyper-frame, MTV generation, who grew up over-stimulated and over-entertained. Perhaps it has something to do with my genetic wiring and the fact that few people in my family are good at sitting still. Perhaps it is my commitment to an unbridled sense of curiosity, etcetera, e tal. Whatever the reason, I like change. I am addicted to the feeling of tasting and touching something new. Take my academic interests for example. When I was a kid I wanted to be a Paleontologist, study dinosaur bones, and walk around with a big hat carrying a trowel. Then in college I discovered archaeology and medieval history, hoping to play Indiana Jones and speak with an English accent. Then there was cultural anthropology, African studies, public history, museum studies. Then when I figured out that all of those former professions made you poor, I started getting into business, cultural heritage tourism, and the hospitality industry. Then when I figured out that all of those professions made you boring, I started getting into…you are starting to get the picture?
This is just one subset of my life that reflects this love, nay this addiction to change. Part of this process, I realize, is parcel to one’s twenties—that time in one’s life where you are still getting to know who you are. Yet, as much as I defend the position of Life ADD, where you are willing to take risks and continue getting to know the world, it certainly has its disadvantages.
Elizabeth Gilbert in her book Committed discusses this topic, albeit indirectly, looking to the root cause of such behavior. The problem, she highlights, is that we’re all full of desire; it is the very hallmark of our emotional existence, and it can lead to our downfall—and to the downfall of others. This rather Buddhist way of looking at the world, in the context of Life ADD makes sense, for, if we were happy with what we had why would we need to go looking for happiness or ‘newness’ elsewhere?
The answer to that question, Gilbert writes, is infatuation (the drug of lovers). Infatuation, the state that arises when you meet someone new, is the most perilous aspect of human desire. It actually physically alters your brain chemistry. Brain scans of infatuated lovers, scientists have discovered, look remarkably similar to the brain scans and mood swings of cocaine addicts, with measurable chemical effects on the brain. And just like any junkie, infatuated lovers will go to unhealthy, humiliating, and even physically dangerous lengths to procure their narcotic. (PUA community this one is for you). Some anthropologists argue, she continues, that the human species needs infatuation as a reproductive tool in order to keep us reckless enough to risk the hazards of pregnancy so that we can constantly replenish our ranks.
Gilbert talks about infatuation in the context of relationships, but I would take it a step further. I think Life ADD, or the need for change, is also an addiction. For me at least, finding something new is the same thing as finding someone new. It feels good, tastes good; it gets you high. But the problem with this is two fold. When it comes to that something, jumping around from one thing to another like a finicky cheshire cat in heat means you never actually get anywhere. The knowledge you build may be broad but it remains limited, and it prohibits life building (that steady climb to material and financial success).
When it comes to love, Gilbert concludes, infatuation is not quite the same thing; “it’s more like love’s shady second cousin who’s always borrowing money and can’t hold down a job”. When you become infatuated with somebody, you’re not really looking at that person; you’re just captivated by your own reflection, intoxicated by a dream of completion that you have projected on a virtual stranger. Narcissistic love.So what’s the solution? I don’t think that I’m ever going to get rid of my Life ADD completely. Life without passion, without curiosity, without change is pretty dog gone boring, and I think most people would admit to that. But the thing about any drug is that it must be used in moderation. The feeling of completion that it offers is just an illusion. If you shoot up on a new relationship, a new place, or person, or thing today—tomorrow is going to feel just as hollow (worse because you are with a hangover!). This is superficial love; self love.
So ok. I admit it. I have life ADD. I am an addict. This is the first step, I assume, on the long road to recovery.
Friday, June 11
When time was young
First - I have to give a huge shout out to blogger for offering a new blog designer app. for this website. I have been struggling for weeks trying to tweak the background, text color, and other layout elements of my blog, with rather poor results. When I logged in today they were highlighting this feature, and within 30 minutes I accomplished what it took me two weeks of failed attempts to do; beautify my Den. So thanks!
Second - I just stumbled on some old photos that my brother had tucked away. These little gems deserve the spotlight, so I'm posting them here.
Carey on right, building the family empire. Go 60's!
This young vixen is my grandmother posing for a theatrical performance.
And the great Leslie Leonidas Johnson, LLJ, from whom I take my name, baptist missionary in Brazil for a solid 39 years.
Second - I just stumbled on some old photos that my brother had tucked away. These little gems deserve the spotlight, so I'm posting them here.
Cabin four runners. My brothers and I (center) explore our New Mexico mountain playground.
Early 90's I think. Oooo the clothes. I am sporting the awesome purple jump suit.
Carey Johnson, my grand father in his naval Uniform.
Carey on right, building the family empire. Go 60's!
This young vixen is my grandmother posing for a theatrical performance.
And the great Leslie Leonidas Johnson, LLJ, from whom I take my name, baptist missionary in Brazil for a solid 39 years.Tuesday, June 8
Site Under Construction
Excuse the mess, I'm just looking for new ways to spoof up my Den. I've been experimenting with blogger templates and backgrounds. So far nothing seems to be working. Apparently the HTML script has been written simply to piss me off and waste my precious time. But whatever, let's see how things turn out.
Saturday, June 5
A little bit on hair...
When I first landed in Salvador da Bahia two years ago there was much take in. Apart from the brilliant pastel colored buildings, the rapturous smell of the sea, or the intense and varied rhythm of life in Brazil’s original capital, what struck me most was just how African this new world colony was. From the blocos afros (African drum groups) of the historical center, the spicy palm tree oil cuisine, to the worship of various Yoruba and Nago deities, Salvador is a city mixed and proud—a heady cosmopolitan vortex of Portuguese and West African influences.
When you travel, great joy can be found in simple things, like the way a chilled coconut tastes by moonlight, or the sticky feeling of wet sand as it slips between your toes. In Bahia, when your eyes are new, unaccustomed to the shrill color of fresh experience, there are many things that stand out, including how people dress, dance, and fix their hair.
In terms of hairstyle, Salvador is a city where you can see just about everything, from braids, to curls, natural locks, updos, weaves, dreads, to the now popular cabelo black—where people let out their hair to its full voluminous potential. A current favorite in the city is where girls part their natural hair to one side, pin a flower on the part, and fro out the rest. Like the people in this city, hair in Salvador is at once beautiful, varied, and uncompromisingly creative.
Of the many hairstyles I have come to appreciate, nothing has mystified me more than my girlfriend’s hair. Left to its own devices, her hair is striking—short dark curls that stretch just below her chin. Generally she gravitates between keeping it natural in the hot summer months, to putting it in braids during the rainy winter season.
Recently, I got a chance to see how the braiding takes place, when two stylists dropped by to fix up her hair. From my perspective the process looks tortuous—a kind of hair lobotomy that can last from 6 to 8 hours.
It all begins with buying the synthetic hair at a local shop, which is imported from the US and can cost up to 50 dollars depending on the quality. This can be quite a lot of money considering that the minimum wage in Bahia is around 350 dollars a month. Colors range from black, brown, gold, to more extravagant blues, reds, and rainbow hues.
From the beginning the experience is tedious, generally demanding two braiders and a great deal of patience. The hairdressers begin by weaving the natural hair into fine braids, and then selectively attaching one section of fiber at a time.
The material of the braids ranges in size and thickness, and the style of braiding is equally diverse. Often, braids on the top of the head are shaped into intricate patterns, and the bottom half left to swing freely.
While the session is indeed long and grueling, it amazed me how fast these hairdressers could work, their hands whipping through the patterns in a concentrated blur.
By the end of the session, everyone is tired. My girlfriend downs a few pain meds to ease the dull throb of an oncoming headache, but smiles at the results of her new hair. It may not be completely natural, she notes, but is a welcome change to the chemical treatments that she used in the past. As for me, all I can do is smile, and think about how this place can, at best, award one for spontaneity, for creativity, and for embracing a beauty that is all your own. Whether synthetic or natural, frizzed, braided, or locked, the point is to be happy with who you are, and to find that inner confidence to shine – through your own sense of style – on the outside and beyond. Living in this city; watching the steady parade of styles, this is something that I continue to love and to learn.
Monday, May 31
Can I take it back?
I miss my blog.
Let me repeat.
I miss my blog, I miss my blog.
Well maybe that’s not entirely accurate; it’s not the blog that I am really missing, it’s my writing. It’s been a few months now since I have been off the register, checked out, away from these digital street corners that I once frequented. Part of me has enjoyed this little break. If anything I have been busy. The greatest endowment of life is that it is indisputably good at filling up a vacuum. In the space that my writing once occupied I now have distraction A, B, and C, lovely little hobbies, pleasures, and pastimes that seek to apprehend my attention. I have Facebook to play around with, a Masters course to attend to, and lots of wonderful books to read. I have a profession to ruminate over, a girlfriend to concentrate on, and a household that needs my attention. I have rivers to jump into, trips to take. I have movies, children, and performances to watch. I have Sponge Bob, beer, cartwheels and coconuts, parents, priorities, amen’s and allergies. I have life filling up the vacuum.
Somewhere in that grand ice cream swirl of existence I have my book. It’s out there somewhere, floating in the realm of possibility. I started working on a couple chapters – one on Carnival and the other an opening scene at the Festa de Iemanja – but have lacked the inspiration to move on. I realize that if I want to accomplish anything significant I’m going to have change the way I approach my writing. With my research and academics I have always been disciplined, setting out healthy blocks of time to complete my assignments. My creative writing, on the other hand, has always been fueled by capricious waves of inspiration. When I FEEL like writing, I do. I get out the shit dancing inside my head. It is my therapy, my release, and not something I can entirely control.
There is also part of me that feels like I am not ready to start working. This book will be about my time here in Brazil, about my right of passage experience, about cultural heritage, and relationships, and finding adulthood. How can I begin writing, I think to myself, when the final chapter has not yet been lived?
Speaking of which, there has been a number of developments (or realizations) in these last few months that need to be addressed.
Realization 1: I love Brazil. I love it so much that I am now ready to leave. How does this work you may ask? Well, it works much like that ex relationship you once had; the one that you invested a great deal of your heart, and time, and hopes into. At one point, the relationship worked great for you. It was satisfying, challenging, and fun. But then, one day, you realized that despite your good intentions the relationship was actually holding you back—that in all honesty it could exhaust your life potential rather than establish it.
This hard won understanding can be mostly attributed to…
Realization 2: I am poor. Exceptionally poor. I live in a veritable slum. I can’t afford a cell phone, personal transport, or regular visits to the grocery store. For the most part, that’s ok. I can’t think of a better life lesson for an American to learn because, quite frankly, stuff does not equal happiness and there is great liberty in owning little (wake up people!). That said, I am ok with this lifestyle, just not forever. I am getting close to the big 30—that awkward transition into phase 1.1 of adulthood (i.e. “planning for the future”). There are certain things that I want to accomplish in my life that I just can’t do from here.
Realization 3: I am an educated and talented professional, or at least I am on the brink of becoming one. I am a Magna Cum Laude Anthropology graduate, with international experience, who in just over six months will graduate (possibly with a 4.0) with a Masters in Education. If I continue to apply myself, I will be a tri-citizen, tri-lingual, and have great potential in the fields of Public History, Anthropology, Global Education, [insert field here].
The unfortunate thing is…
Realization 4: I can’t get there from where I’m at. The international school where I currently work is on a push to get approval from SACS, an organization that legitimizes educational institutions. My original hope was to get a teaching position at the school, and I had a good chance considering my work background, the masters, and my personal connections. But the current director is now weeding out people who don’t have a teaching certificate from the States (which I don’t). My options are, remain a teacher assistant and cut out paper for the rest of my life, or hunt for better job and schooling opportunities elsewhere. Could that elsewhere be somewhere else in Brazil? It could. But the reality is…
Realization 5: What I can accomplish in 3 years of working in the States would take me at least 10 years in Brazil. This is the unfortunate truth, and I wouldn’t care so much if I was still in my adventure phase. But now, as a working stiff, the Brazil formula doesn’t add up. Better to pick the option which gives me more options I always say. With money, I can always come back, visit, even have a summer home. Without options, I am stuck, and there is nothing worse than feeling trapped.
Anyway, that’s enough for now. My plans are in motion. Vivi is graduating in December, and I will be done in January or February. Come June or July of 2011, should various other unknowns fall into place, we will both be on our way to some other (hopefully first world) horizon. What we do when we get there is another matter – perhaps a Ph.D. for me, a Masters in Linguistics for her – who knows.
All I know with certainty is that…
I miss my blog. I miss my blog. I really miss my blog.
And I really need to start writing again.
Let me repeat.
I miss my blog, I miss my blog.
Well maybe that’s not entirely accurate; it’s not the blog that I am really missing, it’s my writing. It’s been a few months now since I have been off the register, checked out, away from these digital street corners that I once frequented. Part of me has enjoyed this little break. If anything I have been busy. The greatest endowment of life is that it is indisputably good at filling up a vacuum. In the space that my writing once occupied I now have distraction A, B, and C, lovely little hobbies, pleasures, and pastimes that seek to apprehend my attention. I have Facebook to play around with, a Masters course to attend to, and lots of wonderful books to read. I have a profession to ruminate over, a girlfriend to concentrate on, and a household that needs my attention. I have rivers to jump into, trips to take. I have movies, children, and performances to watch. I have Sponge Bob, beer, cartwheels and coconuts, parents, priorities, amen’s and allergies. I have life filling up the vacuum.
Somewhere in that grand ice cream swirl of existence I have my book. It’s out there somewhere, floating in the realm of possibility. I started working on a couple chapters – one on Carnival and the other an opening scene at the Festa de Iemanja – but have lacked the inspiration to move on. I realize that if I want to accomplish anything significant I’m going to have change the way I approach my writing. With my research and academics I have always been disciplined, setting out healthy blocks of time to complete my assignments. My creative writing, on the other hand, has always been fueled by capricious waves of inspiration. When I FEEL like writing, I do. I get out the shit dancing inside my head. It is my therapy, my release, and not something I can entirely control.
There is also part of me that feels like I am not ready to start working. This book will be about my time here in Brazil, about my right of passage experience, about cultural heritage, and relationships, and finding adulthood. How can I begin writing, I think to myself, when the final chapter has not yet been lived?
Speaking of which, there has been a number of developments (or realizations) in these last few months that need to be addressed.
Realization 1: I love Brazil. I love it so much that I am now ready to leave. How does this work you may ask? Well, it works much like that ex relationship you once had; the one that you invested a great deal of your heart, and time, and hopes into. At one point, the relationship worked great for you. It was satisfying, challenging, and fun. But then, one day, you realized that despite your good intentions the relationship was actually holding you back—that in all honesty it could exhaust your life potential rather than establish it.
This hard won understanding can be mostly attributed to…
Realization 2: I am poor. Exceptionally poor. I live in a veritable slum. I can’t afford a cell phone, personal transport, or regular visits to the grocery store. For the most part, that’s ok. I can’t think of a better life lesson for an American to learn because, quite frankly, stuff does not equal happiness and there is great liberty in owning little (wake up people!). That said, I am ok with this lifestyle, just not forever. I am getting close to the big 30—that awkward transition into phase 1.1 of adulthood (i.e. “planning for the future”). There are certain things that I want to accomplish in my life that I just can’t do from here.
Realization 3: I am an educated and talented professional, or at least I am on the brink of becoming one. I am a Magna Cum Laude Anthropology graduate, with international experience, who in just over six months will graduate (possibly with a 4.0) with a Masters in Education. If I continue to apply myself, I will be a tri-citizen, tri-lingual, and have great potential in the fields of Public History, Anthropology, Global Education, [insert field here].
The unfortunate thing is…
Realization 4: I can’t get there from where I’m at. The international school where I currently work is on a push to get approval from SACS, an organization that legitimizes educational institutions. My original hope was to get a teaching position at the school, and I had a good chance considering my work background, the masters, and my personal connections. But the current director is now weeding out people who don’t have a teaching certificate from the States (which I don’t). My options are, remain a teacher assistant and cut out paper for the rest of my life, or hunt for better job and schooling opportunities elsewhere. Could that elsewhere be somewhere else in Brazil? It could. But the reality is…
Realization 5: What I can accomplish in 3 years of working in the States would take me at least 10 years in Brazil. This is the unfortunate truth, and I wouldn’t care so much if I was still in my adventure phase. But now, as a working stiff, the Brazil formula doesn’t add up. Better to pick the option which gives me more options I always say. With money, I can always come back, visit, even have a summer home. Without options, I am stuck, and there is nothing worse than feeling trapped.
Anyway, that’s enough for now. My plans are in motion. Vivi is graduating in December, and I will be done in January or February. Come June or July of 2011, should various other unknowns fall into place, we will both be on our way to some other (hopefully first world) horizon. What we do when we get there is another matter – perhaps a Ph.D. for me, a Masters in Linguistics for her – who knows.
All I know with certainty is that…
I miss my blog. I miss my blog. I really miss my blog.
And I really need to start writing again.
Thursday, February 18
The End - The Beginning
This is the end, beautiful friend
This is the end, my only friend
The end of our elaborate plans
The end of ev'rything that stands
The end
--Jim Morrison
This is the end, my only friend
The end of our elaborate plans
The end of ev'rything that stands
The end
--Jim Morrison
And it certainly is, my friends, the end. The Lion’s Den is finished. After four years of occupying this space, I am pulling the plug. What began as a thought experiment, a therapy session for a soul desperately in need of exhale, has drawn its last and lingering breath. I am off to bigger and better things, my friends, off to dedicate my time to a true calling:
My book.
I have realized how precious my time is these days. Working full time and going to school leaves few opportunities to blog, let alone dream of grander things. In these last few months, something in me has been gaining weight, telling me it’s time expand my literary horizons, to shuck off the limitations of self-doubt and yearn for something worth yearning for.
Blogging has definitely served its purpose, allowing me a safe and accessible means to express my thoughts, record the past, and generate confidence in my ability to compose.
But now things are beginning to happen. I have ideas swirling about my head, inspirations drawn, born on the back of my internal compass and muse. I feel, for the first time, that I could actually do this thing if I would but give myself a chance to.
And so…
For those who have accompanied me on this journey my greatest of thanks. You will be the first to receive a copy should this project ever get off the ground.
For now, there remains once and always…
One mans quest toward mind, matter, and the undiscovered country.
Thursday, February 4
Once again the city stirs...
Drawn to the heart of Carnaval…
Thy lights burning, and rhythms purring…
We sing to the gods who break free from us all…
And in thy heat most sweet splendor…
Generated through time…
Music whispers its passing…
In song and in rhyme…
And in these hours we pass…
Let loose we do flow…
A storm of arrows unbidden…
Our silent repose…
To break free unto madness…
Skin connected we fall…
Dark angels in mirth passing…
The maw of chaos so tall…
And in thy direction there sped…
Into a universe sublime…
Great luxurious there hidden…
Of flesh fixed and divine…
To return once again...
Our luminescence it flies…
One mind offered unto folly…
Freedoms irreverent cry.
Thy lights burning, and rhythms purring…
We sing to the gods who break free from us all…
And in thy heat most sweet splendor…
Generated through time…
Music whispers its passing…
In song and in rhyme…
And in these hours we pass…
Let loose we do flow…
A storm of arrows unbidden…
Our silent repose…
To break free unto madness…
Skin connected we fall…
Dark angels in mirth passing…
The maw of chaos so tall…
And in thy direction there sped…
Into a universe sublime…
Great luxurious there hidden…
Of flesh fixed and divine…
To return once again...
Our luminescence it flies…
One mind offered unto folly…
Freedoms irreverent cry.
Monday, January 25
Moving onward...
Today marks the first post of the rest of my life. I grin as I write that. It seems appropriate for the opening phrase of the year. Other matters worth celebrating, today marks my two year anniversary in Brazil. That’s a long time when I stop to think about it. Two years. There are few things in my life that I have committed a solid 730 days to. Learning to swim took a month. My first bike ride, a few of days. Eating fresh mozzarella pizza in Italy, maybe 35 minutes. But two years. Yeah, that’s a solid chunk of time, and certainly a highlight in the grand scheme of my existence.
I’d like to think that all of this cultural pedaling, this dance through foreign puddles has been for, dare I say, a higher purpose. When I was in the midst of my divorce to my Brazilian wife back in the States, I felt like I was amputating a piece of my future. I felt a strong pull towards Brazil, an almost unexplainable feeling that it would play some larger role in my life. At the time, I thought that it was over—that whatever loose connection I had with the country would surely get flushed out with my failed relationship.
But for some reason, I kept reading, believing, dreaming that someday I would make this place my reality. I needed a fresh start, a new title, and a way to challenge my budding individualism and personality. Above all, I wanted to prove to myself that I could survive on my own, that I could walk the path of the cultural warrior, disciplining my mind to inherit this new and exciting world.
I suppose that this path, this longing, this expression of my life is the closest thing to spirituality that I have known. Somehow I feel fated to be here. To run my hand through my girlfriends hair, to taste the sea and feel the sand slip gently through my toes. I feel blessed for this opportunity to breath in a new life and become somebody that I wasn’t before.
Now, after a long month in the States, after a taste of the bitter cold, I am back in Bahia. The weather is warm (beyond warm, more like scorching hot!), and I feel content that my two years are up—that I am moving beyond the initiate phase in my tango with Brazil.
I’d like to think that all of this cultural pedaling, this dance through foreign puddles has been for, dare I say, a higher purpose. When I was in the midst of my divorce to my Brazilian wife back in the States, I felt like I was amputating a piece of my future. I felt a strong pull towards Brazil, an almost unexplainable feeling that it would play some larger role in my life. At the time, I thought that it was over—that whatever loose connection I had with the country would surely get flushed out with my failed relationship.
But for some reason, I kept reading, believing, dreaming that someday I would make this place my reality. I needed a fresh start, a new title, and a way to challenge my budding individualism and personality. Above all, I wanted to prove to myself that I could survive on my own, that I could walk the path of the cultural warrior, disciplining my mind to inherit this new and exciting world.
I suppose that this path, this longing, this expression of my life is the closest thing to spirituality that I have known. Somehow I feel fated to be here. To run my hand through my girlfriends hair, to taste the sea and feel the sand slip gently through my toes. I feel blessed for this opportunity to breath in a new life and become somebody that I wasn’t before.
Now, after a long month in the States, after a taste of the bitter cold, I am back in Bahia. The weather is warm (beyond warm, more like scorching hot!), and I feel content that my two years are up—that I am moving beyond the initiate phase in my tango with Brazil.
Low tide on the shores of Itaparica.
Hark hark the great future awaits. (p.s. I'm white again)
Awesome trees around town.
Windswept V on a summer shore.
Friday, January 15
Reflections
All things considered the vacation has been going well. I feel like I am getting the US out of my system and that I won't feel the need to eat fast food, or sit in an SUV, or go bowling for quite some time. The weather has been pretty overcast, cold, and bleak since I arrived, with icy storm fronts threatening to steal away my personality. New Mexico was nice, Boulder swift but savory, and Michigan somewhat oppressive but fun. I have crossed paths with old friends, danced around a Capoeira roda, eaten exorbitant amounts of hamburger with fries. I have run through snow drifts, sword fought with icicles, and played god awful amounts of Halo in HD. I have exercised my first world purchase power and will bring home gobs of electronics, shoes, clothes, and just about every thing else under the sun.
It's been good, real good. A bit fattening and non-productive at times, but certainly worth the trip. As I spend my last few days on my parents farm one this is for sure: I think I'm ready to get home. Bahian heat is calling, in all of its mystery and majesty. I miss the girl, miss drinking coconuts by the sea, miss the way people stare at my white face when I say "oxe!" and make gringo faces.
The Lost Boys
Old Haunts
Work colleagues at the museum.
Microbrew!If anything this little vacation has taught me, it's that I'm pretty satisfied with where my life is heading. There is nothing like letting go of familiarity, shucking off comfort and security, and finding something that gives you meaning. A path realized by you and you alone is the greatest path of all, because no matter what happens it's yours. I suppose I take comfort in that.
Kalamazoo's very own Big BurritoThe video below is worthy of a post itself. It's so cool! My brother set up his camera at our cabin in the mountains and took pictures of our crazy night on New Years. It is a time lapse collage, 1 hour long, pics at 6 frames per second. Check out the dog lazing about on the floor and our dance off in the kitchen. Definitely one to cherish for some time to come.
Saturday, December 26
A Christmas to Remember
The thing about Christmas is that it repeats, it stays pretty much the same from year to year. With the smell of roasted chestnuts in the air, the promise of smoked ham, and chocolate, and loud boisterous games of cards, my relatives travel from across the country to celebrate a series of short and joyous days as a family. There are some elements of the holiday which remain consistent, be it the gift giving, the large helpings of beer and wine, or the small family tiffs that happen when any dynasty gets together. While there is some comfort to be taken from these regularities, these long standing traditions that make the day special, sometimes it’s good to experience something a little different.
Last night a storm rolled in to the Oklahoma badlands, sweeping with an unseen ferocity across the plains. When I woke up on Christmas Eve I was happy to see a light frosting of snow blanketing my parents property. It is a rare thing indeed to see snow this far south, and rarer still to have it during the holiday. When I stepped outside of the house for the first time, I was taken aback by the extreme bite of the wind—with strong gusts hurling shiny mists of snowflakes around my head. My dad and younger brother took off to the city, promising to meet my older brother, my mom, and I at my aunts house for the party that evening.
As we sat inside, warmed by the Franklin stove, preparing hors d'oeuvre for Christmas dinner, the storm began to pick up, whirling with intensity outside the window. Just after lunchtime, we decided to throw all of the presents into my dad’s four-wheel drive pickup, heading into town before the storm got really bad. Less than five minutes after commencing our journey, we met with an unexpected and rather disappointing failure, with winds raging from the north like a vengeful Norse god. The north-south road into town acted like a wind tunnel hurling blasts of snow past the front of our vehicle, limiting visibility to the front of the car. We headed home to wait it out, only to try again a couple of hours later, and this time getting our vehicle stuck in the snowdrift buildup across the road.
Eventually we headed home, disappointed, wondering if we would ever make it to the Christmas dinner. Before lethargy or depression could set in, we began to receive distress calls from our neighbors who told us of friends who had tried to come in for their own parties, and were stuck freezing in their cars. I looked at my brother with a glint in my eye and he nodded, that stern tightening of the jaw, and we suited up like men on a rescue mission, our hats, gloves, snow suit and snow shovels ready to play.
Out into the cold we headed, winds screaming across the plain at well below zero, trudging deliberately through snow. For what seemed like hours we walked, heading through the valley and out into the flat void of the fields. What little wild life we passed, the deer, birds, and local cows all seemed spooked, like some white ghost had lifted its wings over their home, covering them in a chilled and unforgiving darkness. Eventually, with cheeks turned red from the winds, we made it to the stranded car, which had pile-drived into a snowdrift four feet tall in the middle of the road. The young couple inside, watching us arrive in one-piece snowmobile suits, with snow shovels perched readily above our heads, sat up with mouths agape in surprise. We must have looked like astronauts to them, seeking to make other worldly peace in the blinding snow.
After getting the spooked party out of their truck and out to a neighbors house tucked farther down the road, we headed home. The cold was deep but gratifying, ice crystals hanging off of every branch and blade of grass, creating a crystalline world of reflection. The sun would have blazed itself into a thousand directions were it not blanketed by the falling snow.
When we got home, we found my mother shaken and crying, telling us that the family was going to go ahead and celebrate Christmas with out us, that there was just no way for us to get the truck safely past the snow drifts and into town. This just couldn’t happen, we thought. We hadn’t traveled thousands of miles for nothing to miss the very day and reason for our reunion! So, before you could say nutmeg, a plan was formed. We suited up again, threw the presents into grey plastic totes, backpacks, and large bags and headed out once again into the prairie. Through the dark we walked, over hill and through the wood, to grandmothers they go. A Santa hat was stuffed tightly over my head. We trudged, well past sunset, a long trail blazed behind us of footprints and presents dragged across the snow. Finally, breathing hard and with weary feet, we made it to the other side of the drifts. My dad and uncle stood there smiling, blessedly warm SUV’s at the ready to bring us home.
So it was that we ended up celebrating Christmas with family, warmed by a roaring fire. The storm outside continued to rage, knocking down energy lines and stranding people in their cars. For us, it was a Christmas to remember, and one that if not for the swift planning and good will of others, would never have happened.
To you folks out there, known and unknown, sleeping in your beds. To the orphans, and the butterflies, the mythmakers and matchmakers. To the Michiganders, Oklahomans, and Brazilian blessed be. A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
Last night a storm rolled in to the Oklahoma badlands, sweeping with an unseen ferocity across the plains. When I woke up on Christmas Eve I was happy to see a light frosting of snow blanketing my parents property. It is a rare thing indeed to see snow this far south, and rarer still to have it during the holiday. When I stepped outside of the house for the first time, I was taken aback by the extreme bite of the wind—with strong gusts hurling shiny mists of snowflakes around my head. My dad and younger brother took off to the city, promising to meet my older brother, my mom, and I at my aunts house for the party that evening.
As we sat inside, warmed by the Franklin stove, preparing hors d'oeuvre for Christmas dinner, the storm began to pick up, whirling with intensity outside the window. Just after lunchtime, we decided to throw all of the presents into my dad’s four-wheel drive pickup, heading into town before the storm got really bad. Less than five minutes after commencing our journey, we met with an unexpected and rather disappointing failure, with winds raging from the north like a vengeful Norse god. The north-south road into town acted like a wind tunnel hurling blasts of snow past the front of our vehicle, limiting visibility to the front of the car. We headed home to wait it out, only to try again a couple of hours later, and this time getting our vehicle stuck in the snowdrift buildup across the road.
Eventually we headed home, disappointed, wondering if we would ever make it to the Christmas dinner. Before lethargy or depression could set in, we began to receive distress calls from our neighbors who told us of friends who had tried to come in for their own parties, and were stuck freezing in their cars. I looked at my brother with a glint in my eye and he nodded, that stern tightening of the jaw, and we suited up like men on a rescue mission, our hats, gloves, snow suit and snow shovels ready to play.
Out into the cold we headed, winds screaming across the plain at well below zero, trudging deliberately through snow. For what seemed like hours we walked, heading through the valley and out into the flat void of the fields. What little wild life we passed, the deer, birds, and local cows all seemed spooked, like some white ghost had lifted its wings over their home, covering them in a chilled and unforgiving darkness. Eventually, with cheeks turned red from the winds, we made it to the stranded car, which had pile-drived into a snowdrift four feet tall in the middle of the road. The young couple inside, watching us arrive in one-piece snowmobile suits, with snow shovels perched readily above our heads, sat up with mouths agape in surprise. We must have looked like astronauts to them, seeking to make other worldly peace in the blinding snow.
After getting the spooked party out of their truck and out to a neighbors house tucked farther down the road, we headed home. The cold was deep but gratifying, ice crystals hanging off of every branch and blade of grass, creating a crystalline world of reflection. The sun would have blazed itself into a thousand directions were it not blanketed by the falling snow.
When we got home, we found my mother shaken and crying, telling us that the family was going to go ahead and celebrate Christmas with out us, that there was just no way for us to get the truck safely past the snow drifts and into town. This just couldn’t happen, we thought. We hadn’t traveled thousands of miles for nothing to miss the very day and reason for our reunion! So, before you could say nutmeg, a plan was formed. We suited up again, threw the presents into grey plastic totes, backpacks, and large bags and headed out once again into the prairie. Through the dark we walked, over hill and through the wood, to grandmothers they go. A Santa hat was stuffed tightly over my head. We trudged, well past sunset, a long trail blazed behind us of footprints and presents dragged across the snow. Finally, breathing hard and with weary feet, we made it to the other side of the drifts. My dad and uncle stood there smiling, blessedly warm SUV’s at the ready to bring us home.
So it was that we ended up celebrating Christmas with family, warmed by a roaring fire. The storm outside continued to rage, knocking down energy lines and stranding people in their cars. For us, it was a Christmas to remember, and one that if not for the swift planning and good will of others, would never have happened.
To you folks out there, known and unknown, sleeping in your beds. To the orphans, and the butterflies, the mythmakers and matchmakers. To the Michiganders, Oklahomans, and Brazilian blessed be. A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
This is my dad's video when he took off and drove through the storm.
Saturday, December 12
5 Posts in 1
Well this is it! My first moment free in the last few months!
Next Friday will mark the last day of the summer semester and I can’t begin to express how nice that is. I have been ignoring this blog to a point of extreme child abuse, and am beginning to feel the stomach tightening shame of neglect. It’s as if the collective volume of my blog is rising up, screaming shrill cries of parental disregard late into the night. I’m afraid that despite a seeming lull in inspiration, I simply cannot ignore her any more.
So sorry.
To my credit, this is the porra that has been keeping my busy:
Citizenship, from the dawn of the Greek polity to the formation of the nation-state in the 18th century, has played a major role in the filial, linguistic, and cultural organization of people’s lives. In the days of the small-scale Greek communities, citizenship was seen as a public matter—an obligation deeply connected to one’s every day life. To be truly human, one had to be an active participant in the communal unit, for as Aristotle famously expressed: “To take no part in the running of the community’s affairs is to be either a beast or a god!” In the modern age, communal politics and identity, which was once local and organic, has taken on a global scale. As the world becomes more inter-connected, the lines between citizen and community, nation and its nationals are becoming increasingly distorted. At the center of this deconstruction is the use and adaptation of the national language—the central consolatory power which defines ethnicity, prescribes citizenship, and which feeds the heart of the human polity and its individual and collective consciousness. As these lines become blurred, as one nation becomes coupled to another, and as citizenship becomes increasingly de-territorialized, the adoption of language policies – or planned interventions relating to the use of language – is of particular import for how citizenship and identity may be expressed on the international level. This paper seeks to explore this topic of the world citizen, the process of recognizing oneself in the other, the role of English as a global language, and the possibilities that language policy, at the local level, may hold.
Heady isn’t it? And this is just the abstract so you can only imagine. As much as I like doing research and writing academically stunning, if inane, pieces of intellectual property, there is only so much a man can take.
And so it is, back to the bloggity blog.
First thing of great note and import on this Brazilian journey of mine is that I have graduated!!! A couple of Fridays ago, Vivi and I decided to hit the town with a group of her English students. It was one of those really fun crowds, full of energy, who drink like horses, who are the loudest group in the bar, generously liberal in their jokes, giggles, and smiles. You know, the fun type.
We hit the Rio Vermelho district and sat outside drinking beer late into the morning. Pretty common occurrence by our standards, but what set this particular outing apart was the subtle cultural interaction that happened between her students and myself. To my glee, I have reached a point in my Portuguese that allows me to be my safado, jokester, no public shame kind of self, and it is indeed most liberating. The process of learning a language has been somewhat difficult for me, as I have had to survive being the quiet awkward observant one for too long. I hate this. Truly hate it.
On this particular night, lil’ social Leo came out full storm. Every Bahian joke, slang, and soliloquy that I knew came flowing forth. This was a huge surprise for her students because they had never met a foreigner who could interact with them on such a level (as one of their own). This was accentuated by the fact that I am American, and that there is a real stereotype here that Americans are in a sense, untouchable, if not aloof to cultures unlike their own. So for all of us, it was a breaking down of longstanding and seemingly impenetrable socio-cultural boundaries. And for me, it was a long awaited point of arrival—an affirmation that after two years of brow furrowed concentration, I am truly becoming Brazilian. Thumbs up for that!
During the night, the students gave me a nickname "pombo sujo" or "dirty pigeon" which is a guy that knows all of the bad jokes, slang, and pop culture of Bahia. I loved it, and to my suprise the students made me a certificate of my graduation, making it official!
So as it is, I have been extremely, extremely, stressed and busy trying to get my passport for December. Three months ago, after having bought my plane tickets to come home for Christmas and see the folks, I started the unbelievably bureaucratic process of applying for the document. All I can say is, wtf!
Yeah, um, so Leo, you need to get a voting document. Um yeah, Leo, for that you need to register with the military. For that you need to reschedule for a flag swearing ceremony. After that, you need to get your titular eleitor, for that you need to wait a month, for that you need to get a confirmation of doing that, and then wait for the confirmation to be processed, and after that make an appointment with the Federal Police to turn in your documents, and for that get a confirmation of your place of birth, and for that bribe a representative to make sure that 5 days prior to my travel, the passport is printed in time. Uhhhhhh, breath.
Here I am, with less than a week away from my official travel date, and I still do not have my passport (over three months after bringing the process). Jesus. Really? Can we complicate this any further, just for the sake of fucking over people who need to travel. Can we get a signed and stamped confirmation of the fucking over, in order to prove that the fucking over “might” potentially happen, depending on the weather, and watermark, and level of ……. on that particular day?
Fingers crossed we’ll see what happens.
And wait there’s more.
I have finally finished it. About five months ago, Vivi asked me to design her first tattoo. I am an extremely anal, detailed, and patient tattoo designer, and generally take around six months to develop or perfect a tattoo. Witness Vivi’s phoenix which she will be getting for her birthday.
I received this photo as a reference:
Through countless hours in photo shop, I turned it into this:
You like?
Alright, before I splatter any more of my brains on this page, let me leave you with three ridiculously amazing rock-reggae videos that I found. The first is 311, what I consider one of the shining examples of this little known genera. The following two are from a band called Forfun here in Brazil. This is my absolute favorite genera of music that I am into right now. One day, when I get past this damned masters degree and have some free time, I’d like to form a band and make some music of my own.
Oh Leo, such a dreamer.
I’m out!
Next Friday will mark the last day of the summer semester and I can’t begin to express how nice that is. I have been ignoring this blog to a point of extreme child abuse, and am beginning to feel the stomach tightening shame of neglect. It’s as if the collective volume of my blog is rising up, screaming shrill cries of parental disregard late into the night. I’m afraid that despite a seeming lull in inspiration, I simply cannot ignore her any more.
So sorry.
To my credit, this is the porra that has been keeping my busy:
Citizenship, from the dawn of the Greek polity to the formation of the nation-state in the 18th century, has played a major role in the filial, linguistic, and cultural organization of people’s lives. In the days of the small-scale Greek communities, citizenship was seen as a public matter—an obligation deeply connected to one’s every day life. To be truly human, one had to be an active participant in the communal unit, for as Aristotle famously expressed: “To take no part in the running of the community’s affairs is to be either a beast or a god!” In the modern age, communal politics and identity, which was once local and organic, has taken on a global scale. As the world becomes more inter-connected, the lines between citizen and community, nation and its nationals are becoming increasingly distorted. At the center of this deconstruction is the use and adaptation of the national language—the central consolatory power which defines ethnicity, prescribes citizenship, and which feeds the heart of the human polity and its individual and collective consciousness. As these lines become blurred, as one nation becomes coupled to another, and as citizenship becomes increasingly de-territorialized, the adoption of language policies – or planned interventions relating to the use of language – is of particular import for how citizenship and identity may be expressed on the international level. This paper seeks to explore this topic of the world citizen, the process of recognizing oneself in the other, the role of English as a global language, and the possibilities that language policy, at the local level, may hold.
Heady isn’t it? And this is just the abstract so you can only imagine. As much as I like doing research and writing academically stunning, if inane, pieces of intellectual property, there is only so much a man can take.
And so it is, back to the bloggity blog.
First thing of great note and import on this Brazilian journey of mine is that I have graduated!!! A couple of Fridays ago, Vivi and I decided to hit the town with a group of her English students. It was one of those really fun crowds, full of energy, who drink like horses, who are the loudest group in the bar, generously liberal in their jokes, giggles, and smiles. You know, the fun type.
We hit the Rio Vermelho district and sat outside drinking beer late into the morning. Pretty common occurrence by our standards, but what set this particular outing apart was the subtle cultural interaction that happened between her students and myself. To my glee, I have reached a point in my Portuguese that allows me to be my safado, jokester, no public shame kind of self, and it is indeed most liberating. The process of learning a language has been somewhat difficult for me, as I have had to survive being the quiet awkward observant one for too long. I hate this. Truly hate it.
On this particular night, lil’ social Leo came out full storm. Every Bahian joke, slang, and soliloquy that I knew came flowing forth. This was a huge surprise for her students because they had never met a foreigner who could interact with them on such a level (as one of their own). This was accentuated by the fact that I am American, and that there is a real stereotype here that Americans are in a sense, untouchable, if not aloof to cultures unlike their own. So for all of us, it was a breaking down of longstanding and seemingly impenetrable socio-cultural boundaries. And for me, it was a long awaited point of arrival—an affirmation that after two years of brow furrowed concentration, I am truly becoming Brazilian. Thumbs up for that!
During the night, the students gave me a nickname "pombo sujo" or "dirty pigeon" which is a guy that knows all of the bad jokes, slang, and pop culture of Bahia. I loved it, and to my suprise the students made me a certificate of my graduation, making it official!
So as it is, I have been extremely, extremely, stressed and busy trying to get my passport for December. Three months ago, after having bought my plane tickets to come home for Christmas and see the folks, I started the unbelievably bureaucratic process of applying for the document. All I can say is, wtf!
Yeah, um, so Leo, you need to get a voting document. Um yeah, Leo, for that you need to register with the military. For that you need to reschedule for a flag swearing ceremony. After that, you need to get your titular eleitor, for that you need to wait a month, for that you need to get a confirmation of doing that, and then wait for the confirmation to be processed, and after that make an appointment with the Federal Police to turn in your documents, and for that get a confirmation of your place of birth, and for that bribe a representative to make sure that 5 days prior to my travel, the passport is printed in time. Uhhhhhh, breath.
Here I am, with less than a week away from my official travel date, and I still do not have my passport (over three months after bringing the process). Jesus. Really? Can we complicate this any further, just for the sake of fucking over people who need to travel. Can we get a signed and stamped confirmation of the fucking over, in order to prove that the fucking over “might” potentially happen, depending on the weather, and watermark, and level of ……. on that particular day?
Fingers crossed we’ll see what happens.
And wait there’s more.
I have finally finished it. About five months ago, Vivi asked me to design her first tattoo. I am an extremely anal, detailed, and patient tattoo designer, and generally take around six months to develop or perfect a tattoo. Witness Vivi’s phoenix which she will be getting for her birthday.
I received this photo as a reference:
Through countless hours in photo shop, I turned it into this:
You like?
Alright, before I splatter any more of my brains on this page, let me leave you with three ridiculously amazing rock-reggae videos that I found. The first is 311, what I consider one of the shining examples of this little known genera. The following two are from a band called Forfun here in Brazil. This is my absolute favorite genera of music that I am into right now. One day, when I get past this damned masters degree and have some free time, I’d like to form a band and make some music of my own.
Oh Leo, such a dreamer.
I’m out!
Saturday, November 21
Johnson! On the double!
I still have a 20 page research paper to put together for December, but who cares!
The sun is shinning here in Bahia, spreading lucid tendrils of energy into my apartment window. It’s one of those Saturdays that beg me to stay here forever, smiling ever so provocatively with crashing waves, cold beer, and all of the trappings that make Salvador a unique little snowflake of the world.
Yesterday I honored a bureaucratic milestone of patriotism, heading down to the military office to swear allegiance to the Brazilian flag. The event had less to do with my own overwhelming sense of nationalism, and more to do with the fact that I need a military document to receive my passport. I am heading back to the States for Christmas and have run out of tourist days on my American visa.
When I arrived at the military office early Friday morning, I rounded the corner to find hundreds of Brazilian Joe Shmos waiting impatiently in line. A stern faced officer dressed in camouflage barked harsh instructions at the crowed.
“I WANT THREE COLUMNS, AGORA!!!!! È PRA HOJE! THE FIRST ONE WHO SMILES VAI EMBORA!!!! TODAY LADIES!!!”
Apparently, this obligatory flag swearing ceremony that every Brazilian male has to pass through is a one day crash course in military logistics. For two and a half hours we stood in the hot summer sun, practicing how to line up, face forward, and be a man. For me, this sort of military training—albeit superficial—was nothing new. My Kenjutsu martial arts practice every Saturday follows the same routine, where one learns how to reverentially and without delay follow the instructions of a superior officer (a.k.a higher graduated guy with a large stick).
The crowd, however, wanted nothing to do with it. Every time the commander walked by, he would bark orders and try and get everyone organized. But before long, a hot girl would walk by and the whole crowd would start whistling and yelling “GOSTOSA!”. Others would break formation in order to go buy water, or would just sit down on the ground when their feet got tired. The whole time here I am feeling generally out of place and thinking, wow, if Brazil ever goes to war they are SO going to lose! Disorganization, lack of respect for authorities, and undisciplined habits don’t exactly make for a brilliant standing army. Not that these guys were soldiers anyway.
The rest of my day I ran around, catching innumerable busses, trying to get to and from school, to and from the mall, and to and from the restaurant where I met Vivi. As a thoroughly socialized American who has had a car since he was 16, not having one is painful, embarrassing, and my least favorite part about living poor. I dream often of heading back to the States, not so much to return to my home country, but rather to repurchase my 1000cc beast of a motorcycle, and ride the countryside with the wind whipping through my hair. Aside from making internet purchases, and not worrying about getting shot, it’s honestly one of the major things that I miss.
Well, anyway, speaking of getting back to things, I’ve got to fly. Going to head out to lunch before I go train, and maybe tonight I’ll hit the town. Life is different now, habitual. And it’s funny how I’m paying god awful amounts of cash to visit the US in December instead of dreaming, hoping, and longing for some time in Brazil.
The sun is shinning here in Bahia, spreading lucid tendrils of energy into my apartment window. It’s one of those Saturdays that beg me to stay here forever, smiling ever so provocatively with crashing waves, cold beer, and all of the trappings that make Salvador a unique little snowflake of the world.
Yesterday I honored a bureaucratic milestone of patriotism, heading down to the military office to swear allegiance to the Brazilian flag. The event had less to do with my own overwhelming sense of nationalism, and more to do with the fact that I need a military document to receive my passport. I am heading back to the States for Christmas and have run out of tourist days on my American visa.
When I arrived at the military office early Friday morning, I rounded the corner to find hundreds of Brazilian Joe Shmos waiting impatiently in line. A stern faced officer dressed in camouflage barked harsh instructions at the crowed.
“I WANT THREE COLUMNS, AGORA!!!!! È PRA HOJE! THE FIRST ONE WHO SMILES VAI EMBORA!!!! TODAY LADIES!!!”
Apparently, this obligatory flag swearing ceremony that every Brazilian male has to pass through is a one day crash course in military logistics. For two and a half hours we stood in the hot summer sun, practicing how to line up, face forward, and be a man. For me, this sort of military training—albeit superficial—was nothing new. My Kenjutsu martial arts practice every Saturday follows the same routine, where one learns how to reverentially and without delay follow the instructions of a superior officer (a.k.a higher graduated guy with a large stick).
The crowd, however, wanted nothing to do with it. Every time the commander walked by, he would bark orders and try and get everyone organized. But before long, a hot girl would walk by and the whole crowd would start whistling and yelling “GOSTOSA!”. Others would break formation in order to go buy water, or would just sit down on the ground when their feet got tired. The whole time here I am feeling generally out of place and thinking, wow, if Brazil ever goes to war they are SO going to lose! Disorganization, lack of respect for authorities, and undisciplined habits don’t exactly make for a brilliant standing army. Not that these guys were soldiers anyway.
The rest of my day I ran around, catching innumerable busses, trying to get to and from school, to and from the mall, and to and from the restaurant where I met Vivi. As a thoroughly socialized American who has had a car since he was 16, not having one is painful, embarrassing, and my least favorite part about living poor. I dream often of heading back to the States, not so much to return to my home country, but rather to repurchase my 1000cc beast of a motorcycle, and ride the countryside with the wind whipping through my hair. Aside from making internet purchases, and not worrying about getting shot, it’s honestly one of the major things that I miss.
Well, anyway, speaking of getting back to things, I’ve got to fly. Going to head out to lunch before I go train, and maybe tonight I’ll hit the town. Life is different now, habitual. And it’s funny how I’m paying god awful amounts of cash to visit the US in December instead of dreaming, hoping, and longing for some time in Brazil.
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