I Should Have Been Stabbed or Something. Right?

Remember a time when you were walking down a dimly lit side street on your way home from work or a friends house.  Even if you were stumbling out of a bar at 2 a.m., you'd only be slightly afraid if you were dodging cars in the middle of a busy intersection and you might only be slightly spooked as the gust of the car unsettled your toupee.  You would just say "Shit, it's drafty in the middle of these intersections, I need to be over there on that there sidewalk."  And you would laugh about it later.  Or at least I would.  Then you would start your long staggering drunk walk home.  Drunk or sober.  Somewhere familiar or foreign.  The thought of being surrounded by darkness while walking home alone is just plain spooky.  However, this story is about me, not you, so if you throw in the facts that I have only been in Ouagadougou for 2 weeks,  85% unsure of where I was in the city, in sandals, and speak French at a 2-year-old's level (2 year old parrot that is), it was an adventure of a walk home. 

Now, let me start at the beginning.  The French Canadian, we'll call him Billy (good French Canadian name), I met a few days ago invited me over for his house warming party.  "Tits" I exclaimed to myself.  "I'm meeting people left and right here."  After I explained to him through SMS that I didn't know how to tell him where I lived (I still don't know my street's name) and didn't have the slightest clue where Budomogo 849 was located, he told me to just meet him at a well know restaurant, Chez Simon, to make it easier.  So I was off to hail my first Burkinabe taxi.  Oh, and something else useful to know about almost all people in Ouagadougou is that most of them aren't familiar with neighborhood street names.  That's why I didn't just tell a taxi to take me there to Billy's house, versus meeting them at Chez Simon.  

Hailing a cab wasn't too hard even where I live outside of the city's center in the dark.   Explaining to him how to get there... well I had to call up Billy and after a 5 minute discussion he figured out the area of the restaurant.  I mean, this is a well known restaurant people, and this "taxi driver" didn't know how to get me there!  

Before I even sat in the cab to take off, I seemed to have noticed what must have been a smudge on the passenger side windshield.  No wait, that's no smudge, that's a huge fucking busted part of the windshield that looked like he had hit a deer.  It was taped up with cardboard and lots and lots of scotch tape.  You see, because scotch tape is more see through.  Perfect for repairing windshields.  The thing is though, there are no deer around these here parts.  There are donkeys and people on the roadways, and that's it.  On the car ride there, through charades and baby French, I learned from the cabbie that he was from Cote D'Ivoire and that the windshield was cracked from a passenger's head hitting the windshield.  I think he said it happened a couple weekends ago and he looked a little annoyed about the whole thing.  So, as I was trying to calmly, but secretly franticly, put on my seat belt, I saw that there was no clip.  He must have seen the concern all over my face and assured me that it was all good and we would be safe.  So I just puckered up my asshole and listened to him talk him about how crazy the motor scooters (motos) drove around here and how cars were much safer.  As he said that, a moto drove past all James-Bond-chase-scene-like and he said "See?"  Of course I had to look out his side of the not cracked part of the windshield to see it.  Also, apparently in Cote D'Ivoire they drive much safer than here.  

You know how it seemed like I was pissed off and amazed that the guy didn't know how to get to this "famous" restaurant?  Well, as we were driving down the main strip through the city looking for it, I noticed a place that I had eaten at a week before... then, you guessed it, I saw the sign that read 'Chez Simon.'  In my defense, the sign was facing the street and I had walked in from the side before, so shut up.  The cabbie doubled the price for me, thanks buddy, and I strolled into the club, cool as a cat from south central gettin' ready to rep America and the KY to my new Canadian counterparts... but not really.  I always come off as casual to everyone.  

I met about 8 canucks, forgot their names, talked for a few minutes, got a good vibe from the group, and we went for another taxi ride to Billy's new house.  This taxi had a better interior than my 2000 Civic back home though, so no story here.  We just chatted.  I had to throw out there that I hated G. Bush so my approval rating with them would improve.  It worked.  One of them told me about how she was watching Deal or No Deal and she heard that Georgey-poo made a funny little joke-ster about "Yeah, I have to get ratings somewhere."  hahaha. Ass.  Anyway, it was the lowest ratings that Deal or No Deal ever had.  What an ass.  Oh yeah, this whole time I was supposed to be paying attention to where I was going.

We got dropped off a Billy's casa and had more good conversation.  Like how the Canadian dollar is stronger than the American dollar now.  Yeah, I know. What's the world coming to?  No offense Canadians everywhere.  I love you all.  Also, I found out that there are elephants to be seen here in their National Forest and that I won't be able to go with my new friends because I'm working this weekend.  Lame.

(I'm drinking peanuts out of a jar right now.  Peanuts are about a dollar per pound over here.  Sweet!)

After the house warming party, a very nice lady (whose name eludes me because it was too French for me to remember) took me to the main road so I could catch a taxi.  "Merci, au revoir."  Now here's where the night starts to get hairy.  And not cute-cuddly-baby-donkey hairy.  More like scary-Harry-Caray hairy.  Not a taxi in site.  So I start strolling down the road in the direction that I think might be the vicinity of my house.  The main road is paved and lit up with street lights, but neighborhoods off to the side are mostly dark with the exception of the random fluorescent shop lights.  Looking down those dirt neighborhood roads was like looking into the abyss - if some abysses had random shop lights.  Also, these roads were lined with closed shops, and eight foot tall barrier walls of stucco and concrete.  Nevertheless, I walked a quarter of a kilometer and saw an intersection that looked like it might head to where I thought I should go.  I didn't see a taxi the whole time so I figured that I was ready for an adventure and should try it.  The one thing that I did know was that I was on Charles De Gaulle  Avenue and I knew that I needed to go west-ish from there.  So I started tramping west into the neighborhood onto the slightly busy dirt road.  I felt comfort in the islands of light that dotted the road.  I knew if I walked west-ish I would eventually hit another paved road and it might even be the one that leads to my apartment.  

Then, as always in life, I came to a place where it was very apparent that my next choice would alter the rest of... my life? Well, it didn't feel that dramatic, but even though I was miles from home, didn't know where I was, in the dark, and couldn't ask for directions home even if I did speak French, I knew I was going to get home.  This decision maker was a dirt road round-a-bout with dilapidated tires stacked on each other for the center piece.  It looked familiar, but I thought "Naw. Naw. Naw. That can't be the one I saw a couple days ago."  I was pretty sure I wasn't going to back my next choice on hoping that there was only one pile of tires used as a round-a-bout in Ouagadougou.  They "recycle" everything except plastic bags around here.  So I looked down each road: (left) It was semi-dark, semi-safe-ish looking, and unfamiliar. (straight) Give me an AK-47 before I go down that bitch. No lights. (right) "Ooo la la," shiney lights, people, and cars.  Yeah, I went right.  

I walked to the road paved road, everything getting brighter as I did so, and actually recognized the place.  It was Charles De Gaulle Ave. again, but at a place where I knew how to get home.  The problem was that I knew it was a good 40 minute+ walk.  The time was 23:40.  I had to go to work at 5:00.  Even though my sandals  are amazing, but I've never seen one that could take an hour and a half straight of walking.  It also could've been that I paid 80 cents for them 3 years ago.  They were starting to cut into my feet so I wanted to take a short cut to get home.  Following CDG Ave, I would've gone northwest then taken a left and gone southwest to get home.  So common sense told me that if I just walked west through the dark dirt roads then I would get home or be damn close; all the while cutting 20 minutes out of my walk time.  Adventurous and slightly frustrated, I told myself that it was an idea.  So I turned away from the lights and civilization and headed back in to Funland;  The "left" direction that I walked away from when I took the right at the tires.  

I'll skip to the end of the story with this paragraph so that I can end the story by drawing back to the beginning, which happens to be the middle.  Got it.  Good.   I ended up walking to a "T" in the road, took a left when I should've gone right and ended up back on Charles De Gualle Ave. where I first got out of the very nice lady's car.  It was about a quarter past midnight and I was back at square one and not so eager for adventure anymore.  I was sweating, confused, frustrated, hailing a cab, and laughing at/with myself. So I was laughing with myself laughing at myself, which means there were three of me at that point.

The good news was that I was finally heading in the right direction. The bad news was that I didn't know it.  I hailed a cab, finally, and the driver told me that I was walking in the wrong direction and that he wasn't going to do his damn job and take me that way (no, I wasn't bitter at all).  So after crossing the road again and walking down the wrong direction, which at this point was right to me, I felt like the world was spinning.  Yeah right, as if the world spins, I know, but that's what it felt like.  I was actually in pretty high spirits though.  The kind of high spirits that a dog has 2 seconds after you scold him, put him in his cage, and offer him a treat because you feel bad.  The other good news is that a guy on a moto stopped and asked if I was lost (remember that all my "conversations" with people are what I interpret because I don't speak freaky deaky French, yet) and I told him where I lived and that I would give him a dollar if he could take me there.  He said he would and that I was walking the wrong way and we would have to turn around first.  I hoped on the back of his moto and we flipped a bitch.  I soon found out that this guy knew what was up and the taxi driver was a Class A jerk.  The guy, Issah, dropped me off and I gave him 2 bucks.  I could tell that he didn't want to take it and he probably would have done it for 50 cents, but only for gas purposes.  He didn't want to make money off of me.  I think I insulted him a little, but I "Merci beaucoup"-ed him and tried to tell him that it meant a lot to me.  

Back to the thought that inspired this story, I walked alone in the dark a lot that night.  More than I should have probably; especially, considering how I was completely lost.  I know people who would worry about me and think I did it out of stupidity or ignorance, but the whole time I felt like I did it out of intelligence and awareness; walking alone that is, not the whole directional mistake thing.  Plus, I think I love my life more than anyone else does, so I wouldn't want to put it in unneeded danger.  

         There is a very friendly and positive vibe in this part of the globe.  Don't get me wrong, I know crime happens here in Ouaga.  Even though it happens mainly in certain parts city, I know that it can happen in the neighborhood I walked through too.  The atmosphere here doesn't carry tension in most parts of this place and there is a sense of community that one could only understand by experiencing it.  I can say that it's one of my favorite things about here and in Niamey, Niger where I used to live. I appreciate a good mixture of community and individuality. During my walk down the dark roads people were never too far away; hanging out at a shop, eating, or working at a shop.  There are a lot of shops in these neighborhoods.  I had a lot of people saying good evening and a couple people asking if I needed any help.  During one of the darkest spots in the road I passed a lady carrying her baby with her and we were basically the only ones around.  As I passed her I smiled and said "Bonsoir." She smiled and said "Bonsoir."  Not a touch of awkwardness or fear.  

Oh, also, that road that I could've taken that I said I would want an AK-47 to go down because it was so dark...  yeah, it was the road that would've come out about 5 minutes from my house.

LA FIN

The secret of eating for pleasure

Despite its title, French women don't get fat isn't a diet book. Quite the contrary. And even though it has recipes, it's not a cook book, either. It's part memoir, part cultural expose, but mostly it's a bicultural woman's manifesto on making the rituals and traditions of her culture work with the world in which she has chosen to live.
The French attitude toward food is only one manifestation of a rich, fairly homogenous culture that evolved over hundreds of years. When you're a country for that long, you have lots of time to figure out the perfect combination of physical labor, fruits, vegetables, proteins and other nutrients to produce healthy people in a given environment. In contrast, the US is a such a hodge podge of uprooted cultures, we've lost the balance that our more settled ancestors cultivated over the course of history. It is probably impossible to undervalue the impact of the automobile on this fragile caloric balance; French people and other pedestrians (including New Yorkers and many Washingtonians) can eat richer foods because we're on our feet all day long.
One of Mireille's most important precepts is that cooking and eating should be an everyday celebration. The French are universally shocked that so many Americans don't know how to cook, or if they do, think of it as an elaborate, difficult process reserved for special occasions. In France, the transformation of ingredients into tasty meals is just as much a part of daily routine as brushing our teeth or checking the mail. For example, just the other day Boyfriend seemed slightly amazed by my ability to whip up an omelette aux herbes de Provence et fromage in less than 10 minutes, and other friends are shocked by my complete lack of interest in following recipes (i call them cheat sheets or just"inspiration"). Conversely, I'm always amused by people's insistence on measuring the four quarts of water in which pasta will be boiled and the exact two tablespoons of butter to be added to the Mac'n'Cheese. I'm a big believer in eyeballing .
Mireille and I both agree on our least favorite American cultural value - the persistent Puritan belief that anything that feels good is sinful. In France, we frequently enjoin one another to fais-toi plaisir - give yourself some pleasure and find delight in the small things in life. It's all about cultivating not the guilty pleasure but the ritual treat - for exampple, my father eats two squares of dark chocolate every night before bed. I've adapted the concept to my American life: I always have my Monday night mid-class dinner from the McDonald's dollar menu (small fry, four chicken nuggets, and a McChicken sandwich) to the initial shock and now great amusement of my classmates and my professor.
We French believe in pleasure but also in moderation, which is easier for us to maintain because we know this this isn't our last chance to eat cake or do whatever it is that brings us joy. A fe months ago a friend of mine was utterly shocked that i could have three bites of cake, or one drag off a cigarette and be satisfied.
Speaking of which, my one fault with this book is that it omits the controversial fact that French women are much more likely to satiate their oral fixations by smoking than by overeating - both are bad for you, no doubt, but in France it's more socially acceptable to smoke than to overeat, whereas it's the opposite in the States. I only have anecdotal evidence to support this, but I am convinced that many overweight Americans would be trim smokers if they lived in a cultural context where that was acceptable. To the French mind, the American division between Smokers and Non-Smokers is pretty artificial - to most French people, especially the young, smoking is an activity, not an innate characteristic. You can be an occasional smoker just as you can be an occasional eater of red meat.
Nevertheless, un grand merci to Mireille for putting her experience into words.

Greetings From Ouagadougou

Greets from Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso.  Hey everybody, since I don't have a decent way to get internet right now, and since I've been here for a while, I'm sending this out to kinda recap what's been going on here with me.  

Getting here we actually had a lay-over in Niamey, which was a treat.  Some lady used up to vomit bags (I've never actually seen anyone use even one before) while we were landing because it was about 80 degrees in the cabin while we were still 10,000 feet up.  Plus, there was some turbulence.  Then we landed hopped on over to Ouaga and upon landing everything looked and smelled very similar to my old home in Niamey.  Also, stepping off the plane there was that all too familiar/tramatic welcoming blast from the hair-dryer that is the Sahel wind.  The people of the plane queued up outside the "terminal" so that we could shuffle in the high-ceilinged two car garage ("terminal") to get our visa's filled out and shot cards checked.  I was hoping the whole time that nothing would go wrong because I don't think my three words of french would get me out of any sticky situations.  And the two Americants that were with me were just as useless as I was.  All went well with the luggage, although my guitar was M.I.A. for a little while.  Some nice fellas  fought over who would help my two new co-workers and I pull our luggage to the car.  Our boss (good guy) and driver (who laughs histericly every time we say Peanut Butter.  Crazy guy.) met us and drove us to our new apartments.

The road home was smooth for most part.  There is a pretty damn decent paved road system with a very buzzing downtown here.  I was surprised.  People everywhere.  We narrowly missed about 7 people on the way home.  It seems like most people have a scooter, which I can't have because of company policy (damn it), and the rest bike it.  Although I did see a ridiculously misplaced Escalade.

 I would say the city itself is a good size that you could safely bike around to get to most places.  Its just that things get much further away in 100+ temperatures.  The second day I got here it got above 110.  And coincidently I was talking to some really cool Peace Corps volunteers last night who said it was a mild summer.  And so you know what I told them? "Pshaw!" That's what I told them.  Oh, and back to the bike thing.  It seems like the couple times I've seen somebody get hit by a scooter or car its been a woman biker with a baby on her back.  Fortunately though, its a light hit that doesn't even hurt the bike...much.  The bikers always look a little annoyed, but I wouldn't even call it pissed off.  They are such tough people.  For instance, they can work construction for 6 hours in the heat and for lunch they'll grab a couple-hands-full of peanuts and be good to go for the next 6 hours of work.  I myself eat half a pizza in the AC and 4 or 5 hours later I have to eat the other half because I'm hungry again.  Well, to give myself some credit, I did burn off some calories that day with all of the fly swatting and it was only a 10 inch thin crust.  Thin crust I say!  

My apartment is nice.  Some of you know the African style with the painted concrete walls inside, tile floors, high ceilings, stuco-ed on the outside, and very curvy stylish bars on the windows.  Those of you who don't know, well, its kinda like how I just described.  I have a nice little kitchen, which apparently is used for preparing food.  I mean, I'm just use to preparing food by adding already prepared food (thanks mom, and previous cooks!) to a microwave.  Actually, I have a sweet microwave here too, but buying already prepared food here is few and far between.  And when you do find it, it ain't cheap.  I can't wait to send out some pics to some of you guys, who haven't seen a developing country, to show you the meat market.  Actually it would almost be worth flying back and emailing it while I peer in from a window so that I could see some gagging.  But I would only do that if they were scratch-n-sniff because the sight is only 1/3 of the true intensity (what with the flies, bits of fat, and goat balls).  The smell is retched.  Heinous even.  But damn if it ain't some good steak.  I just need to learn the science of marination (and no Jason Dewayne, not that type of marination).  

It so hard for me to friggin organize my writing.  I just noticed that I start out my paragraphs with one topic and two sentences later I get on a tangent and that's how I end it.  Well, until I figure it out, please bare with me.

If you can't tell, I'm really enjoying life here.  I've only been here for a 11 days and it feels like I've been here for a month.  My main worry right now, as I write this unconnected to the internet so that I can just shoot it off when I find some hotel with wifi, is getting the internet in my apt.  Things work real slow around here so you have to be extremely proactive.  Luckily my boss is so, so I just go the telephone line hooked into my apt.  Now i just need the modem and wire and connection service thingy.  Another worry is how many hours of Heroes I have left.  And other movies and stuff too, but mainly Heros.  I guess most of the world has to deal with that probably.  Times are hard these days.  Also, I don't have mailing privileges and I think it'll stay that way.  I have everything I need here and I'll just bring back African goodies when I fly back in a year.

Lets see.  Night life here is actually pretty sweet.  I went out last weekend on thursday night with Congo (speaks good english) and he showed me his favorite club downtown.  It was very nice, even by states standards.  Drinks were about the same cost as American clubs.  I was just scoping the scene so Congo and I mainly just talked at the bar and had a couple drinks.  Most of the night we were playing "How's the Hook?"  It's and challenging and potentially dangerous game that takes strong will, strong brains, a chilly heart, balls of a goat, and occasionally some nun-chucks.  One fine fact, that may or may not be accurate (Its fact to me), is that 95% of all hookers her have AIDS.  That's a 1:20 chance of not getting AIDS if copulation would take place with one.  In Vegas, they have a saying these odds:  "Play a different game."  In early May in Kentucky they say "You could win more money getting wasted in the infield and hanging around the hippee folk."  Well, no, they don't really say that, but I just did, and I'm from KY, so there. 

Now, its not a question of wether or not I would chance it even if it was 19:20 odds of not getting a disease.  The way of the hook is not my style.  Does absolutely nothing for my ego.  I would feel like a 54 year old crusty Frenchman who's living here to be put up on a money petistal.  I played the game for entertainment because I heard there were many whores here, but I couldn't see any in the club.  Little did I know, they were all around.  Dressed very nice.  Congo pointed them out to me, which told me he knew the game, but even he was confused with some.  Differences that I saw were that the "ladies of the night" were a bit more flashy.  In other words, looks more clean and dressed up than the regular girls.  But the reason I could even compete with Congo in this game was because if were bold and upfront, or tried to get you to buy a drink for them, they were obviously bad.  Anyone could tell that.  So lots would stare, give me the eye, or just approach.  One of them was named Mary (i think), but she asked me to call her Hot Cakes.  I can't make this up. Others though, I like to call them Ninja Hooks, would slyly sip on a drink at the bar and text on their phone.  Sneaky.  I don't know what Congo said to one of those, but he found out that she was one.  He was even unsure about that one.  Then there was the girl, Marium, who just danced by herself all night.  I was fairy just by the time I made my decision about her, but I voted hook.  Who dances by their self all night, not talking or looking at anyone?  Congo said "No."  He called her over with a hand motion and she didn't come.  I was like, "Damn."  She would've ran if she was hook.  

He later talked to her and got her number and Adam, Congo, Marium, and I ate lunch the next day.  I bought Congo and Marium lunch, and the next day Congo texted me that she said she had fallen in love with me.  When only communicated thru sherades.  The lunch started out awkward as I expected.  Marium was pretty shy and could speak about as much english as I can french, but  I got out of her that she was from Niamey and half Fulani/half Hausa tribe. 

So that was kinda cool.  Also, the green "M" tattooed between her eyes and her afro under her arms were cool, but not really.  

We were there for a while waiting for our food and during that time many awkward silences were had.  One silence was broken by a guy with a rack of cigarettes and cell phone cards coming up to the table and motioning for me to buy something.  Rather than scissor kick is ass for being so rude, I realized that the man was just trying to make a buck in a place where there weren't too many bucks to be made.  I shooed him off in the nicest way possible.  Another bought of sherades.  Another silence.  Another guy selling things.  This went on a couple times before I saw the next guy walking up.  I looked to see where the man was coming from and saw that their was a line of people standing at one of the entrances to the cafe.  All with things to sell Adam and I.  So I spoke in a loud volume, with a nice tone, "Merci." and waved my hand to shoo the whole line away.  Probably the reason I'm going so into depth with this right now is that I know that after a while things like this will be just a natural way to me and it will be hard to notice it all.  Things like when we were finished with our meal and had mere scraps left on our plate, a kid in his late teens came up and took our plates for us and for a second I thought he was just the waiter finally doing his job.  Instead he was there to munch on the scraps.  

My neighbors are all really kind.  Actually, every one here is very very kind and complain about very very little.  I'm not saying that they are just kind to me because they know I have money.  There is a whole atmosphere of it here.  I see it from one person to the other.  Not just towards me.  Adam lives next to a bar (and by "next to" I mean he can walk about 7ft outside of his front door and get a beer through the back window of the bar) and we've become very good friends with the head honcho, Kareem.  Real cool, laid back kinda guy.  And you know what, I just thought of this, but I just found out that he is Muslim the other night (after we offered him a beer, and he turned it down because of his faith) and he's the head guy at this bar.  Weird. Anyway, Kareem treats us well because we give him business like no otha, but also he'll not only show us where to get bread, eggs, and phone cards, he'll actually drive out and get them for us.  Ok, you know what, bad example because we give him business so people go way out of their way here if you give them business.  Adam's next door neighbor Ramatou, she just hangs out with us even though she knows little english, needs no money, is leaving to go back to home town hours away from here, and never hints at asking for anything.  My neighbor right now is Kevin and the ladies at the Manicure/Pedicure shop.  They're nice and at least one of them has a kid, Rodrick.  He's like 5 and extremely rambunctious.  His crew is always rolling like 7 deep.  Like Bebe's Kids or something.  And if I shake one of their hands, they all want their hands shook.  Cute kids, and they listen well too.  Like, today they just all ran in my front gate and were having a blast, but after a few seconds I motioned for them to get out because I couldn't see them all and they stop what they were doing right then and skidadled.  Of course, then they would sneak behind me while I was talking and hide behind the gate until I caught them.

To anyone who bared through all of that reading, hats off to you.  If you liked it, I have a book coming out in the fall... but not really.  I hope this found everyone in good health.  I'll send pics and what not.  I just found out that I'm getting the internet tomorrow (copyright May 22nd).  Take care of yourselves and I hope to hear from you all sooner or later.

Ronnie

And sexism, too!

Lest I be accused of being politically biased, props to the Washington Post for their article about the sexist attacks against Senator Clinton. The craziest thing to me is that the primary is supposed to be between democrats - if I didn't know better, I'd think that this primary was a referendum between sexists and racists.

Racism alive and well in heartland

Ugh. I'm so disturbed by this article that it's taken me over a week to post about it. I don't ever want to hear that white people don't have it easier than everybody else. I wish you godspeed, Senator Obama.

A real American

I've been reading a lot about cultural values related to sex, love and marriage lately, and in the middle of this somewhat puzzling article in The Atlantic I found this delightful paragraph:

Even though she was born in Belgium and schooled in Israel, and speaks eight languages, she is fundamentally, deeply American—indeed, announcing that you speak eight languages is a deeply American thing to do. (As I write, I am living in Crete, where half the people who wash floors in hotels speak eight languages and don’t tell you.) Perel is American in both the best sense and the worst in which Europeans use the term: She is American in her can-do conviction that people will live happily ever after. She is American also in her self-promotion (“My husband is the director of the International Trauma Studies Program at Columbia University … My parents were survivors of Nazi concentration camps,” she tells us, as though this bore on her thesis). She is American, finally, in her unquestioning assumption that we should work like hell on our sex lives.

Still not sure what to make of the article itself, but that paragraph is spot-on.

Mr. Darcy, the universal value

I've been struggling to write about the NYT's companion article to the one I blogged about last week, about love in Saudi Arabia. The first article had me thinking about how different our cultures are. The second is making me think about how similar we are. The young women in the article are in their late teens and are either in high school or studying at university. When I was that age I attended an all-girls high school (something my French relatives thought was the summit of American religious fundamentalism), and was just as confused and puzzled by the male species as they seem to be. Of course, I did interact with boys on a regular basis at my part-time job, and even though I didn't really date I did attend several dances escorted by a series of nervous, slightly awkward young men. I, too, spent a lot of time in groups of girls, giggling and watching movies like Titanic, Pride and Prejudice, and a whole slew of unremarkable romantic comedies starring Cameron Diaz or Kate Hudson. Unlike the Saudi girls, though, everything in my culture, from Hollywood to my mother's exhortations to "put on some make-up and smile, for crying out loud," told me to get out there, meet guys, date them, and have marathon phone conversations with my girlfriends about these boys and the strange things they did.

Years later, female friendships are still the most important relationships in my life, even as I follow my society's cultural expectation that I will "put myself out there" and continue my quest for Mr. Right. I have to say, having been on more bad first dates than I care to admit, the thought has occurred to me that it would be nice to get some help from Mom and Dad. How can I be expected to both find guys to date AND evaluate them for suitability? That's an awful lot of work. I do have a full-time job, you know.

It occurs to me that in the States at least (and I think this is starting to spread to Europe as well) online dating sites like Match.com, J-date, e-harmony, etc. are filling the void left by the yentas and Mrs. Bennetts of yore, with the added benefit that the website won't harp on you b/c you rejected a perfectly nice Jewish doctor (or whatever your mother's ideal man happens to be) in favor of a starving artist who gives you butterflies. Personally I would gladly pay the subscription to the matchmaking service just to avoid the maternal recriminations.

I am glad, though, to have the final say in the evaluation of these suitors (with input from the Dating Committee, of course). That said, I've been thinking a lot about Lori Gottlieb's article in The Atlantic, in which she argues that American women need to be less picky about men if they want to get married at all. Her primary audience is 30-something women, but even as a 20-something I see truth in her argument that

what makes for a good marriage isn’t necessarily what makes for a good romantic relationship. Once you’re married, it’s not about whom you want to go on vacation with; it’s about whom you want to run a household with. Marriage isn’t a passion-fest; it’s more like a partnership formed to run a very small, mundane, and often boring nonprofit business. And I mean this in a good way.

Certainly I've learned that what makes a guy attractive for bar-flirting and number-getting (and drunken poor life decisions) doesn't make for a good romantic relationship. It's not that there aren't good people to be met in bars (after all, you're there), it's that the qualities needed to shine on the bar scene do not make a knight (or maiden) in shining armor.

As different as my life is from those of the Saudi girls and women interviewed, there are some universal truths out there:

Shaden sighed, deeply. “When Darcy comes to Elizabeth and says ‘I love you’ — that’s exactly the kind of love I want.”

After all, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. ;-)

(Ir)regular people

"Clinton won tonight because this is a state that likes, you know, regular people."

-- Karl Rove, "O'Reilly Factor," FNC, 5/13.

Ah, ethnocentrism. Because white males are the default setting for human beings, and everyone else has a special option toggled. Hillary isn't exactly regular, either (a fact that the anti-Clinton backlash hasn't hesitated to use) but as my coworker said, "at least she's the right genus of the species."

A man walks into the lobby of a prominent conservative think tank and asks the young man at the front desk whether Mr. Smith has arrived yet. The receptionist says that yes, he has, and should be at the reception just inside. "How will I recognize him?", the man asks. The young man blushes, rubs his crew-cut head, looking for a choice adjective or two. "He looks, well, normal!"

Meaning just like him. Meaning white.

Les voyages forment la jeunesse

Last fall I traveled to Iceland and France with an American friend, Jim. This was Jim's first trip outside North America - a vacation of a lifetime. For me, this was my annual pilgrimage to the fatherland with a fun, random weekend in Reykjavik tacked on (why Iceland? b/c Icelandair is cheap). As could be expected, Jim and I didn't turn out to be the most compatible of travel buddies. I'm a city girl who power walks to get places; he's a suburbanite who strolls for leisure. I like to find the off-the-beaten track, random nooks and corners of a city, whereas he understandably wanted to check out the big tourist stuff, which he wanted to photograph from every possible angle, using every possible setting on his camera. I, meanwhile, was perfectly content to wander around, taking in the sights, sounds and smells without trying to document the moment. I vividly remember admiring the neoclassical sculpture at the Louvre and having my precious moment ruined (from my perspective) by Jim sighing, "I'm not crazy about all this stuff, to be honest, but I didn't want to go back the States after a trip to France and not have been to the Louvre!" Meanwhile, I'm sure that my insistence on enjoying the moment, walking briskly, and eating strange foods while holding my cutlery in a specific way drove him equally crazy.
This "collecting proofs of experiences" attitude toward travel is something that has often perplexed me in my American friends and acquaintances. I remember being horrified by friends returning from a semester abroad with 9,000 digital photographs, which they assumed I would fascinated by (I was not). Just the other day another acquaintance was describing her desire to visit London "just to be able to say that she'd been there." I don't think this is a particularly American trait, even though I've mostly experienced it with Americans - but then again, these days I mostly interact with either Americans or TCKs who are just as blase about world travel as I am.
What is it about "being in the moment"? I think it's a combination of taking in the scenery, sounds and smells, of people-watching and seeing all the way in which they are familiar and foreign all at once, and of imaging what my life would be like and who I would be if I lived there.

The weaker sex?

More musings on the NYT article about love in Saudi Arabia...

"The nature of men is that men are more rational. Women are not rational. With one or two or three words, a man can get what he wants from a woman."

20-year-old Enad succinctly expresses his cultural belief that men are the strong, rational gender who can control their sexual urges, whereas women are weak and quick to give it up, requiring them to be kept under lock and key. Or at least that's my impression based on my (admittedly limited) knowledge of Saudi culture. Western parents keep tabs on their daughters too, but more out of a fear of predatory men than because they distrust their daughters.

Yesterday I attended a lecture by a Somali teacher and human rights defender, Hawa Aden Mohamed during which she addressed her uphill battle against female genital mutilation (FGM) in her country. I was absolutely astonished by the male justification she reported for this barbaric cultural practice: if women's sexuality wasn't kept in check by FGM, they would go around raping men and the society would descend into chaos. Basically like a reverse Congo.

I should say that I use the word "barbaric" en toute connaissance de cause, having weighed the pros and cons of using such a negatively charged term in a blog about intercultural communication. I am ready to accept cultural relativism about a host of things, but not everything - especially not what I consider universal human rights.

interculturalist in the FIELD

This weekend, I managed to snap two shots of these magical couples shirts. It was difficult being stealth, so in the end, I just surrendered and blatantly took a picture of two couples conversing. The couple on the left is wearing matching shirts, sneakers, AND jeans!

Cute? Gross? Qwaaa?

Love by any other name

Piggy-backing on Jenn's post about dating a la coreenne, did anyone read this article on the front page of today's New York Times? Check out the accompanying video and slideshow too.

I was struck by the contrast not only between Saudi tradition and the saccharine, Hollywood romance that the two young men depicted seem to idealize, but also with the cautious, almost reticent attitude among 20-something Americans. Nader isn't allowed to see or speak to his fiancee Sarah until the wedding, but she is in his cell phone as "My Love" and his ring tone is the Titanic theme song. In the video, Nader's cousin Enad talks about walking past his uncle's house and seeing his cousin without her veil, and falling in love at the mere sight of her. Never mind the incest part (for now), to my Western mind the idea of being in love after glimpsing someone once is preposterous. We Americans can date for months without considering ourselves "in love" - and even then, the etiquette of saying those three magic words without coming on too strong is a delicate balance.

Even compared to other Western cultures, the American dating scene is particularly cautious. A French friend of mind recently told that she had a new boyfriend whom she was very excited about. I congratulated her, and asked how long she'd been going out with this guy. "Since Saturday," she replied. This conversation happened on a Thursday. I know couples in the States who have been involved for months who don't consider each other boyfriend and girlfriend.

Even when that official status is achieved, usually fallowing a series of incremental steps (seeing each other, being involved, dating, being exclusive, being together, etc), both partners tend to be quite set on keeping their independence. No self-respecting American couple would ever wear matching t-shirts like in Korea, except maybe as a Halloween costume. Living together and/or engagement are seen as yet another momentous step, to only be undertaken after much thought and a deep conviction that you're "ready" and that you really have found "The One." We are a generation who has been told since birth that we could be, do and have it all, so our expectations for love are sky-high. "The One" has to be dreamily attractive, smart, hard-working, show potential to be a good parent, funny, share out interests and goals and "get us." Contrast that with Nader, who based his decision to marry Sarah (he was given the choice among his uncle's four daughters) because he'd seen her face as a child and remembered that she was pretty. In the West, that would be considered "crazy talk." Even Enad's idea of Western love - being engaged for six months and going out to dinner every night - is way on the conservative end of the spectrum of Western dating behavior. The norm is that you will date for at the very least a year before you get engaged, usually sleep together and maybe even cohabitate. My French relatives would think I was nuts if I announced my engagement to someone I wasn't living with (or at least moving in with imminently).

Diversity in med schools

I thought this article from Campus Progress (a Center for American Progress publication) was really interesting. So interesting, in fact, that I've been meaning to write about it since early May. First, it argues for affirmative action not as an issue of fairness but because diversity in the medical profession (and by extension, in many others) is in the public interest, and this is how:

One of the most important elements of comprehensive medical care is the relationship between a patient and his or her doctor, and research consistently
shows that this is an area where race and ethnicity have a significant, undeniable impact. Patients report higher measures of satisfaction and trust when their doctor is of the same race and ethnicity. One study found that race-concordant visits were longer on average and were characterized by more positive physician affect. In addition, minority physicians are more likely than white physicians to practice in geographic areas whose populations face multiple challenges to maintaining good health. The challenges that residents of these “underserved” areas typically face include poverty, lack of insurance, and shortages of physicians. Research has shown that access to health services for indigent populations is augmented by the presence
of minority physicians. And minority doctors report caring for more impoverished, uninsured and Medicaid-insured patients. For these reasons and others, it is clear that developing a diverse physician workforce would pay dividends across the health system, particularly given how many low-income and uninsured Americans lack needed care.

As I read this I am thinking of how the same dynamics apply to my own industry, the non-profit sector. In particular, it's interesting that financial risk seems to be the main reason non-whites stay away from careers in both medicine and non-profit work. For NGOs of course it's not so much a question of paying for school (though that can be a factor) as the lower salaries that non-profit employees can expect compared to their peers in the private sector.

The Custom Is Always Right?

On a recent trip to China, I met a 31-year-old man, let’s call him Sung Ryo, upon de-boarding my 2.5-hour Air China flight from Busan to Beijing. I had noticed him watch me in the Busan airport as I frantically tried to stuff my spring coat and reading material into my checked in luggage before checking in. I couldn’t tell if he was fixated on my appearance or rather how crazy I was acting (why would I put my plane-reading in my luggage rather than my carry on? I honestly don’t know the answer to that question either), but in any event, I was aware and familiar of him when I boarded in Busan.

We landed in Beijing in the early afternoon. As many of you know, Beijing has a new terminal full of tacky and amazing sights, and so many passengers, including Sung Ryo, got off the plane, pulled out their sleek Samsung powder pink cameras, and began snapping images of the graceful ceiling architecture and grand moving walkways of Terminal 3, the biggest building in the world. As I got off the walkway connecting the plane to the airport, I saw Sung Ryo awkwardly attempting to take a picture of himself with the new terminal. I walked up to him and asked (in Korean, all of our interactions were in Korean): “Do you want me to take your picture?”. Shocked that this doe-eyed (yes, I’m like a doe) creature could speak Korean, he immediately inquired “Are you Korean?” to which I responded, “No, I am American. But my mother is Korean and my father is American”. I suppose a simple “I’m American” answer could have sufficed in other places, but in Korea they remain inquisitive until they can understand every component of your background. Especially when you look as “confusing” (a Korean called me this once) as I do.

Anyway, Sung Ryo and I mounted this massive moving walkway and talked about these things in this order: how old I was, where I lived, what I did, and why I was in China. Five minutes of conversation was enough time for him to decide that he wanted my phone number, and so he asked—and observing that he was cute, well mannered, and funny, I gave it to him. He then asked to take my picture with his pink camera, and I shyly said “no” to which he responded with a giggle. He then told me that he would soon come up to my little town, and we would rent bicycles, ride them around a lake, and have a picnic of Korean sushi in the forest. Such a thought—of forced memories and frills--immediately sickened me, and though I am unquestionably both alone and horny, I suddenly wished that I had not given my number to Sung Ryo. Getting involved with a cute Korean boy was fine with me in theory, but in practice it would mean experiencing a whole new dating culture that was completely alien to me.

Korean dating is far less casual than American dating—and the act of giving him my phone number was indication I was seriously interested in becoming involved with him. Though I thought I had been acting reserved and shy, simple acts—such as waiting near him at the luggage carousel—had created a situation in which I was undeniably on the path to girlfriendhood as we parted ways at a busy Beijing taxi stand. He even said to me in Korean “we have only three months left together, but it will be wonderful”, a statement that shocked me twenty minutes later when I had finally translated it accurately.

I thought he had been pouring it on a bit strong just to charm me, and so I relaxed in China, somewhat excited (but also a bit concerned) about coming back to Korea for my first date/marriage with Sung Ryo.

When I landed back in Korea, I turned on my mobile to find three missed calls from him. “Wow is he enthusiastic and sweet!”, I thought to myself and planned to call him when settled back in my apartment, located about 1.5 hours away from the airport by shuttle. I fell asleep on the shuttle, and when I awoke there were yet another three missed calls from him as well as a text message that translated basically as “Do you know who this is? Why are you avoiding me?”, and a Multimedia text message with a photo of him making a heart shape out of his two hands. Oh blergh, whaaaaaaaat the fork. WHY?! Why can’t he just calm down and wait! WHY was he expecting a response immediately? WHY was he already being accusatory? WHY was there a picture of him in my inbox? WHY was he making a heart shape with his hands?

In the amount of time I took to process this (I slept on it), there were phone calls every other hour into the wee hours of the morning and text messages that become gradually more offensive. Most of the time he called and I was busy socializing with my host family or teaching in class, but sometimes I was actually not busy—and I saw his number calling, flipped out, and threw my phone under my pillow to drown out the ringing.

Sung Ryo had scared me on two interrelated fronts; one of which was excusable and the other, to me, was inexcusable. He scared me because he wanted to introduce me to a dating world, which was very unlike the American dating world to which I had been accustomed. The Korean dating world, of matching couples tshirts, rings, underwear, and proudly-naïve love made me want to barf. It was an experience soaked in dependence and smothering—two traits that I abhorred. However, being frightened of the Korean dating world (read: the unfamiliar) was no real excuse for me to avoid it, and so I probably should have gotten over my apprehension and at least given it a try. I didn’t have to marry the guy (though in his eyes, it certainly seems like we were headed down that path), nor did I even have to call him for subsequent dates. So this, in my mind, was the excusable front.

The second way in which he frightened me was, in some ways, typical to all Korean relationships—not exclusively dating—and this is the phenomenon of texting/phoning non-stop, and expecting the other party to reciprocate. In America, I am accustomed to waiting until I am free (or awake) to return a call, but in Korea, it seems, this behavior is considered very rude. Indeed, I was once watching a Korean talk show, and participants confessed that they bring their phones to the bathroom just so they can take any call that comes and respond immediately. Frequent calling would not annoy me per se, but it was the text messages that became progressively more offensive and accusatory that completely turned me off of Sung Ryo. Last night, he sent a message that warned me that if I did not call him back immediately, he would be very upset. He then sent me another text calling me very rude, and writing that my non-response was completely inexcusable and offensive. Following that was another text warning me that he would not be calling again. He then called twenty minutes later.

I understood his many messages and phone calls as desperate badgering, and I soon decided to ignore him all together by sending him a message saying that I already had a boyfriend in America, and I only wanted to be friends with him. Not an entirely mature way to handle the situation, I’m well aware, but I found no reason to get in touch with him when he had offended me with his thin threats and over-the-top persistence. Also, I was still scared about the Korean dating world, and this fear trumped all of my desires for companionship as I lead the lonely life of a teaching and research Grantee in the Korean countryside.

So how do you read this? Would he be undesirable in all cultures? Did I make a big mistake by even giving him my phone number? How could I have handled this better? Were my problems with Sung Ryo just indicative of my problems with men around the world? (Admittedly, I am a bit messed up in that area, even in America), And finally, after this column, could I be considered the half-Korean interculturalist Carrie Bradshaw?

Let me know what you think. More from me coming soon.

Introducing Cathryn Davis, epouse Russell

A good friend of mine, a born and bred Midwesterner is moving to Paris in the fall for her last year of graduate school, right after her wedding to Bob, a doctoral student from the Midwest. Cathryn has decided to take Bob's name, which makes her visa situation slightly complicated since she wants to change all her identity documents in the three weeks or so between the wedding and the big move...

Cathryn: my name changes on august 7, but I'm not in the country till august 10. so, soonest i could have the new passport is august 13. but I'm not in DC then, so I'd have to mail it in, and would need the visa back by august 29, the last business day before we go.

and that's just tight enough to worry me.

me: can you just use your current passport?

Cathryn: I'm really set on changing my name. we're starting to toy with just going to the courthouse and getting married, so we can deal with all of this right now. but i have the romantic notion that I'd like to "get married on my wedding day," so I'd like not to do that unless we need to

me: using your current passport doesn't mean you're not changing your name, just that you haven't informed the state dept of that fact

Cathryn: fair enough. i suppose i could get my visa on my old passport, then get a new one at the American embassy while we're there.

see, I'm strongly committed to making my name change "official"

me: I'm French, i have very little interest in "official"

Cathryn: I'm American, and a law student. i like rules and structure.

me: but yeah, you can get a new Russell passport at the embassy

so you'd be delaying the officialdom by a few weeks, which is prob what it would take you if you weren't moving

Cathryn: wouldn't that mean I'd have to go back to the prefecture to get a new carte de sejour put into my new passport?

me: i don't know about that, but that would solve the short time-frame issue

also, sweetie?

Cathryn: it sounds like i should try to find someone over there to talk to

yes?

me: I'm supportive of your cultural right to like officialness and structure

but you're going to have to let go of that a little bit if you're going to live in paris for a year

Cathryn: but i am going to France, where i need to understand there will be less?

i know.

me: also - under French law, women don't "change" their name like here

Cathryn: a very, very fair point.

me: you add your husband's name to your own if you so choose

and can use whatever you want in daily life

so you would be Cathryn Davis epouse Russell

but you can refer to yourself as and have people call you Mme Russell, that's totally up to you

however for a French cop, your legal last name on paper will always be Davis

even if he doesn't address you as such

Cathryn: fair enough.

me: now stop hyperventilating, you'll be fine

We're very eager, here at The Interculturalists, to chronicle Cathryn and Bob's Acculturation Adventure - so stay tuned!

Because what's REALLY wrong with Iraq is the lack of theme parks???

From the Center for American Progress...

Mickey Mouse Operation

With the help of the Defense Department, the Los Angeles-based company C3 is "developing the Baghdad Zoo and Entertainment Experience, a massive American-style amusement park that will feature a skateboard park, rides, a concert theatre and a museum" and "is being designed by the firm that developed Disneyland." More than that though, the Pentagon is also backing a $5 billion plan to create a "zone of influence" around the new $700 million U.S. embassy that will include luxury hotels, a shopping center, and condos in an effort to "transform" the Green Zone into a "centerpiece for Baghdad's future." This isn't the first time the Pentagon has turned to Disney for solutions. One year after the scandal erupted over the long-term treatment of soldiers at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, the Army introduced the "Service, Disney Style" program that is now required for all military and other government employees at the hospital in an effort to "revamp attitudes" and instill a sense that "poor service equals frustration." With violence escalating in Iraq, the Pentagon is again looking to the Disney model for a way out.

'ANYBODY EVER BEEN TO DISNEYLAND?': The Disneyland-style amusement park in the heart of Iraq will cost nearly $500 million. Llewellyn Werner, chairman of C3, said of the idea, "[T]he people need this kind of positive influence. It's going to have a huge psychological impact." But make no mistake, Werner also sees dollar signs. "I'm a businessman. I'm not here because I think you're nice people," Werner said, adding, "I wouldn't be doing this if I wasn't making money." Trying to sell the idea to Baghdad's skeptical deputy mayor, Werner explained the significance of waterpark lagoons: they're "very important to the sex appeal, the sizzle. Anybody ever been to Disneyland?" Werner's sentiment is shared by John March, executive vice president of the firm contracted to design the park. March recently downplayed any safety concerns associated with creating a massive entertainment complex in the heart of Baghdad. "Well, you live here in Southern California and there's drive-bys and everything else. So there's danger everywhere," he proclaimed. But Werner has an idea on how to bridge the sectarian divide in Baghdad: skateboarding. He said Iraqis will see the park as "an opportunity for their children regardless if they're Shia or Sunni." Speaking in deliberately slow English, Werner told the Iraqis, "One of the fastest growing sports in the world is skate…boarding." Indeed, the skateboarding park, part of the first phase, is set to open this summer.

More proof that the US government thinks that the only thing wrong with Iraqis is that they're not Americans. I was on board with secular democracy, free and fair trials, and a market economy - but THEME PARKS??

The Miniature Earth

My grandmother, who grew up dirt poor in Casablanca during the Great Depression, used to tell me that if you want to be happy in life, you shouldn't compare yourself to other people. But if you can't help it, you have two options: you can either compare yourself to those who are better off than you, and be jealous, or you can compare yourself to those who are less fortunate and be grateful.
In my line of work I encounter a lot of people who are definitely worse off than me and I credit them (and my grandmother) for giving me a sense of perspective. Sure, I have my share of self-pitying moments, and I think that can be healthy if it pushes you to work harder for what you want to achieve. That said, I am a college-educated Westerner, who owns a computer with Internet access, has the right to work in the US and EU, can travel almost anywhere, whose political rights aren't under any serious threat and who has never been a victim of violence or worried where her next meal was coming from - that's pretty amazing.

Le Pourquoi du Comment

I have several reasons for starting this blog. Like so many things in my life (why I moved to Toulouse in 2003... why I moved back to DC in 2004... and why I'm still here) there is any number of equally true reasons behind this, and depending on the exact question asked, the context, the questioner and the audience, I'll give you a different answer without negating any of the other explanations that I may have given instead. Here are a few of the reasons, in no particular order (I reserve the right to discover others at any point):

• I miss writing
• For a while now I've been thinking that I want to pursue intercultural communication as a career, either as an academic, a trainer, and consultant, or a combination. No time like the present to get started!
• I hope this will help me break into the field
• I hope this will help with my eventual grad school applications
• I love learning about others' experiences in culture shock, acculturation, etc, and I hope to learn from my fellow contributors as well as from other global bloggers (globloggers?)
• I spend a lot of time discussing culture and all its wonders with a growing number of friends and end up wishing that I had it all written down somewhere - I hope this blog can fulfill that purpose
• I know how naive and idealistic this sounds - but I really do believe that we could all lead happier, more productive lives if we took a little more time to understand one another and put some thought into why people do what they do and think what they think. This is true everywhere, from our personal lives to the most macro levels of the international system.
  

Gerson trashes understanding

Apparently, trying to understand why people believe what they believe is condescending. Just like helping poor people feed their families, giving the middle class a leg up in putting their kids through college is demeaning, or passing an Equal Rights Amendment would be insulting to women. I guess that's compassionate conservatism.

Being two things at once

The other night, BelmontMedina and I were discussing the democratic primary (still):

Natacha: you know, Obama could probably convince a lot of people to get over their racism by emphasizing that he's half-white and was raised by white people.
BelmontMedina: yeah but that would antagonize black voters, they'd think he was being uppity or something.
Natacha: why can't he be two things at the same time?
BelmontMedina: Americans don't think like that - you think like that because you're French.
Natacha: French people don't think like that either. I think like that because I'm bicultural.

When I was little I used to tell people I was half-French and half-American, and my mom would correct me, saying that I'm all French AND all American, and that is in fact how I feel, 20 years down the road. In the eyes of others my label depends on their perspective. In the States, people say I'm French, in the same way that Maruka is Mexican or that Jenneepah is Korean. The "-American" part of my identity is assumed. In France on the other hand, I am either "d'origine americaine" (of American origin) or people will say "elle vit aux Etats-Unis" (she lives in the US). The greatest confusion is when I'm in another country altogether - I have to introduce myself as either French or American, otherwise it gets too confusing. At the same time, I never feel as much myself as when I'm traveling outside of the US or France. That's about the only time I get to be "just Natacha," without having to decide between being a local or a foreigner.

EJ Dionne on Wright (and Falwell)

"To condemn it without understanding its roots only serves to widen the chasm of misunderstanding that exists between the races." - Senator Barack Obama, March 2008

I made a conscious decision several months ago to avoid election coverage as much as possible, at least until the Democratic nomination is settled. Nothing turns me off like vicious mud-slinging, and it would be great to still like the eventual nominee when November rolls around. That said, the vitriol surrounding Obama's relationship with Rev. Wright has been bugging me for some time - other prominent politicians have had just as close ties to religious zealots of all stripes without anywhere near the level of condemnation - why is that?

E. J. Dionne's column in the WaPo today asked - Do white right-wing preachers have it easier than black left-wing preachers? Is there a double standard?

I think it's pretty clear that there is - the real question is why. In politics as in life, you have to watch who you offend. The departed Jerry Faldwell and the like take shots at gays, unwed mothers, religious minorities (including atheists, agnostics and secularists), undocumented immigrants and others who are either lack political influence or were unlikely to support them in the first place. As Dionne points out, it's also more acceptable to criticize behavior depicted as an individual choice than to criticize the structure of American or global society.

Despite efforts in recent decades to shed light of the contributions of people other than white, Christian, heterosexual men to American history, the "default" American citizen in our collective psyche is still a white, Christian, straight man. The fact that "white men" being discussed as a distinct demographic in the democratic primary is a step in the right direction, but the fact remains that people who fit that description face less scrutiny than the rest of us. Hillary Clinton's candidacy has been replete with misogynist double-standards (remember the choked-up incident? the senate floor cleavage? rush limbaugh's shameful comments about "america not wanting to watch a woman age for four years" ? do i need to go on?), I'm slightly surprised that it took this long for Obama to be the target of something similar.

Charles Krauthamer's piece accuses Obama of "playing on white guilt" by having "the audacity to suggest that whites should be ashamed that they were ever surprised by Wright's remarks" (what Obama actually said: "The fact that so many people are surprised to hear that anger in some of Reverend Wright's sermons simply reminds us of the old truism that the most segregated hour of American life"). Ironically, Krauthamer's rant only serves to support Obama's point: "maintream America" doesn't know nearly as much about the lives, thoughts and experiences of their compatriots as they think they do.

How many anti-immigration advocates could describe the dire conditions that drive mothers and fathers to cross the Rio Grande? How many pro-lifers have been scared teenagers themselves? Why isn't the lack of decent maternity leave and affordable, quality child-care the hot-button political issue that it should be?

I don't agree with Wright. However, there are lots of people in this country and around the world who do think that HIV was created by the US government and released in Africa, either on purpose or by accident, and probably even more who think 9/11 was caused by American terrorism (that, of course, depends on your defnition of terrorism - more on that later). There are also lots of people who think 9/11 was perpetrated by the US government to justify launching a war on terror, or by a global conspiracy of Jewish bankers. There are all sorts of crazy theories out there about everything (creationism? geocentrism? trickle-down economics? my dad's theory that Sarkozy is a Scientologist?), but I don't think censorship (including censorship by punditry) is the right way or the American way to deal with controversy, as daft as some people's ideas may seem.

Finally, lots of seemingly insane theories turn out to be right, and if the choice is between blanket condemnation of non-mainstream ideas (like Krauthamer seems to propose) or accepting a greater diversity of public discourse, I think that's a n o-brainer. What would Western culture be without the Copernican Revolution? Of course, there's always the radical possibility of trying to understand where Wright & Co. come from and how they arrived at their conclusions.