From the Ashes

I know exactly where I was on this date ten years ago. Much like Kennedy's Assassination and the Space Shuttle explosions , Americans remember where they were on those days. After finishing this post and having come to the Internet Cafe to post it, I received an email from a friend who had been discussing this very issue with her children. These are days to be remembered.

I was a young Instructor and Student Advisor at The University of Texas at Austin for the Liberal Arts Honors Programs and Humanities. I was teaching a Tuesday-Thursday 11:00-12:30 class called, “The Curse of Socrates.”

We had been glued to the television all morning in the LAH office, watching the events of the morning unfold, stunned into muted horror. Vicky, our secretary, was running triage of students coming in to just have a place to sit, while Elaine and I were managing phone calls from concerned parents about what was being done on campus. When the second tower went down, minutes before 11:00, I was in shock, but I had to go to my class and see what the students were doing.

I walked into the room and a full range of emotions met my eyes: anger, terror, fear, shock, disbelief, paralysis, confusion, and despair. It was a heavy moment, them looking to me to say something, do something. Just as the bell rung, in walked Mark, a normally deadpan student, had not heard what was going on, looked around the class, and when I told him, he just said, “Whoah, I guess I should watch TV more often.”

Our reading for the day had been summing up Book Three from Plato’s Republic as well as the prologue to Nietzsche’s “The Birth of Tragedy, (Out of the Spirit of Music).” In the reading for the Republic, Socrates and co. had been discussing the necessity or not of music as part of education, and Nietzsche’s work deals with his thesis that Art is the “progeny” of the creative and destructive forces respectively of Apollo and Dionysus (also serving as the inspiration for Rush’s epic “Cygnus X-1” from Hemispheres).

How were we to talk about philosophy at such a moment? It seemed ludicrous on the surface, so I told the students, “No holds barred, tell me what you are thinking.” And, they did. The next ninety minutes was the most candid discussion that I believe I will ever experience as a teacher. They did not hold back, and they ran the gamut. Some of the boys were talking about joining the army, which one did. Some people changed majors soon after, realizing that “you never can know.”

However, at one point, the conversation turned to “Now what?” “Now what?” indeed. What do you tell twenty year-olds is important after what they had just seen and witnessed? What is important? What really matters? Reaching a point of being at a loss for what to say, I turned to Nietzsche for help.

What do we do in the face of tragedy in life? How are we able to communicate the feelings of despair, disillusionment and vulnerability when our world is just pulled out from under us, leaving us hanging on to the edge, for fear of falling into the abyss. Nietzsche’s answer was that you have to stare at the abyss and realize that that is indeed part of life. To turn away, to forget or to deny what has happened is the greatest injustice you can do. Instead, when tragedy strikes, or when we feel our world crumbling beneath our feet, there is one thing to do--create.

From that point on, the discussion turned to how people have used tragedy, terror, war, and individual suffering to be the catalyst for great art. Not to be obsessed with it, but to, as Nietzsche advised, to look at it and see it as part of our existence, the destructive force of Dionysus, faced with the creative elan of Apollo, yields great art. I was reminded of this when I recently visited the Shaivite caves on the island of Elephanta off of the coast of Mumbai. The most imposing and striking carving is the enormous Trimurti of Shiva, depicting his three faces of the creative, preserving, and destructive elements.

On that day, many of those students later said that for the first time they understood “Art” and why people make it, and how powerful it could be. I remember that Adam, one of my students, had told me how amazing that it was that he was finally able communicate with his sister, who was in the Arts, because of that awareness. At the beginning of the hour, Adam, a staunch patriot, had been one of those ready to storm out of the class and get on the next military transport to kill whomever was responsible, consequences be damned.

To wish that the world be free of violence and acts of terror is a lofty and noble goal, though unfortunately, though not pessimistically, is one that is not rooted in reality. At this point in my life, I just don’t see that as happening on this planet, which is ultimately where Socrates will get to with his ideal city. Humans are complex, and in our complexity we have a staggering capacity to harm others. Perhaps one could say that it is out of self-preservation, but I don’t really cotton to that line. I think that people are merely quite capable of doing very bad things. Period. But, what happens when those bad things, and how we respond to them, that is the creative power that is likewise as staggering in the condition of being human.

Nearly without fail, each one of my students later told me that in all of their other classes, life had gone on as usual that day, as if nothing had happened, not a word was spoken about the events. A pure nearly campus-wide tsunami of denial had engulfed the 40 Acres and the sight of the Twin Towers crumbling to heaps of ashes and molten steel mixed with flesh had proved to be too daunting to look at, the abyss too deep. I had not been not sure what I was going to do, walking from the Gebauer building to Calhoun hall, that is from the LAH office to my classroom, I really wasn’t. It was one of the longest short works that I have made in my life and a lifetime of decisions went through my head, but I will never regret my final decision to open up that conversation, for the result was truly inspired on their part, it was a collective work of art. 

If I Were a Man

If I Were a Man

In one of the hallways of the Vikaasa World School where I am teaching here in Madurai, there is a hand-written copy of Rudyard Kipling’s well-known poems, “If” taped up on the wall. Kipling holds a rather interesting position here in India as he is somewhat scene as half in and half out of the culture, somewhat in a no man’s land. Kipling was indirectly responsible for an early childhood interest in India for me with the story of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and the Jungle Books. I don’t have many memories of my paternal grandfather, but he spent two years in India with the American Air Force during WWII and was involved with the airlifts of supplies over the Himalayas. One of the things I do remember about him, however, is telling me stories about Shericahn, the great tiger of the Jungle Books. Shericahn was the bomb for me as kid. Whenever I needed strength for something, I would call upon the “Shericahn” inside of me to get me through it. Perhaps I still do to a certain extent.

Whether or not his son, my father, picked up an interest in Kipling from him or from some other source, I don’t know. However, Kipling again came up with my father for one of his favorite stories was “The Man Who Would be King,” which was a famous movie starring Sean Connery and Michael Caine as well. In the story and contingent movie, Connery is mistaken to be a god, a role that he eventually comes to play all to willingly, ultimately to his downfall, despite Caine’s warning that he is abusing his power. My dad saw it (or, at least when he communicated it to me) as one of toughest questions, how do we know if it is divine intervention, or ineluctable exigencies that are at play, and when we have responsibility, what are we to do with it (think Caine’s turn as Alfred in the Christian Bale-led Batman movies...)? Though my dad had his shortcomings as a father, he was dedicated to the last day of his life to the Hippocratic Oath that he pledged and lived every day of his life as a cardiovascular thoracic surgeon. For, in a sense, that profession can border on the responsibilities of what may be seen as God’s own.

But, for the rest of us, what do we pledge an oath to for life? At the school here, there is a “pledge of allegiance” to India when the flag is unfurled at the assembly. In American schools growing up, we also said our “pledge of allegiance,” which has now been discontinued (as far as I know) as a result of the prohibition of church and state. What does that mean to pledge one’s “self” to a country then? Is that not the height of all ideology? Yes, but, what isn’t when it comes to just the very idea of a nation, politics, or religion. Aren’t these all ideologies? Is it escapable at all, or is congenital to the very concept of trying to unite people in some fashion, or to extract a sense of duty to something greater than the individual? Can we recuse ourselves from a pledge to a country if we don’t believe in what it asks of us?

Beyonce’s hit single, “If I Were a Boy” is a rather scathing, though quite accurate lament about double standards of the sexes in modern life, but does beg an interesting question. What is it that makes one a “man” or a “woman?” Besides genitalia, what is expected of us? Is there an oath, a condition, a prerequisite?

Kipling’s poem sets out an interesting list of “ifs” for us to ponder this question on. Being a man, his poem is male. If he were a girl, perhaps he would have thought of other “ifs,” I don’t know, though I can surmise as such.

At my father’s memorial service, my sister read Kipling’s poem, “If.” I had heard it before, but it held a great significance for my father and her reading of it made a lot sink in for me. My father had struggled with “being a man” in many ways, and by God, he was a “man’s man,” often to his detriment. However, seeing that poem on the walls in a school here in India gave me pause. It was the power of poetry at work. That poem, copied out in a child’s hand, brought me back to that moment, hearing my sister reading, thinking about the fate of my father’s struggle to be a man. He was fiercely “American” and along with the Hippocratic Oath, he believed that it was his duty to serve his country, sadly often to his detriment as well. But, he did believe, and he did live his oath.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;

If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same:.

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings,

And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Made In India

Having My Shirts Made today in Madurai at Pudhumandapam

The Economist magazine has a series of commercials that run here in India on the English-speaking television channels that expose various inequities in life, usually dealing with children. One of them, for example, shows two young African boys playing soccer on a dusty plain with Ashutosh Pathak’s Cannonball blasting in the background on a very old boom box. When the two boys are done, they pull up their make-shift goal posts, which are two assault machine-gun rifles, sling them over their shoulders and run off to duty. Fade to black with white lettering that reads, “African children lose their childhood because of the global demand for diamonds.” Another one has a very happy, rural looking schoolhouse with Chinese children repeating vowel sounds. However, it quickly becomes apparent that these are Hindi vowels, not Chinese. Then, the camera pans to the chalkboard, which has on it the Hindi vowels written in Devanagari script. Fade to black, and the message is, “China is importing its workers to its factories in India.” Both are followed by The Economist’s logo and the phrase, “Interpret the World” beneath.

Something that I have been doing for pretty much the entire portion of my conscious life has been more or less that, “interpreting the world around me,” whether it be with images, languages, travels, or just plain sitting there and thinking about it. Sometimes I have been able to do this with limited success, sometimes outright failed with over-interpretation, and perhaps sometimes spot on. Can I just sit and enjoy the flowers? Absolutely. My self-appointed and oft-confirmed nickname is Ferdinand, from Munro Leaf’s story “Ferdinand the Bull” in which the pacific bovine would rather be sitting around sniffing the flowers than much else. However, when pricked by a bee, watch out, for Ferdinand can spring into action like the best of them, though ultimately, a soft path of sweet-smelling flowers is all he really wants.

So, when not zoning out with flowers, I am usually observing my surroundings, taking it all in, making connections, finding similarities and noting differences. Being in India has taken that to a new level for me for as I have written, if you try to take in the whole picture, it is too overwhelming. Focus on the details, and piece by piece, day by day, patterns emerge and life begins to take on a new dimension.

One of those dimensions is comparing my life to being an American and interpreting my life here as such. When living in America and/or Europe, it is hard not to see the labels: “Made in China,” “Made in India,” “Made in Mexico,” “Made in Taiwan,” and less and less, “Made in Japan.” And, nearly non-existent is the once-proud “Made in America.” Now, I am no fool, this is not the first time someone has pointed this out. However, being here in India, seeing the children on the streets, and then to see that now China is exporting child labor to India, it is yet another step on the ladder down to humility of not really having seen the world for what it is in focus.

I believe that America, if it does not go back to “Made in America,” will be in serious, serious trouble, and quite soon. Because, what I am seeing more and more on a daily basis is that the world is learning to live without America in the picture, something that was not even thinkable between our Battle of Independence and World War II, when the world desperately needed the United States of America to be a “beacon on the hill.” As I mentioned elsewhere, I was quite proud to hear that Lincoln, MLK, and Bill Gates (one of the greatest philanthropists alive) were the three most recognized Americans by the kids that I am teaching, after President Obama that is. But, aside from ideology, what are we really exporting besides entertainment at this point?

One of Gandhi’s missions in his movement to have Britain leave India was the insistence that Indians use their own textiles, most notably the India khoti, or cotton fabrics which dhoti loin-clothes and saris are made of, for the most part. His statement was why are we using imported fabric or exporting all of our own work? A good question, when you have the resources and labor force that India has, it is absurd to think that they need anything from any other country. Because, in truth, they don’t. All of the produce that I have eaten or seen here is from India. Most of the cars are Indian, and the Indian IT market is rivaling the rest of the world at a blinding pace. And, as I experienced today, if you want the best clothing, go to the tailor’s market in Madurai.

One of the Many Sewers at the Market

Selecting the Fabric

One of my friends, Charles, used to work with Ralph Lauren and he told me that one of the favorite parts of his job was to go research the fabrics in Manhattan. I can completely relate to that. To be able to hand-pick the fabric for your clothes has been part of human culture since we started making clothes. On my mother’s side, there are Snyders, which is an anglicized Schneider, or literally, a cutter, meaning a tailor. Tailors, and hence Taylors, have been part of our society on a personal level since we began having cities. That, however, is nearly a thing of the past in America. I am stunned about how many clothes there are when I have gone shopping for my daughter in the States. I often wonder, “what happens to all of these clothes if not sold?” Many end up in developing countries to be sold wholesale, but the majority first come from those countries, and not “Made in America.”

It was quite a good feeling to go to the market and know where my shirt was coming from, I must admit. I met the man who buys the fabric, owns the stall, and as you can see, also the man who made my shirt as I waited. If you bring in your favorite shirt, they will measure it and with a team of men at the sewing machines in the Pudhumandapam (great hall, which is part of the old temple complex), then Kanan and his team (or one of the many other tailor stalls) will make your garments on the spot, or at least within the next day. I paid about $25 dollars total for three high-quality cotton, rayon, and silk shirts, custom fit. This is probably still an incredible profit margin, but I knew at least to whom I was giving my money. I don’t know where the fabric actually came from in India, nor the source of the labor force, as it could very well be Chinese children, I don’t know. I just know that perhaps I got at least one step closer to the source and knowing where something came from in this world of pre-packaged, outsourced, and impersonal commodities.

Adding the final Details

I don’t have a tag in my shirts, but, I do know for sure that they were “Made in India” as I sat there and watched

The Three Shirts

Nothing, but Fear Itself

It is something that has puzzled me for quite some time. The fear that I am talking about is a particular kind of xenophobia though, something with which I have been on both ends of the spectrum. It is not the traditional fear of strangers that I am talking about, but rather, something that is slightly more peculiar. Every culture I have experienced so far is xenophobic, unfortunately it seems to be in our blood, but I am thinking about the fear of when people, meaning Americans in this case, want to experience another culture and the reactions of other Americans can be quite odd.

Often, a strange, insecure fear arises that that person might “go native” and not “love/appreciate America” any longer. Or, it can manifest in, “why do you have to go to India, we have Hindus/spirituality in America?” Yes, we do. We have everything in America, but, in an American version, no matter how “authentic” it might seem. I have seen a very large part of America, and I love it for being what it is, America. But, I also love seeing other parts of the world as well, seeing them for what they are. Doesn’t mean that I like what I see always, doesn’t mean that I don’t. It is odd that one even feels compelled the need to “apologize” for seeing the world. Strange, that is.

But, I was once on the giving end as well, so I know the feeling. I remember in parts of Junior High School, I was an “American Boy,” or so it seemed. When “Red Dawn” came out, I remember how pumped up everyone was that high schoolers were going to kick some Commie Red Ass if they ever even thought about coming to America, by God. One of the proud stats of Amarillo was that it would be on the Top 3 places to get nuked because of Pan-Tex. That was a bragging right in the eighties. Slim Pickens as Major “King Kong” from “Dr. Strangelove, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Learn to Love the Bomb (in case where you were wondering where this subtitle  came from)” was no comic figure for us folks in Amarillo. We were going to ride that bomb to the ground and make a big, glass parking lot out of anyone who tried to stop us, by God.

There is another kind of fear that I have been on both sides of, and it reminds me of a girl from High School. Teri was a very shy, pudgy girl during elementary and Junior High school, but the she lost the braces, lost the weight, got a funky, punky haircut, and hung out with the funky, punky kids, became editor of the school, and got interested in Russia (USSR, of course at that time). Boy, did we have a field day with that one, “us” being the Red Dawn Patrol. Saying stupid stuff like “If you love it so much, why don’t you go there?” and such oldies-but-goodies as “freedom isn’t free” and other banal patriotic whatnot, and Teri stood up to quite a bit of torment. But, you could smell the fear in the air. How could one little girl drum up so much anger without it? The fear was that America being the greatest and only place on the planet to live was suddenly crumbling because, “if just one little ant stands up to us, then they will all stand up to us,” to paraphrase Hopper again from A Bug’s Life.

At the time, I had only been briefly across the border to Juarez while we were in El Paso for a swim meet when I was younger, but my sisters had been to Europe. That was weird to see the pictures of them when they came back and to hear the stories. And, then, they had the nerve to go off and live there and/or study there for a while and one of them even got married in Scotland. Well, then I “had” to go. And, well, spending time in London and Scotland kind of rocked my world.

Eventually, I went back to Europe to backpack across seventeen countries for three months alone. At that point, I was at the point of no return. I was smitten by the drive to see the world. I went across “Checkpoint Charlie” in Berlin and in a simple event that changed my life, I knew that I would never fear another culture in the way that I had before. Don’t get me wrong, there are legitimate fears about cultural differences that I have a healthy dose of, but something changed. After I was on the East Berlin side of the wall, I was about to start taking pictures. Big no-no, for within about two shots, a young soldier with an AK-47 on his shoulder came up to me wagging his finger.

Turns out he was indeed Russian, and about my age, height and, in all honesty, we could have been brothers by our looks. We didn’t really exchange much as he didn’t know but a smattering of English, which was a smattering more of Russian and German than I knew at the time, and we just sort of stood there. He asked me where I was from, and I told him. He nodded, didn’t smile, didn’t frown. Kind of looked wistfully over to the other side of the Wall, and with a wave of his hand said, “now you go.” And, so I left.

I thought about that moment for a very long time and have brought it up in several occasions, mainly because that is whose Commie Red Ass I would have been kicking in my Red Dawn dreams. It was absurd to even think about that at that moment. When I saw that this was what a guy (I was only nnnaa-nnnaa-na nineteen) my age would be doing if I were born Russian, East German, or hell, just about any other nationality on the planet. In other words, I wouldn’t be gallavanting around Europe on my own.

The fear of “Russians” dissolved at that moment. Not, of “Russia, the Bear” and nuclear threat, but of the people.  I saw the enemy, face to face, eye to eye, could literally have smelled his breath, and the fear of the enemy was mine no more.