Thursday, July 26, 2007

Only in France



I learned two great things yesterday. First, a ripped stomach is called a "tablet de chocolat"...yes a chocolate bar. (Though only in America...or Germany...would such a ripped stomach be a "6-pack"...) And in giving a lesson on degrees of temperature: hot, warm, cool, cold, frigid...my student made a shocked face when I said "frigid." "You use this frequently?" he demanded. Yes, of course. He laughed...and said, cautioning that it was awkward for him to explain to a woman, that "frigid" in French is a "maladie," a true illness. It's a woman who does not take pleasure "in this life." Read between the lines. Must have chocolate and pleasure. Welcome to France.

(Image: Miss.tic. Artist and poet who puts her stenciled images and messages all over Paris!)

Monday, July 02, 2007

Back in the USA






I met Leah in the Chicago airport, we shared a glass of wine, ran to our plane, and thus started our California adventure. We call it World Tour. Back in 1999 in the sweaty town of Triangle, Zimbabwe, Leah, Stephanie, and I took an evening walk while the sun was setting over the low-veld. We vowed that, as we got older, we wouldn't stop travelling together. We wanted to see the world together. And two years later we made it to New Zealand...then had a bit of a hiatus until last year we were all in Paris together. This year it was California. Steph lives in Altadena (in the foothills of the San Gabriels just north of Pasadena), so it was the perfect destination, and the perfect opportunity to spend time with her daughter Auden--Leah and my god-daughter. Auden is amazing, and is sure to grow up a rock star...whether its in music or politics! We completely took advantage of the LA area--beach, hiking, farmer's market, flea market at Rose Bowl stadium, great home-made dinners and nights out over jerk pork and sangria or mediterranian goodness. We also road-tripped up the coast, camping our way along! Bougie campers, we laughed...showing up at ranger stations in Steph's Volvo, wearing skirts and hoop earings...eating our brie, fresh bread, and chicken sausages. And it couldn't have been better to sleep in a tent every night, either listening to the ocean crash or the stream trickle through the redwood forest in which we stayed two nights in Big Sur. We lunched and picniced and drank wine at night over marvelous dinners...cooked over the fire once, talked sex and politics over the fire the other nights. We sat in hot springs, soaked in the stars, marvelled at the beauty around us, walked on deserted beaches in the morning and found quirky breakfast cafés. We broke open a water spicket, created a geysur, protected a seal, ran from overly-friendly squirls, discovered that beer nuts are gross, that rosé lasts without a cork for nearly 24 hours, and that we could set up and break-down a tent with record speed. Ah, World Tour 2007 California was super.

Then it was on to Wisconsin. In just over a week, I think we packed in just as much if not more than we had when I was home for several weeks last summer! My brothers and I were together with my dad for father's day--church, golfing and hanging out at Crystal Lake, an amazing dinner and bonfire, joined by my friend John. We hiked with mom in Terry Andre park, followed by the Brewer's game. My grandma turned 98 years, so I got to see most of the cousins and aunts and uncles on the Gentine side. My mom and I got to do a post-mother's day--a full mother/daughter day of pampering and picnicing in Milwaukee...I got to just hang out at my dad's pool and at the lake...went to dad's softball game and bonfire...sat on mom's beautiful screened-in porch and made strawberry jam and hung out with Josh in Milwaukee. It was a whirlwind, but couldn't have been better!

Backing it up...



I've been a blog deserter! I'll be surprised if anybody is still checking this...considering how long I wait. But I draw inspiration from my friend Jenna, an equally sporadic blogger whose page I still look at. And when I do, I'm always glad I haven't given up on her blogging. I'm hoping you give me the same leeway!
To take it in reverse, an awful lot has happened since my mom and Paul were here. For starters, Josh came for a week. He got stuck mostly just with me! Nearly all of my friends were out of town...but it afforded us countless hours of discussion (not to mention the seemingly endless amount of time we waited for a pot of tea in our first-ever tea-house experience!). Hence this photo. And...we were idiots and only took THIS ONE photo. Not even one together. Guess we were too busy talking and walking to stop and capture US in any particular moment.
Then Henderson arrived. We did all kinds of great stuff, as well as everyday stuff together. From drinks to the gym to finding a tanning salon, going to see his friend dressed in drag, hanging out at the café, computer time and getting out navigo metro passes....you name it! But no, we didn't take any photos either (though I specifically remember us talking about doing so!). In the meantime, Aunt Pat and Uncle Steve arrived. This was their first time in Paris, and they couldn't have been more excited...or more open to just experiencing and trying and exploring! Steve marvelled at the small cars, the self-cleaning public toilets, the public system of transportation. He kept saying, "They've really got some things figured out over here!" It was exceptional to spend that time with them! And in that meantime, my cousin Jeff and his wife Michele arrived. We went out for dinner to the Moroccan restaurant...then ended up in the North-African-inspired bar next door. Without expecting it, we were there until after 1:30 am, just talking and telling stories and enjoying the American disco music. Somewhere in there, Leah's sister Mari and her girlfriend arrived...so that was another night of Moroccan fun...and an opportunity to meet another NY friend of hers who freelances and happens to be enjoying 2 months in Paris. So Laura--the GQ, Maxim, Stuff columnist--and I have met up numerous times for dinner, drinks, park time, etc.

And, I most certainly cannot forget two incredible events: My surprise birthday party and the Justin Timberlake concert! First things first, the girls arranged a surprise luao-themed party for me. I arrived to all of them in grass skirts, tropical clothes, and flower lais...the Beach boys were playing and Molly's apartment was full of balloons and paper palm trees; the lamps and stairs were covered with colorful fringe, and skewers of chicken, beef, and vegetables were cooking. Later we indulged in a full-on American (ie--Duncan Hines from the box!) chocolate cake...followed by card games and the inevitable tequilla shots! And yes...then in the beginning of June we all went to see the Justin Timberlake concert. He was incredible!! I don't even know what more to say...except that we had a blast...tried to track he and Timberland down after the concert (Edith was on a mission...and she was dressed the part!). Managed to see Timberland leaving in his car...had no luck, but still found our way to a club afterwards.

One last bit, I also started working in May for a language school. All of our clients are large businesses, and we work directly in their offices to teach (mainly one-on-one) English. I have some great clients, fun young people for the most part. It's fun to be teaching again, meeting new people...and most certainly collecting a paycheck! This also enables me to (for free!) enter the French social security system...meaning that I won't pay another medical bill (or even a perscription medicine!) as long as I'm living here! Somewhere between all of that going on in May, I also tracked down two African literature/postcolonial literature professors--one at Paris III, one at Paris 13. (In France you have to find a prof to direct your thesis before you even apply to a masters program!) Both schools have excellent comparative literature programs with courses enabling me to focus on African literature (written in French and English). I visited the schools, took numerous language exams necessary for entrance in the French system, completed applications and effectively applied to both masters programs. Now I have to wait and see...

And then I left for the United States. To be continued...

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Road-tripping in Europe


I am backing up a bit to share some photos and events from my mom and Paul's trip out here for my spring break. They had perfect weather, so we were fully able to enjoy Paris's terraces (that's what they call the part of the café that spills out onto the sidewalk)...walk a lot and sit outside in the courtyard of their hotel, a favorite place for pre or post-dinner cocktails and roudy card games until the bartender has to shut us down. On Easter we went through all the markets to pick up dinner ingredients and wine...then we hung out in the Jewish quarter eating falafals and listening to some non-Jewish group playing Jewish folk songs...and we enjoyed a very normal night just hanging out in my apartment while I cooked a some-what French meal followed up by a cheese plate and patiseries from the bakery.

Then we drove to Germany...to Heidelberg where our hotel was nestled up in a hill which overlooked the Neckar river, a large forest-covered hill, castle ruins, and a mideival stone bridge. The first chancelor of Germany after WWI, we discovered, is part of Paul's family tree' The town was filled with Ebert landmarks! We followed the Neckar river through the valley to get to Stuttegard where we went through the brand-new Mercedes Benz museum. Then on to Baden-Baden...bath-bath...home of roman bath-houses. The people in our hotel were spectacularily witty, and we ate an amazing meal in the hotel...with our waitors teaching us the German word for "Sorry/Excuse me" by bumping into my chair, pouring Paul the largest snifters of cognac...and I think we laughed the rest of the somber crowd right outta there! We wandered Baden-Baden...through the park, along the stream, flowers blooming...then we drove to Frieberg where we were delighted to find a small midieval city with a canal system (that was used for sanitation but today is cleaned up and there's one man in charge of keeping it that way!)...buildings dating back to the 1100s (like our hotel, the oldest in Germany!)...and, finally, we found a beer garden. A real picnic-tabled-filled, trees, gravel, order your beer from the window, right across the cobblestoned street from the local brewery itself sorta place! We ate pretzels and drank beer, ate another wonderful German meal of schnitzl and meat medallions...but somehow nobody served Black forest cake! We were IN the black forest, and couldn't find it. So we went out for a late-night-post-dinner walk to find some. We discovered a maze of old streets and cute nooks and cranies, but no cake. Finally we just went back to the beer garden where the trees were lit up. We made friends with the group of young people next to us...who proceeded to answer nearly every question we'd come up with about Germany.

We drove back to Paris through detouring in and out of the Black forest...finally found some cake which wasn't all that amazing...and arrived back in Paris. That weekend we went wine-tasting, had dinner with Edith and Molly (after which the rucous card-playing occurred!), did some shopping and more wandering, got our fill of fois gras, ate Indian food...and then sadly had to say good-bye. It was SUCH a special trip...and I can't imagine a better way to have spent my spring break! Thanks, Mom and Paul, for coming, for everything you did while here, and for just experiencing my life with me!

Friday, April 20, 2007

My treat

I remeber as a kid at SJB when each student brought a treat to share on our birthdays. Todd Melcher's mom always made the most outrageous treats--angelfood cake in ice cream cones covered with pink frosting and sprinkles...or pudding in a styrophone cup with a gummy worm inside and oreo crumbles on top! She went all out. But my mom didn't have time for that kind of all out...and so we came up with an even better idea: Dilly Bars. I remeber the day before, driving to Dairy Queen and going inside to place the order...mostly chocolate bars, then caramel...and just a few strawberry. Nobody really loved the bright red ones. We'd load the bulging white paper bags into the minivan the next morning (on my birthday, my mom always drove instead of Kathy or Mary Krause) and I received a special pass to take them--with a friend, of course--to the cafeteria coolers to keep them frozen until later. Then because my birthday is in April, I was usually lucky to have weather warm enough for a special trip outside to eat our ice cream treats. Maybe that was part of the trick in bringing Dilly Bars: the coating always cracked and slid off, leaving ice cream to drip from the sticks before we could get to it, so it was in our teacher's interest to just let us enjoy them outside!

Now my birthday is around the corner of tonight. And yet its not just my birthday that I love, but the enitre month of April. I build up this whole month...spring driving away the gray clouds, warming up the days but leaving the nights unpredictably cool. People start leaving the house in flip flops or strappy sandles, pulling out spring colors and spring jackets, skirts and spring attitudes. While Paris never fully removes the café tables from the sidewalks, they do take down the front wall windows and open doors, bringing the outside inside. Tables multiply outside, even across the street from cafés at night when the flower shops and butchers pull down their metal security doors. And rue St. Denis becomes an outdoor party. Cars blasting music and even more people just milling on the street, sitting on their scooters or hanging out of their car doors. And the thing is, as with anything else, summer comes and the excitement wears off...but in April, nobody can get enough. Its the Dilly Bar of the year.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Just figures

I called my salon yesterday to get my "fringe" cut....these are "bangs" in just about every European country, and they could only fit me in at a time that wasn"t terribly convenient, but I took it because if I hadn't I couldn't get in until after the 11th of April. Why? They will be closed for a week and a half. Paul emailed me yesterday about the location I gave him to rent the car that will take us on our 4-day Germany adventure. But that location is "temporarily closed". Then today I rushed home from school to get to my salon, only to have the woman shaking her head when I gave her my name and apointment time...."tsk tsk"-ing at me, saying the "rendez-vous" was for tomorrow, not today. So I took it well and went on my next errand to the post office. I walked right into the lobby without paying any attention to the big eisel in the entrance...found it diserted with hand-written signs reading "guichet fermé" at each station. Window closed. Okay....so I went back to the entrance where a man wearing a "La Poste" jacket had just walked in....and I asked him what was going on. He just pointed to the board and said, "Grève!" Strike. And then, just to top things off (really...I am NOT joking....each of these things happened between yesterday and today!), I opened my mail to discover that my gym will be closed for a week in April due to "traveaux". Work. Or construction....both, really. I actually put it on my calender. Gym Fermé. At least then I'll know!

And just one more gripe about this systme....I am still fighting (or re-igniting the battle, to be more precise) the 108€ tax that the governement wants to charge me for an espresso machine that my friend Henderson mailed to me...even though the thing was bought IN Paris in 2005 (and therefore was already taxed at 19 percent!), has been used over a thousand times....AND I already wrote and faxed a letter explaining all of this when customs originally wouldn't release the package. So now my tax bill--because I didn't pay it, thinking my letter was sufficient--has been passed to a collections agency and I have to still battle them. But the best part is this--they want a HAND-written letter explaining everything! (Sadly I didn't save my old one.) They must want to do some hand-writing analysis or something...make sure I'm really who I say I am...who knows!?

Okay, and finally I have to share this photo. This small rally happened several weekends ago. It's a protest against more recent measures that make prostitution more "dangerous" for the prostitues. I don't know any of the details...but they claim they're less protected now. So they took to the streets. My street. Of course. (I AM smiling at this point!)

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Foreign Films

The Academy Awards are tonight, and there are 2 foreign films nominated that are both fantastic. "Indigènes"--translated as "Days of Glory" is an Algerian-French film about how France recruited soldiers from its colonies to fight on her behalf during WWII. About 3/4 the soldiers came from Algeria, and not only were they on the front lines, but they weren't treated the same, and even afterwards (though this part is not in the film) they were given 1/3 the pension of the French-born soldiers. That law didn't change until Oct. of 2006, after the release of this movie, when Chirac decided that these soldiers who were still living would receive the same compensation.
Another film definitely worth seeing is "The Lives of Others." This is a German film about the Stasi in East Berlin during the 1980s before the fall of the wall. It follows how one couple--a writer and an actress--are suspected of going against the communist government. You learn about the web of under-cover Stasi spys but also the life and conditions under this repressive regime. And I can't say anything else without giving away key aspects of the movie!
Last year's foreign film winner is also exceptional. "Tsotsi" takes place in Soweto, one of the largest black townships during apartheid in South Africa. It is still the only movie after which I watched every single extra feature on the DVD.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Some Paris updates



Okay, to lighten things up...Paris has a small army of green street-cleaning trucks. They are working around the clock, their high-pressure hoses blasting trash, cigarette butts and, of course, dog poop into the gutters. The men running these machines dress in all green and use their green plastic-bristled brooms to sweep everything into the gutters. You'll find old rolls of carpet in the gutters, as they use these to strategically direct the trash-filled water away from one drain and into another. They don't bother picking them up since the very next day or so, they're at it again.

Also, yes it's true that Paris is joining so many other major cities around the world with smoking bans. I really never thought it would happen here. Sipping tiny cups of espresso while diving into philosophical conversation with a cigarette in hand is just so French! But almost a month ago now, Paris has banned all smoking in public buildings and spaces. I'm not sure how it's going, but the even bigger test will hit Parisians on Jan. 1st 2008 when all bars, cafés, restaurants and clubs will be smoke-free.

And just as a side note, I read a movie review yesterday on a film coming out called "Avenue Montaigne." I actually don't know if it's a French or American film, as it's in French with subtitles, with French actors and actresses, but it hasn't released here yet. That makes me think it's American. But what really makes me think it's American was the disclaimer at the end of the movie review: “Avenue Montaigne” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). The film features some characteristically French and French film behavior, including drinking, smoking and trysting. Only until Jan. 1st 2008!

Beyond CP-Time



"...The European and the African have a different conception of time.
"For the Europeans, time lives outside of man, existing objectively. According to Newton, time is absolute. The European depends on time, is a subject of it. To exist and function, he must observe time's immobile and unalterable laws. He must respect delays, dates, days, and hours. He places himself inside the laws of time, imposing on him its rigors, demands, and norms. Between man and time exist an irresolute conflict that always ends in the defeat of man; time destroys man.
"Africans perceive time differently. For them, time is a much more open, elastic, subjective category. Man influences the formation of time, on his course and in his rhythm (it's really about man listening and reacting in consent with the ancestors and god). Time is even a thing that man is able to create, because the existence of time is expressed between those who cross each other in a particular event. It's man who decides if that event will occur or not...Time is a result of our action...it is a passive being, always dependent on man..."

(Translated from the book pictured above)

The strictly-observant perspective, written in the 60s, sheds interesting light on some of the present-day dilemas in Africa today. I'm thinking of medical treatments, notably the administration of AIDS-related medications which require a rigid schedule of doses and time-lapses between pills. One of the battles is that Africans (and i make a huge generality...but anyone who has been there certainly knows this generalization to be a relatively legit one!) do not wear watches, nor to do they obey the "laws" of time.
There's no way to wrap up this particular entry...as I just find myself caught in the battle of what should be altered and what should be preserved.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

When a Rose Blooms in a Concrete Jungle

I have known Obadyah for 8 years now...and insomuch as I've grown since 1999, it never ceases to amaze me how far he too has come in just those 8 years. Make no mistake, the man is still militant to the core, but I feel blessed to have experienced the other dimensions of him. When I saw him in January, he told me about how he was invited to give a speech to his fellow inmates at the Kwanza celebration in December. He's already received letters and requests for advice and guidance from several prisoners...and as much as he served as a mentor to me, I know those who reach out to him are in good hands. So I want to share this one dimension of Obadyah with anybody who wants to read the following parts of his speech.

"...Kwanzaa isn't just a time of year whereby we come together to validate our culture, reinforce each other az belonging to an extended storied people and legacy...It's also, and most importantly, a time or reweighing and remeasuring self. A time to assess Our progress.
"The foundation of Gwanza is the Nguzo Saba, the seven principles of Blackness. The operature word is principle, which means a rule or a code of conduct. Our principles are determined by Our state of mind. So it's safe to say that if we are living unhealthy lifestyles it is because we are being guided by unhealthy states of mind.
"...I've been here long enough to remember a time when consciousness, self respect, and a genuine unity was more the rule than the exception. A time when no matter the religious or social affiliation We worked collectively to see to it that Our conduct did not negatively impact an environment meanto to exacerbate negativity. In spite of being in prison We cultivated character and principle because our state of mind was that 'where we were' does not determine 'who we are'!
"Today, things are 180 degrees opposite. Respect has waned, and the social influences that were at one time the myth of early nineties rap videos are now a thing of reality manifest in this general prison population...
"Suffice it to say, this ain't no rap video; this ain't the hood; the death sentence that i had, and those i've seen carried out are real! That life sentence, those hundred years, and those multiple decades the kourt handed down to my brothaz here are real! And to accept this is to accept a condition of slavery! Not a slave because someone else says so but because Our state of being reflects it. And that signifies that Our minds have accepted it!
"When properly applied, the Nguzo Saba are the seeds which we cultivate and nurture mentally so that Our actions are the fruits thereof. And when individuals come together to celebrate the principles of Kwanzaa, having applied them, then the colective is exponentially stronger.
"The scroll intimates that 'the truth will set us free.' It is the genesis of healing and growth. It will aid us in the governance of self and enable us to unify, be self-determined, work collectively and assume responsibility, pool our resources to accomplish a purpose, use our creativity to create and not destroy, and to call upon Our faith to assure our paths are correct.
"It is time for us to grow up Brothaz. Time for us to abandon the leisure life of the Black Boy and begin building our foundations az Black Men. Time to start being respect instead of, ostensibly, seeking it from without...We need to strive to be better individuals yearly. Each Kwanzaa celebration should be transcendental in that We continue to grow, thus growing the collective. Many of us have children and if we don't grow up...they will inherit that legacy from us...Somebody must break the cycle. Why not us?
"We exemplify greatness in abundance at times without effort. Imagine what a sustained effort will bring about. I pray these words will sit upon the spirits intended. Our resurrection is possible! Make this Kwanzaa the last Kwanzaa we are less than what we should be, doing less than we could be. With much love, i depart in peace."

Sunday, February 04, 2007

Immigration thoughts...



It's no secret--internationally or within these borders--that France has a lot of problems with its immigrant population. During the 1900s, the first large wave of immigrants came in the 50s during the post-war boom. These immigrants were Europeans coming primarily from Italy, followed by those from Spain, Poland, and Russia. They worked in factories and were the target of discrimination at that time. During this time the French government built the first of their "HLM" (habitation de loyer modérée=low-rent housing) for this population. But the 60's saw the French loss of their north-African colonies--Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia--and many French who had been living in these colonies returned to France. While Morocco and Tunisia won their independence without a war, Algeria was a under the French strangle-hold of a colonial system that France was intent on keeping (not surprisingly, also among the world's top five oil and natural gas producing countries). Algeria was designed to be a "little France" across the Mediterranean; the government was run by all French officials, and France's colonization approach of "intregrationism" meant that the language, education, arts, government, and even architecture were all "French" in nature. Yet while the Algerians were to be "incorporated" into the French empire, a huge divide existed between the French in Algeria and the "indigènes"--natives, literally, who were not citizens but "subjects," thereby not entitled to the same rights or civil liberties. Additionally, the cultures just didn't mix. On one hand you had the French intellectuals in their grand houses with large vineyards, demanding secularism and espousing "liberté, égalité, et fraternité"; on the other hand, the Algerians were of a nomadic, Muslim, traditional culture of farmers and herders. The cultures were completely different, and there was a definite choc des civilisations. The entire history of France in Algeria (1830-1962) is particularly bloody, and the independence war was no different, and when the Algerians finally won, the French were forced out of the country by the new government.

The French government intervened enormously to aid their returned countrymen: helped them find work, apartments, education for their children, etc. This was not the case for the second large wave of immigrant factory workers: those from North Africa (primarily Algeria). From the late 50's to '74, France experienced a large economic boom, requiring another huge importation of workers in the 60's and 70's, and the Algerian men arrived to fill those positions. Since they came without their families, in 1974 France passed a law, Regroupement Familial, which authorized the arrival of the worker's wives and children. But the government did little to prepare for this opening of their borders. (Just to clarify, when these immigrants arrived, their visas and identity cards were all stamped with the word "indigène"--a system that carried over from the colony and continued to deny these immigrants citizenship and all that came with it.) Because there was insufficient housing for all these immigrants, shanty-towns sprung up all around the outskirts of the cities where the workers were employed. The government then very quickly put up more HLMs where the immigrant families were moved to when the shanty-towns were razed.

Just taking Paris as one example, the "civil unrest" that occurred a year ago took place in the banlieu, suburbs where the HLMs exist. The population living in the HLMs is still primarily from the former colonies. Kids born in France are French, but their parents are from the "indigène" system. And in France there are so many ways in which this great divide is still evident. These kids grow up speaking Arabic at home and French in school; they aren't Algerian or Moroccan or Sénégalese, but they aren't accepted as truly French either; they still take trips back to Africa to visit their grandparents; their mothers make couscous and cover their heads; they are seeking acceptance to a system that fought so hard to keep them under the French "pied-noir" (black boot...a term referring to the colonists who lived in Algeria); it's no wonder all the French rap comes from the banlieus; they are Muslim and do "sawm"--Ramadan--but rarely go to the mosqué; they smoke and drink when with their French friends, but would never let their parents know they break such rules; their names always give them away.

From North Africa and the Middle East, a Jew, Christian, and Muslim could all have the same name--Mustapha al-Mamoun--but only Muslims refuse to change their names to fit a different culture. This is obvious just looking at the writers' names from these countries: Ismael Ait-Djefar, Kateb Yacine, Assia Djebar, Tahar Ben Jelloun...and then Albert Memmi. Albert is a French name. And he's a Jew from Tunisia. Yeap, he speaks Arabic, yeap his family has lived alongside the Muslims and Christians and Coptes...but his family gave him a French name. Without fail, there is always a way to tell. And that has made discrimination very easy...and very obvious.

Some perspectives want to target Islam as the biggest reason that France's immigrants don't integrate as well as, for example, the Mexicans in America who are primarily Catholic. One organization, "The Middle East Forum: Promoting American Interests" even voices an opinion that, unfortunately, many wouldn't even see as radical: "American minority groups share many basic values with the rest of the country; in contrast, French minority groups tend to have alien values, to think of themselves as a new nation, and even to have hopes of superseding the present Judeo-Christian nation of France." But this morning at the news kiosk, I bought one of France's Le Monde newspaper's publications: Le Monde des Religions. It's a publications series they are doing on 20 keys to understanding the world's main religions. They've already done Christianity, Judaism, and the religions of Ancient Egypt. This month it's Islam. On French radio, you can find 2 Arabe music stations, 1 West-African station, and 2 Caribbean stations. The French "diaspora" is large...and diverse...and I've not even mentioned the French presence in Asia, North, or South America. And for such a little country, it's no surprise that they're struggling in their post-colonial position of now being the hub of immigration for those leaving France's former colonies. Islam is not the problem. A country can't invade another country and expect not to have lasting effects that, eventually, will manifest on their own soil. Interestingly and thankfully, there is an effort here that involves a solid base of teaching, learning, AND preservation.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

African Texts

When Josh and I had lunch while I was home, he asked me to give him the names of some well-known African authors so he could find and read some African texts. I finally started writing some stuff down...then I went a little crazy. But I decided it was a good list to post. Enjoy!!

Key:
** Books I've read and recommend
* Books by authors I've read, but not this particular text
Boooks by recommended, well-known authors

Books originally in English :
**Chinue Achebe (Nigeria) : Things Fall Apart (the most classic African text…ever !)
**Buchi Emecheta (Nigeria) : The Joys of Motherhood (a very interesting commentary on the practice of polygamy)
**Tsitsi Dengaremba (Zimbabwe) : Nervous Conditions
*JM Coetzee (South Africa) : The Life and Times of Michael K.; Disgrace
*Wole Soyinka (Nigeria) : Death and the King’s Horsemen; Ake : The Years of Childhood (nonfiction) (remember him being a rather complex writer)
Ngugi wa Thiang’o (Kenya) : Grain of Wheat (always meant to read this one…!)
Naguib Mahfouz (Egypt) : The Cairo Trilogy (African Noble Laureate)
Nadine Gordimer (South Africa) : Burgher’s Daughter (African Noble Laureate)
**Amos Tutuola (Nigeria) : The Palm-wine Drinkard (a classic comedy piece)
Alan Paton (South Africa) : Cry the Beloved Country
Chenjerai Hove (Zimbabze) : Bones

Books originally in French…I gave the English-translated title where I know it exists. Those written in French include my "translation" of the title, yet I’m not sure that a translated text exists
**Mariama Bâ (Senegal) : So Long a Letter
*Assia Djebar (Algeria) : Algerian White (she’s the only non-French born citizen in the Academie Nationale, the governing body responsible for maintaining the integrity of the French language)
**Franz Fanon (Martinique) : Black Skin, White Masks; The Damned of the Earth (both nonfiction)
**Ahmadou Kourouma (Ivory Coast) : Les Soleils des Indépendances; Allah n’est pas obligé (both fantastic! Maybe translated, The Independent Sun, and Allah is not Obliged…the second is about child soldiers in the civil war in the Ivory Coast)
*Albert Memi (Tunisia) : Portrait du Colonisé suivi de portrait du colonisateur (Portrait of the colonized followed by the portrait of the colonizer)
**Azouz Begag (born in France to Algerian immigrant parents) : Le gone du Chaâba (The kid of the Chaâba)
**Tahar Ben Jelloun (Marocco) : La nuit sacrée (The Sacred Night)

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Le Chalet





"Chalet rue St. Denis" has been re-designed...at least re-arranged, making possible sing-alongs and Les Miserablés interpretive dance sessions. So we did. And luckily, I think my only neighbors are away for the weekend. If it wasn't Javert, it was George Michael.

Antoinette



Toast, Milk and Honey, Damon Avenue and Mill Street, Wicker Park corners the market on great breakfasts but DeO'Mallys pizza can hold its own next to antique shops and Antoinette in downtown Plymouth. Nowhere else are the stars more plentiful than Sportsman's Lane, the sound of seagulls more soothing than Prospect Avenue, and nothing compares to the feel of my grandma's soft yet bony hand grasping mine. As much as I love the kiss on each cheek, the hug is home and lasts long enough to hold in or let go of tears.

With cousins, aunts and uncles, friends, brothers, parents, I always compose a menu much too large for what's possible to enjoyably digest when I go home. And I still feel guilty about people I didn't call or see or see again...and maybe that will continue to be a dilema as long as I live outside the country, but I simply didn't want to trade one minute of knitting with Leah in front of the roaring fire at my mom and Paul's house. I wouldn't have traded discussing with Josh the status of our hearts in relation to Africa, coming to conclusions about the future of butchers and bakers with Molly and Jon, debating the Middle East with dad, or accompanying my mom to her office and running fun errands with no regard to the time. There's always next time.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Mon quartier


On first day back in Paris, I crashed on my bed for an hour after getting home from the airport. Because it was so mild, I a window open and fell asleep to the sounds on rue St. Denis....trucks and high heels clacking and clothing carts rolling across the cobblestone street. It sounded foreign, and like every time I return from the States, I feel like I don't belong; I know I am foreign, I feel out of place. I needed to venture out and reacquaint myself. Instead of walking the cute and Frenchie rue Montorgueil, I just went straight down St. Denis. It may be the "red light" street, but it's my street. While I've passed the same man who stands outside one of the peep show on my side of the street nearly every single morning going to class, I've never spoken with him. But on that day, he looked at me, smiled, said, "Bonjour", and I returned it with "Bonne annnée" (happy new year.....the imperative first greeting after the new year has commenced). He wished me good health (the second imperative in this round of one-time-a-year greetings) and I wished him the same. Then a few days ago I went into the African bookstore just 2 blocks away. The owner is an older man from the Ivory Coast, and we spoke one other time when he invited me to come back on the Sunday of that week. Now that was a solid 4 weeks ago, but when I walked in, he knew me, even though he couldn't remember my name, and said he was looking for me that Sunday when I never showed up. Little did I think my presence--or lack thereof--would even be noticed! He helped me choose two books for my friend Molly....pointed out several events--author speakings, discussions, etc. that would be going on. Then he poured me a glass of fresh hibiscus juice. It was as thick as apple cider and a dark purple-red color. And it was delicious. He said another Ivorienne imported all kinds of fresh plants and fruits from Africa, and she made the juices. He then had me try a juice made just from ginger, lemon, and a little sugar. We spoke some more about literature and then I paid for my books (on which he gave me a discount), and he wished me a good day and said he hoped I'd come in the evening some week to hang out at the tables where people convene for coffee, juice and discussion. And then today I went to a store just down the street that carries everything imported from India. I bought a small end table from them over a year ago, a glass-paneled kitchen cabinet, and some Christmas presents. The guy who works there has always delivered my things, and we've talked about the time he spent in Martinique, India, and my studies. The last two times I've walked out of there not only with discounts on my purchases but also with packets of incense, little wooden boxes, or anything else he sees to give me. So today I went in to find a coffee table that will also serve for eating on (currently I sit on the floor and eat on my lap, but since rearranging my apartment, I now have more than enough room for a decent sized table to eat on by sitting on cushions on the floor). I told him what I wanted and he told me he had something to show me if I could wait 5 minutes. He ended up taking me to another nearby store (these are all located in one of the "galleries", the beautiful, old, original/first "malls" of covered shops in Paris) to show me the first table. It was great...but he said I had to see the second. So we went through a completely second jewelry store, through a door, and downstairs into a basement storage room. There he uncovered an old, turquoise blue table that was the perfect size. It had heavy layers of wax coating on it, slightly altering the color, so he got a bucket of warm soapy water and scrubbed away the wax on one corner to show me the layers of brown, green, and turquoise that reveal the true nature of the table. Another guy was down there, and all three of us were squatting around this table talking about it....and he told me the price, altered it....and then said I could come back when he was finished working (I have to leave in 30 minutes, in fact!!) and he'll help me carry it back to my apartment. When he took down my mobile number just in case it wouldn't be ready, he even knew my name.

It didn't take long to stop feeling like a foreigner here. The second night back, I got together with all the girls in the café...saw all the guys....and since then we've all hung out numerous times...planned and celebrated our friend Laetitia's 30th birthday last night....I have another birthday party tonight, and then all the girls are coming to my apartment on Saturday night for "cocktails" and then dinner in my neighborhood. But besides my friends, who always remind me that I do belong, it's nice to know there are others who I wouldn't even expect to make my neighborhood so very much mon quartier. Even this evening, when I passed the peep show again, the guy not only said hello, but mentioned that I had been gone for a long time. 15 days? 3 weeks? He's observant. So we chatted about Christmas and what I'm doing in Paris...and then wished each other good evenings. On this street, it certainly can't hurt to have him in my corner!

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Another Sunday

I couldn't wait to get home and blog. There have been so many reasons to write lately, but as my plate has been overflowing with research papers on the Middle East and Palestine and a French-Algerian novel....I just haven't taken the time to blog! But as I sit here enjoying my sunday breakfast of a croissant and demi-baguette...with jam and butter and coffee, I just want to deviate from the painstakingly-long process of writing in French and just do something light. Besides, I had an incredible past 24 hours.

modern art museum, at least here I'm waiting indoors. But it's worth it. Inside are huge wooden tables with enormous wooden chairs, lights at each place. Rows and rows of books, deep red carpet, windows that look into the "forest" that is in the middle of the massive glancing at my computer screen. He got up to take a break, and I noticed that I'd received text messages from Edith and Molly, so I too left not too long after, just taking my computer and my phone. I walked out of the "Let me start with yesterday. I went out to the big national library with the goal of starting and finishing a paper that's due this week. As with any library here on the weekends, you have to wait in a queue to enter. But compared to the big public library in the Centre Pompidourectangular architectural design of this library. It's quiet, it's serious, you have to swipe a card to enter and exit...and unlike the Pompidou library, there are no periodic announcements about watching your bag for pickpockets who operate in the library! Anyhow, halfway through my time there the person next to me left and a guy came and sat down. We never spoke, but I noticed that he kept looking at the novel I was writing about. At one point he got up for a break, and shortly after I noticed that I'd missed texts from Edith and Molly. I left the "salle de lecture" and stepped out into the corridor to make my phone calls, and I noticed him sitting on a chair not too far from me. Since I didn't reach either of the girls and told them to call me back, it just seemed natural to walk over and sit next to him and exchange the common greeting of "Ca va?" He wanted to talk about the book...as the story is, he said, his life. The story is about a boy born in France to Algerian immigrant parents, his father came to France in the 60s when the booming French industry sector needed "main d'oeuvres" (man-power). He grows up in the subsidised housing....and he's successful in school, but this only serves to alienate him from his Arabe friends and yet doesn't necessarily guarantee him access or acceptance as a French kid. He's neither Arabe nor French. Anyhow we start speaking about the theme of my paper--initiation--and then he wants to read what I've written....which feels a little bit strange because I'm never too confident with my French writing and also I don't know if he's going to find aspects of it to be critical of his culture. But since he knows the book...I let him read my paper. He helps me make some corrections...then the library is turning off lights and making an announcement that it's closing, so we go back in the room to collect our stuff and walk out together. He suggests we go to a bar near the library if I want him to continue helping me make corrections....and end up talking about everything from relations between Arabe women to the circumcision ceremony that Muslim boys go through when they are 7-10 years old. We actually live only 4 blocks apart and use the same métro stop...and so we exchanged numbers and said we'd meet up another time after my exams are finished to take a drink or something to eat in the quartier.

Then this morning I got up and went out onto rue Montorgueil, my main street and where all the markets and butchers and bakers and cheese people are going strong Sunday until 1:00 but then they don't open again until Tuesday morning. And I've come to refuse buying my produce anywhere other than the markets....so Sunday morning becomes a necessary shopping time. I started at the butcher, buying chicken and duck. Went to the produce stand for apples and kiwis, garlic and chives and tomatoes, peppers, onions and even some baby potatoes that I had to brush dirt off of. One of the young women who works there with a piercing in her lip is always really nice to me and sometimes just doesn't charge me for my fresh herbs. One day I paid and was so frazzled with getting my change back in my wallet, putting on my gloves and gathering my purse that I left the bag of produce sitting at the check out. She ran out in the street to hand me my bulging plastic bag of 10 euros worth of veggies! Then I bought olive oil at the olive store, and went to the "quainquallerie" (hardware store) for a light bulb. I was trying to figure out if the one I had in my hand was too big when I just dropped the box on the floor. "Ooh La La!' the young man laughed when I saw me bending down to pick it up. This same guy is in there each time I go, and he's always so nice and helpful, always joking with me about something dealing with nails or...in this case, the light bulb. Anyhow, he takes the box from me to see if it's broken, which it's not, but then he screws it in to a panel of outlets and light-bulb sockets mounted on the wall. And it doesn't work. All I'm thinking is, "You break it, You buy it!!" But amidst my apologies for clumsiness, he tells me "ca n'est pas grave" (it's not serious) and hands me a new one. The woman at the cash register isn't sure if it's 2 or 3 euros....I told her I thought it was 3...she hollers to the man....he confirms it's only 2. I know it was 3. I add that to my big shoulder bag and head for the bakery. The bread queues on Sunday make me think of Russia...but I get in line and the women there are all smiles, serving up croissants and pain au chocolates, baguettes raison and eclairs. Then I head to Starbucks. Always my last stop before heading home. The girls who work there are also super friendly...but this one in particular starts talking to me about Christmas shopping and stores that are open on Sundays now until the holidays...her creative gift ideas. She charges me for the most petit coffee even though I order the grande, saying she likes when I come in because I'm always in "bon humeur" (good spirits). We laugh about our mutual enjoyment for each others' spirits...continue chatting while I put some cream in my coffee...and say goodbye and "bon journée" about 4 times before I step back out onto the street.

It's just incredible how connected one can feel here. I know, with all the work I have to do, that I won't see any friends today. I didn't yesterday or Friday either! We'd made plans both days, but everyone has just been too busy or just too tired. And it's okay. But I just marvel at how I don't feel alone. How a one-hour morning shopping trip includes all kinds of friendly interactions...and that didn't even include going to any of the places where people actually know me by name!

Thursday, November 23, 2006

A different kind of Thanksgiving

Why the heck is this man on my Thanksgiving page!? What I'm wondering is how it's possible that everything aligned the way it did that I'm spending my Thanksgiving day researching and writing a paper on Turkey (the country!)?? Not basting a turkey, not eating a turkey, not falling asleep because that's what too much turkey does to one's body....but writing about the damed country named after the bird I should be feasting on!

So this is Mustafa Kemal, better known as Anatürk, the founder of modern, secular, independent Turkey as we know it today. That hat? Interestingly (or not....) he banned them (as well as veils/headscarves for women), only allowing for "western-style" hats having brims...as a sign of Turkey's break from its archaic Ottoman past and emergence into the western European world.

And that's just the tip of the iceburg. So here's my Thanksgiving toast to Turkey....as this year will be remembered.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

To keep the ball rolling...

And to keep the parallel's rolling, here's one more. This past summer when Leah and I were standing in the Travel Bookstore in Knotting Hill (yes, the one from the movie), they had a special display of African texts. I stood there, looked through many of them, and wrote down just three titles that I've heard of numerous times in the past and wanted to remember to pick up at some point. Two of them were by Frantz Fanon: Black Skin White Masks and The Wretched of the Earth. Tonight I walked all the way down to the Les Halles Starbucks to get a mocha for a night of reading my Maghreb homework, and after a brisk walk and my drink of choice, I lit my candles and opened my Maghreb livret of texts. My homework: Frantz Fanon, Les damnés de la terre. The second title I'd written down (I even pulled out my journal to confirm!!). So now I'm all set, dictionaries ready, and although it's already 10:00 pm, I've got at least a couple hours of reading in me before bedtime!!

No Rhyme or Reason

And when it rains...

I'm going to start with all the good stuff. I'm running into parallels everywhere. In a lecture last week we talked about Ashkènage Jews and Sépharade Jews (I don't know if those are the same titles in English)...Sépharade Jews moved to North Africa and some into the Middle East in the same year that Columbus sailed the ocean blue (1492) when they were expelled from Spain due to the inquisition. Then Sunday's NY Times had a story about Spain finally recognizing and attempting to uncover their Jewish history (not to mention their huge Arabe history which contributes to some of the most beautiful architecture in Spain today). Last weekend I went to the Musée de Quai Branly, the brand-new museum here dedicated to the art (or are they artifacts?) of Africa, Asia, Oceania, et the Americas. I was so excited to go...and even more thrilled that it was for a class in which I had driving questions to ponder while walking around. Well, it turns out I was hugely disappointed, even disturbed, by the removal of items utilitarian and spiritual, that were displayed in glass boxes, ceremonial masks mounted on black rods against stark black backgrounds, like prizes of domination, especially knowing that nearly all of these items were brought to France throughout its conquests of foreign "barbarous" lands during the years of colonialism. Really, there were only a few items from places NOT once occupied by the French. The lighting was really dark and the setting ultra-modern, the building, beautifully landscaped outside, had plant mirages on the metal windows which blocked the natural light and instead just made a mockery of the natural elements by which each item was initially inspired and used within. Additionally, everything was so close in proximity that you could never get a good view of an item without catching your own or somebody else's reflexion in the glass case; I was constantly squinting and trying to look past my face to appreciate what was being "protected" inside of the box. No benches, no place for sitting and reflecting. But, I wasn't sure to what extent my scathing reaction (and subsequent essay) was justified until (I'm coming back to parallels) I met this French Canadian last week sitting in Starbucks. He's working on his doctorate in paleanthology at Tulane and happened to be in Paris doing research at the Musée de l'homme (Museum of man). I asked him if he could take me through the museum so I'd be able to fully appreciate it, so last Saturday we went. Before we even entered, however, he started talking about how Jacques Chirac "stole" the entire second floor to put in his own museum. The Musée de Quai Branly. Vance (the paleanthologist) was livid talking about how, from an anthropological perspective, this was a complete injustice to every piece, since they weren't designed to be art for the sake of art. Yes they are beautiful and intricate and creative, but they weren't created to be gazed upon the way "art" is created. The removal from context-setting....because at the Musée de l'homme each piece was grouped, not just geographically but functionally, with explanations and historical information on their purpose within each society from which they were derived (to put it nicely). Just interesting that I'd run into this expert when I was pondering these very thoughts. Another parallel: I happened to see a poster in the metro yesterday about a month-long consortium involving Toni Morrison at the Louvre. Turns out that she's only involved in 3 or 4 lectures, one of which was 3 nights ago, but the second of which was last night. I walked 10 minutes to the Louvre and bought a ticket for 1 euro 50 centimes and got to sit for 2 hours and listen to one of my most long-term favorite authors contribute to a discussion of making a foreign land your home. I couldn't stop smiling (and taking notes....some of which I'll share later) AND it turns out that next Saturday the lecture she's doing is with about 5 other authors, all from former French colonies. And it turns out that one author, an Algerian woman named Assia Djebar, is somebody I've been reading and studying (and loving!) in my Francophone literature class.

But on the flipside of all that's been amazing, I have a good friend here who just lost her younger brother. His death was completely unexpected and violent, and it has affected the entire "café community". Thankfully we've all had each other, as we all knew him and spent time with him (though he lived in London, he came to Paris regularily)...and so last week we all met up at the café nearly every night, mainly because nobody wanted to be alone. His funeral was here in Paris on Tuesday, and things are returning to a slightly more normal state now. But crisis certainly does bring people together, and I guess the blessing is that we've all grown closer in making sure Stephanie has the support she needs.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Strangers only once

Two things have amazed me today. First, nobody can place my nationality, due to some ambiguous accent I have when speaking French, and second, I've said it before but today was a true testament to this: people are amazingly friendly here!

I usually spend my entire Sundays completely alone, and I have absolutely no problem with it. Usually I go out with friends Friday and Saturday nights, and I am perfectly content to have Sunday to myself--studying, calling home, going to the market and doing some cleaning. That about sums up my Sundays! So today I started my morning at the laundromat with with my entire bed thrown in a big blue Ikea bag--pillowcases, matress cover, blanket, sheets, and even my bedspread. And blankie. When I arrived, the woman who sometimes works there recognized me right away and hooked me up with a larger machine for the price of a smaller one...perhaps because last time I let her use some detergent. Then I went to the cafe on the corner of my street for breakfast while everything was washing. I talked to the guy who works there nearly every morning during the week. He is the one who told me a few weeks ago that everyone in the café thought I was Australian! I returned to the laudromat and put everything in the dryer. Now at this particular "laverie" there are only 4 good dryers, although there are 31 washing machines. On a Sunday early afternoon, this made for quite a back-up. Luckily I beat the rush. But I knew I couldn't leave and risk having my machine stop in my absence while people were queued up. So I had my literature reading along, took it out and started reading when in walks a guy by the name of Eric who I met in that laundromat at least 2 months ago (and haven't run into since). He saw me and instantly gave me a kiss kiss...asked how my program was going, remembered I was from Chicago, introduced me to his friend, another kiss kiss....we laughed and talked and then he left. Waiting, reading. Then I started folding my stuff and there were two men waiting who were speaking a language that wasn't French. The one guy who had a big silver medallion of Africa around his neck asked me if I spoke Sénégalese. Nope....and the other asked if I was British. Nope. Italian? Spanish? Absolutely not. I said I was Américaine. "Aaaaahhhhhh, Les Etats-Unis! New York, Boston, Washington?" And inevitably when I said Chicago (it's just easier than Wisconsin!), "Aaaaahhhh, Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan!" Yes yes, that man made a huge world-wide impression... So we're chatting it up about Sénégal and and Paris and Chicago, they're saying how people in Paris are so unfriendly, how nobody talks to each other....and I'm just marvelling at the number of times I've heard people say that, yet each time it's in a completely random conversation with strangers, and clearly we're all openly engaged with each other! We all exchange names and "à la prochaine!"s with each other (see you next time!) as I walk out the door.

Then tonight I took a break from the paper I'm working on and went to a restaurant for dinner, and despite it being right across from the corner café, I've only ventured in there twice. So I thought it would be a good change. I walked in and the waiter who greeted me acted like we knew each other...was asking me how I was doing, how my day passed... I sat down, and of course with tables all pushed up next to each other, there was a guy and two girls right next to me. When I ordered, the man turned to me and asked me if I was German! I almost laughed aloud....but said no, Je suis américaine, and asked him why. My accent. He thought it was German. But then we proceeded to talk until my dinner arrived....and during my entire dinner....and it turns out that he lived in Washington DC and was a French ambassador, he has a friend at UW Madison, he ran the Chicago marathon and loves Chicago....and he lives in my quartier. He introduced me to the two girls who were, incidentally, both German (clearly that's why he knew the German accent when speaking French). When he got up to leave, he asked if I'd give him my number, that it was always nice to know people in the neighborhood and that he's been wanting to have a soirée and when he did he'd give me a call. We said goodbyes, and I resumed my eating. Then the waiter came back over, asked me what I had been reading earlier, what I thought about it....what I was studying. Then one of the two girls started asking me about my program because, in fact, she lived on the same street as my school. And then it turns out that one of them did her undergrad and master's at U. of Chicago....so we had all kinds of things to discuss. They had to leave, we said our goodbyes and mentioned possibly running into each other again. While paying, the waiter asked if I lived in the neighborhood, said surely we'd greet each other next time I passed in the street (of course, right?!)...I paid and then was saying my own goodbyes walking out the door.

Increadible, really. It didn't even feel like I spent this day alone.