I knew a guy who couldn't stop smiling. Seriously. He couldn't not smile. It's like his lips were permanently twisted upward in this sort-a-grin. It made everyone think that he was laughing about something, or just being nice. Everyone liked him because, well, how could you not like someone who was smiling all the time? There was something wrong with him.
His name was Otha and we met for the first time at the Foxhead. I'd just finished playing a show at the Mill and wandered over with W and Z. They started playing a game of pool and then this guy in slacks and a button-up, black shirt walked over to me saying that he'd seen the show and liked it.
"So, you're Pete Doherty," he said.
"I'm not that Pete Doherty," I snapped. Fuck that guy.
"I didn't think you were," he said. That's when I noticed he was smiling. He probably was smiling before I noticed, too, but I didn't notice. So, maybe he wasn't. I'll never know, just like pretty much everything else.
"I'm Otha."
"What the hell kind of name is Otha?"
"It's my name."
Then I smiled. "Catch-22," I said and didn't expect him to get the joke, but maybe he did because, well, he was still smiling. Then S walked up to me.
"I didn't know you were in town?" S said. He was wearing his tattered old brown leather jacket and looked ill.
"You never know I'm in town!" I said. And it's true, he never does.
"Because you're never in town," he muttered.
"If you just checked the damn website..."
"Or you could just fucking call me."
"Should I call you every time?" S is needy. He misses people. I sometimes think that he doesn't realize the world works without him.
"It'd be nice and infrequent. You're never in town. Did you just play a show?"
"Yeah, at the Mill."
"What's your band's name now?"
"Johnnie Licking Omar."
"You're serious?" Then he noticed Otha. I chuckled when he took a step back. "Oh, hi," he said.
S invited us back to the house around the corner. There was a party, he said, and it would be fun. So, after the drink, we all walked over, across the street, through Dirty John's parking lot and to the house on the corner. Otha followed. I wasn't surprised and, since S didn't object, didn't mind.
"So, what do you do?" Otha asked S.
"What do I do?" S asked, looking at him strangely. He was always doing that, looking at people strangely. "I breathe? I walk? I'm a student. I don't do much. What do you do?"
"I'm a traveler."
"A traveler?"
"I'm a travel writer."
That got S's attention. "A travel writer. What are you doing in Iowa City?" he asked.
"You repeat people a lot. And I'm just passing through."
"That's why everyone's in Iowa," S muttered. "But, seriously."
"I'm crashing with a friend. This is supposed to be a great party school and I wanted to see it."
The party was a gathering of about ten of S's friends. There was pizza baking in the oven and we walked in just as Waking Life was winding down. I knew some of the people there, they were acquaintances, people that I would talk to on the street. The place looked like every Iowa City apartment I had ever seen: old, off-white plaster, filled with character and scars from previous student crashers.
After the movie finished we all got drinks from the kitchen, PBR, and went out to the iron fire escape to smoke. All ten of us. S wondered what would happen if it fell and I asked him what would happen? Two of S's friends were conversing in French. They were majoring and had just returned from a year abroad. Otha joined in the conversation and I lost them for a while.
A few minutes later, one of the French majors switched over to English. "What's that phrase in French for the desire to jump off a cliff when you're standing at the edge?"
"L'appel du vide," said the other. "I love that they have a phrase for that."
"The French are all drama queens," Otha said.
The first French major turned to him, "Oh, you're English is excellent."
"Well, I'm glad," he said. "because that's my first language."
"But, you're French," said the second.
"No, I'm American."
"You're fucking with us," said the second. "You just talked about going to school in Lyon."
"I did. But I'm American."
"You're accent is great," continued the second, "but you don't have to pretend."
"No, seriously, I'm American. Look, I have a driver's license."
They argued for about ten minutes until finally the two French majors agreed that he must be American. The party lasted for hours after that. We talked about music and hipsters, all of them agreeing that, no, they couldn't be hipsters.
At the end of the night, as everyone was leaving, Otha and I walked down the stairs together. "Hey," he said over his shoulder, "you need a keyboardist?"
"What?" I said.
"For Johnnie Licking Omar?"
"Yeah, sure. But aren't you leaving town, like, tomorrow?"
"Nah, I'm staying for a bit."
He was still smiling like he was just remembering a joke. "So," I said. "Are you really American?"
"No. And I'm not French either." He waved and walked off. And that's how Otha joined the band.
Showing posts with label Iowa City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Iowa City. Show all posts
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Fights You Can't Win, Part II
Spring a few years ago I went to Mayflower dorm that sits on the River in Iowa City. Two years later it flooded. But this story isn't about the deluge -- it's about fighting, sort of.
A friend lived in Mayflower. His name is Henry. There was no occasion, just an invitation on a Thursday night for a pre-game drink before going into town. Mayflower is an old apartment building renovated to be a dorm so every time I went there I felt slightly out of my element. It was crossing a threshold from carefully monitored and manicured campus existence into the weird liminal space of strictly regulated freedom. College dorms are weird. Sort of like college life in general.
Henry invited me in. Well, he opened the door and, in a characteristic gesture, grabbed me in a hug and flipped me over his shoulder, somehow maneuvering me so that I cleared the door frame, into his apartment. "Sam!" he shouted. Henry is a diabetic who has never followed his prescribed diet and has survived by balancing his eating habits with absurd physical activity. I still don't think the guy sleeps.
Steadying myself against the wall, I said, "Never do that again," knowing that he'd just forget in a few minutes.
"How the hell are you?" he asked, darting past me into the kitchen. "Did you bring it?"
I nodded and pulled a gallon of Arizona Green Tea out of my back pack. He clapped his hands and said, "Fantastic. Now I'll show you my discovery. Follow me and let's begin."
I followed him through the cramped entry way with miraculously in-tact drywall into the tiny kitchen. The roommate was there, sitting at the table. He was a beefy kid, a bro who wore a cap on backwards and sunglasses to bars. He was eating a candy bar and had a large kitchen knife sitting next to him on the table.
"Hello," I said.
"Hi," he said.
"Hello," Henry said.
The roommate and Henry stared at each other for a moment. After a very tense silence the roommate picked up the knife and walked out of the kitchen to his room.
"So," I said. "How is that working out? I thought you two got along."
Henry went to the fridge and pulled an unopened bottle of Smirnoff from the freezer. In a brutal gesture he twisted the lid off and tossed it down on the wooden table. A sound like pennies falling. In the next room Coldplay suddenly erupted at an absurd volume. Henry gave the wall the finger.
"We did. But over the past few weeks, as we've gotten to know each other, it's just like been every time we're in the same room together we're both thinking 'I hate you.' Do you hear that music?" Henry stabbed his hand in the general direction of the noise. I refrained from saying that I like Coldplay.
"Anyway, Henry said, yanked a stool out from under the table and jumped down on the seat across from me with three glasses and the bottle of vodka. "Let me show you something."
He poured out about a glass full of the tea and then set it aside. He then refilled the gallon jug of tea with vodka and shook it vigorously. Once the ad hoc bar-tending was done he poured it out into the two glasses and then poured vodka into the glass with just tea and stirred it up with a butter knife. Three glasses.
"Where is Kim?" I asked and took one glass.
There was a loud knock on the door. "Speak of the devil," said Henry quietly and stood rather than jumped up. A moment later he led Kim into the kitchen and both sat down wordlessly. I raised my glass.
"To whatever," I said, feeling clever. Kim didn't ask what it was and drank anyway.
Then we talked about the weather, how the heat was becoming unpleasant and there was no way not to sweat anymore. We talked about classes and allergies, the pollen that chocked and itched and brought tears. It was a cordial conversation. And we talked about Tae Kwon Do.
I had been an amateur and, after moving to Iowa City, I had given up. Not Henry or Kim, though. They were Serious. They competed in Nationals and I met them both through the Iowa State Karate Club (a drinking club with a martial arts problem). They were the reason I didn't spar. Both of them were stronger, faster, and gleefully meaner than anyone else. So it wasn't so much that they were both serious as that they took too much pleasure in fighting.
Anyway, at some point I mentioned that I hadn't seen Molly in a long time and the conversation came to a dead stop. Henry and Kim looked at each other and then at their glasses. They took turns refilling. In the other room, Coldplay's "Trouble" was still playing as loud as ever and it now seemed strangely appropriate.
"Uh," I said. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, actually," Kim said. He looked at Henry. "Life and everything are sort of on hold right now. There has been a misunderstanding. A failure to communicate. And, so, nothing is happening."
"That's one way of putting it," Henry said, still looking at his glass.
Molly was Kim's ex. There had been marriage plans announced and then swept away, forgotten, tensions rising and falling. Ultimately, it sounded like all the wounds had healed months ago. Things were supposed to be back to normal.
Kim said, "How would you put it, then?"
"Molly is trying to decide which one of us she wants to date," Henry said, staring at his drink. Kim stiffened, turned red, and then relaxed.
"Yeah, that would be the sum of the misunderstanding," Kim said.
"She said so yesterday and now things are..."
"May the best man win," Kim said, raising his glass in a toast that no one reciprocated. "We have a gentleman's agreement."
"We do," Henry said, grabbing on to the statement for dear life and drinking. "We're waiting for her word and then the guy not chosen will ow out graciously."
"Step to the side. Tap out," Kim said. "That was the deal."
"It's not going to work that way, though," Henry said. He looked up and the two stared at each other until both nodded. "It's not, is it?" Henry said.
There was a grim pause. Eventually, I said, "Holy shit. Are you two going to fight over her?" hoping that this would jar everyone back to reality. It was my best hope.
They both looked at me. There was shock and horror.
"Holy fuck," Henry said. "We can't let it come to that."
"It would be like The Matrix," Kim said and he did not sound like he liked the idea.
"Buildings would collapse."
"Bystanders would be killed."
"There would never be enough police."
"They'd have to call out the Army."
"Call a national emergency."
"And we wouldn't stop until Everything was Broken."
"It would be apocalyptic."
"Uh, guys...?" I said. They both looked at me and must have seen terror because they both burst out laughing. This continued for a long time, drowning out the Coldplay.
"Come on," Henry said. "Let's get drunk and then go out."
And so we did.
That was the last I heard of the love triangle for a long time until one day, many months later, I asked a mutual friend how everything worked out. She said that Molly chose God over the boys and that was the end of it. When she said this, I felt sorry for God. It was only a matter of time before Kim and Henry had their reckoning.
A friend lived in Mayflower. His name is Henry. There was no occasion, just an invitation on a Thursday night for a pre-game drink before going into town. Mayflower is an old apartment building renovated to be a dorm so every time I went there I felt slightly out of my element. It was crossing a threshold from carefully monitored and manicured campus existence into the weird liminal space of strictly regulated freedom. College dorms are weird. Sort of like college life in general.
Henry invited me in. Well, he opened the door and, in a characteristic gesture, grabbed me in a hug and flipped me over his shoulder, somehow maneuvering me so that I cleared the door frame, into his apartment. "Sam!" he shouted. Henry is a diabetic who has never followed his prescribed diet and has survived by balancing his eating habits with absurd physical activity. I still don't think the guy sleeps.
Steadying myself against the wall, I said, "Never do that again," knowing that he'd just forget in a few minutes.
"How the hell are you?" he asked, darting past me into the kitchen. "Did you bring it?"
I nodded and pulled a gallon of Arizona Green Tea out of my back pack. He clapped his hands and said, "Fantastic. Now I'll show you my discovery. Follow me and let's begin."
I followed him through the cramped entry way with miraculously in-tact drywall into the tiny kitchen. The roommate was there, sitting at the table. He was a beefy kid, a bro who wore a cap on backwards and sunglasses to bars. He was eating a candy bar and had a large kitchen knife sitting next to him on the table.
"Hello," I said.
"Hi," he said.
"Hello," Henry said.
The roommate and Henry stared at each other for a moment. After a very tense silence the roommate picked up the knife and walked out of the kitchen to his room.
"So," I said. "How is that working out? I thought you two got along."
Henry went to the fridge and pulled an unopened bottle of Smirnoff from the freezer. In a brutal gesture he twisted the lid off and tossed it down on the wooden table. A sound like pennies falling. In the next room Coldplay suddenly erupted at an absurd volume. Henry gave the wall the finger.
"We did. But over the past few weeks, as we've gotten to know each other, it's just like been every time we're in the same room together we're both thinking 'I hate you.' Do you hear that music?" Henry stabbed his hand in the general direction of the noise. I refrained from saying that I like Coldplay.
"Anyway, Henry said, yanked a stool out from under the table and jumped down on the seat across from me with three glasses and the bottle of vodka. "Let me show you something."
He poured out about a glass full of the tea and then set it aside. He then refilled the gallon jug of tea with vodka and shook it vigorously. Once the ad hoc bar-tending was done he poured it out into the two glasses and then poured vodka into the glass with just tea and stirred it up with a butter knife. Three glasses.
"Where is Kim?" I asked and took one glass.
There was a loud knock on the door. "Speak of the devil," said Henry quietly and stood rather than jumped up. A moment later he led Kim into the kitchen and both sat down wordlessly. I raised my glass.
"To whatever," I said, feeling clever. Kim didn't ask what it was and drank anyway.
Then we talked about the weather, how the heat was becoming unpleasant and there was no way not to sweat anymore. We talked about classes and allergies, the pollen that chocked and itched and brought tears. It was a cordial conversation. And we talked about Tae Kwon Do.
I had been an amateur and, after moving to Iowa City, I had given up. Not Henry or Kim, though. They were Serious. They competed in Nationals and I met them both through the Iowa State Karate Club (a drinking club with a martial arts problem). They were the reason I didn't spar. Both of them were stronger, faster, and gleefully meaner than anyone else. So it wasn't so much that they were both serious as that they took too much pleasure in fighting.
Anyway, at some point I mentioned that I hadn't seen Molly in a long time and the conversation came to a dead stop. Henry and Kim looked at each other and then at their glasses. They took turns refilling. In the other room, Coldplay's "Trouble" was still playing as loud as ever and it now seemed strangely appropriate.
"Uh," I said. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, actually," Kim said. He looked at Henry. "Life and everything are sort of on hold right now. There has been a misunderstanding. A failure to communicate. And, so, nothing is happening."
"That's one way of putting it," Henry said, still looking at his glass.
Molly was Kim's ex. There had been marriage plans announced and then swept away, forgotten, tensions rising and falling. Ultimately, it sounded like all the wounds had healed months ago. Things were supposed to be back to normal.
Kim said, "How would you put it, then?"
"Molly is trying to decide which one of us she wants to date," Henry said, staring at his drink. Kim stiffened, turned red, and then relaxed.
"Yeah, that would be the sum of the misunderstanding," Kim said.
"She said so yesterday and now things are..."
"May the best man win," Kim said, raising his glass in a toast that no one reciprocated. "We have a gentleman's agreement."
"We do," Henry said, grabbing on to the statement for dear life and drinking. "We're waiting for her word and then the guy not chosen will ow out graciously."
"Step to the side. Tap out," Kim said. "That was the deal."
"It's not going to work that way, though," Henry said. He looked up and the two stared at each other until both nodded. "It's not, is it?" Henry said.
There was a grim pause. Eventually, I said, "Holy shit. Are you two going to fight over her?" hoping that this would jar everyone back to reality. It was my best hope.
They both looked at me. There was shock and horror.
"Holy fuck," Henry said. "We can't let it come to that."
"It would be like The Matrix," Kim said and he did not sound like he liked the idea.
"Buildings would collapse."
"Bystanders would be killed."
"There would never be enough police."
"They'd have to call out the Army."
"Call a national emergency."
"And we wouldn't stop until Everything was Broken."
"It would be apocalyptic."
"Uh, guys...?" I said. They both looked at me and must have seen terror because they both burst out laughing. This continued for a long time, drowning out the Coldplay.
"Come on," Henry said. "Let's get drunk and then go out."
And so we did.
That was the last I heard of the love triangle for a long time until one day, many months later, I asked a mutual friend how everything worked out. She said that Molly chose God over the boys and that was the end of it. When she said this, I felt sorry for God. It was only a matter of time before Kim and Henry had their reckoning.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
It's the (High) Life
A few years ago, my roommate, D, introduced me to a drinking game unique to Iowa City. One sits at Brother's near the door on a Tuesday ($1 High Life night) with a beer and drinks every time one 1.) sees someone wearing sunglasses, a woman's underwear, or backwards cap; 2.) hears someone say "Bro," 3.) smells someone's cologne or perfume from ten feet away, or 4.) witnesses any behavior that would be inappropriate at the Mill just around the corner.
D explained as we walked through the Ped Mall, "High Life is the only beer that tastes better in a can than it does in a bottle."
"Does that make it good?" I asked.
"Oh, Sam, hell no."
Within a half hour, we were drunk. "It's a very effective game," D explained looking somewhat unsteady on his stool. "If you're not careful, you're on the floor in an hour, but at least you're only ten dollars down."
"The Champagne of Beer..." I said, reading the label.
"Yeah," D exclaimed. "Someone deserves a medal for that tagline The champagne of beers. Yes sir, that was a genius advertising move. What will we say about it? Why, it's the champagne of beers, sir. It will make us rich. Every person in the world will feel a little better about drinking this stuff with a slogan like that."
That was my first introduction to High Life and I have since tried to avoid it. A friend once described it, unfavorably, as "crispy." It always reminds me of being uncomfortably surrounded by bros and sorority girls with only five dollars in my pocket and few alternatives.
Then I came to New Orleans where PBR, the favored cheap beer in Iowa City, seems to have long ago lost that battle to High Life. The first time I went into the Marigny, IB bought a round of High Life and Brother's came rushing back to me in a torrent. "High Life? Seriously?" I said.
"Yeah," IB replied. "It's my favorite cheap beer."
I looked around the room. I was surrounded by people wearing flannel shirts and skinny jeans, sporting bad mustaches and Buddy Holy glasses, clearing not wearing cologne, and drinking High Life and there was not a PBR to be seen. Truly, I was in a strange land.
"Not PBR?" I asked, feebly.
"Nah. I prefer High Life."
"But, that's what bro's drink," I protested.
IB shrugged and gestured around the room. "Drink it ironically and reclaim it for hipsterdom."
Since then, High Life has become my fallback drink at bars. It's reasonable. When you're on an AmeriCorps stipend, you must be mindful of your tab. But I still do not feel comfortable with this decision since High Life seems to follow me everywhere.
High Life is haunting me. Every time I go out to the bars, someone hands me a High Life. The other day, Janis picked me up at my house to drive us downtown for a show. As I buckled up she shoved High Life at me. "Here," she said, "you need this."
It's fizzing up my gut and brains. My fingers twitch and I think that I've forgotten the meaning of champagne.
On New Years, I was standing outside of Cafe Envie in the Quarter, waiting for people to finish using the the toilets and grab espressos so we could move on to the Marigny. I am always mindful in the Quarter. Not necessarily keeping an eye out for pickpockets or dangerous situations so much as potential oddities. There's a fine line between strange and lethal there.
Anyway, I looked up the street and two desperately underclad kids were walking toward us. A couple, I imagined. They seemed to be arguing and the guy appeared to be chasing after his girlfriend, who was marching with purpose, arms wrapped around her tanktop, skinny torso.
"We can't get there from here. We have to turn back and go down Esplanade," the guy was saying.
"I know where I'm going," the girl said, "We're meeting up with Galen on Bourbon."
"When did that happen?" the guy asked, exasperated.
The girl walked past me. As the guy walked by he reached out, grabbed my left hand and placed in it a full high life. "Here," he said, fixing me with a kind, but intense look. "Drink this."
Then he quickly pursued his girlfriend down the street, continuing the argument where he'd left off. I stared at the bottle. His command reminded me a bit of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. DRINK ME. I was holding a reference. This was the key to an adventure, so I hoped.
"Well, you have to," Janis, who had seen the gifting, encouraged.
"You're right," I said, holding up the High Life, champagne of beers, and toasting 2012 the Crescent City way, the AmeriCorps way. "Thank you, New Orleans."
D explained as we walked through the Ped Mall, "High Life is the only beer that tastes better in a can than it does in a bottle."
"Does that make it good?" I asked.
"Oh, Sam, hell no."
Within a half hour, we were drunk. "It's a very effective game," D explained looking somewhat unsteady on his stool. "If you're not careful, you're on the floor in an hour, but at least you're only ten dollars down."
"The Champagne of Beer..." I said, reading the label.
"Yeah," D exclaimed. "Someone deserves a medal for that tagline The champagne of beers. Yes sir, that was a genius advertising move. What will we say about it? Why, it's the champagne of beers, sir. It will make us rich. Every person in the world will feel a little better about drinking this stuff with a slogan like that."
That was my first introduction to High Life and I have since tried to avoid it. A friend once described it, unfavorably, as "crispy." It always reminds me of being uncomfortably surrounded by bros and sorority girls with only five dollars in my pocket and few alternatives.
Then I came to New Orleans where PBR, the favored cheap beer in Iowa City, seems to have long ago lost that battle to High Life. The first time I went into the Marigny, IB bought a round of High Life and Brother's came rushing back to me in a torrent. "High Life? Seriously?" I said.
"Yeah," IB replied. "It's my favorite cheap beer."
I looked around the room. I was surrounded by people wearing flannel shirts and skinny jeans, sporting bad mustaches and Buddy Holy glasses, clearing not wearing cologne, and drinking High Life and there was not a PBR to be seen. Truly, I was in a strange land.
"Not PBR?" I asked, feebly.
"Nah. I prefer High Life."
"But, that's what bro's drink," I protested.
IB shrugged and gestured around the room. "Drink it ironically and reclaim it for hipsterdom."
Since then, High Life has become my fallback drink at bars. It's reasonable. When you're on an AmeriCorps stipend, you must be mindful of your tab. But I still do not feel comfortable with this decision since High Life seems to follow me everywhere.
High Life is haunting me. Every time I go out to the bars, someone hands me a High Life. The other day, Janis picked me up at my house to drive us downtown for a show. As I buckled up she shoved High Life at me. "Here," she said, "you need this."
It's fizzing up my gut and brains. My fingers twitch and I think that I've forgotten the meaning of champagne.
On New Years, I was standing outside of Cafe Envie in the Quarter, waiting for people to finish using the the toilets and grab espressos so we could move on to the Marigny. I am always mindful in the Quarter. Not necessarily keeping an eye out for pickpockets or dangerous situations so much as potential oddities. There's a fine line between strange and lethal there.
Anyway, I looked up the street and two desperately underclad kids were walking toward us. A couple, I imagined. They seemed to be arguing and the guy appeared to be chasing after his girlfriend, who was marching with purpose, arms wrapped around her tanktop, skinny torso.
"We can't get there from here. We have to turn back and go down Esplanade," the guy was saying.
"I know where I'm going," the girl said, "We're meeting up with Galen on Bourbon."
"When did that happen?" the guy asked, exasperated.
The girl walked past me. As the guy walked by he reached out, grabbed my left hand and placed in it a full high life. "Here," he said, fixing me with a kind, but intense look. "Drink this."
Then he quickly pursued his girlfriend down the street, continuing the argument where he'd left off. I stared at the bottle. His command reminded me a bit of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. DRINK ME. I was holding a reference. This was the key to an adventure, so I hoped.
"Well, you have to," Janis, who had seen the gifting, encouraged.
"You're right," I said, holding up the High Life, champagne of beers, and toasting 2012 the Crescent City way, the AmeriCorps way. "Thank you, New Orleans."
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Thoughts on the Iowa City Book Festival
Last weekend I attended the Iowa City Book Festival. Despite an apparently incompetent and corrupt organizing committee, I managed to have a good time. I acquired a copy of a book on writing for my collection, got to see A having a good time with customers visiting the Haunted Book Shop stand, and attended a couple panels.
The first panel was Really Early in the morning (10:30) and consisted of Camille T. Dungy and Ibtisam Barakat talking about the art of teaching creative writing. It was better attended than I expected. I didn't know either of panelists, but that didn't stop me from being impressed with them. Some bullet points that I liked:
This is particularly intriguing since there is a socio-political angle to her humanitarian philosophy. As a Palestinian woman, she grew up in a conservative society where she was not allowed to express herself. Furthrmore, during the occupation, she was told by authorities that she and her people essentially didn't exist and should be quiet. Writing, therefore, is an act of rebellion. Saying Something is as important as the content of her writing.
Barakat also went on to describe, at great length, why education as a institution was so vitally important to women in particular. She believes it is her, and every educator's duty, to encourage female students in particular. Education has traditionally been a white male privilege and if we're really all dedicated to a humanitarian, egalitarian endeavor then we must ensure that women have equal access.
Things went downhill when the audience was allowed to speak and ask questions. Most of the people in the room were educators, I gathered. One man said (paraphrasing), "You said that one third of people on earth are denied an education. But don't you think that in their own societies and cultures they are getting just as valuable an education from those around them rather than being brought into the patriarchal institution? That's not my question, but I want you to think about that. My real question is..." and I don't remember what it was. Needless to say, the panelists were not interested in his Real Question either.
What I find interesting about his comment is that it's a pretty old criticism and was Supposed to be on the side of the two panelists. About thirty years ago (I'm ball parking him), somebody needed to point out that the Institution was patriarchal and doctrinal. In this context, though, it seemed like an antiquated and arrogant point of view. Barakat and Dungy's response was essentially that institutional education can and must always be improved, but it's really our best hope.
Anyway, I could go on, but I'd like to gloss over the second panel and this post is already too long.
The second panel was "Young Writers Talk about Writing" and included five kids, four of them 18 and the last was 13. Barakat moderated and I have to say that as enamored as I was with her earlier that morning, she can't interview kids worth a damn. Barakat has a very rigid opinion of what a writer is and does, which is primarily social advocacy. The Writer does a great service to society and must approach the craft with an appropriate gravity. That seemed to be true of two of the writers. One Kid, though, was having none of this.
At one point, Barakat asked how the panelists found their Voice, commenting, "I often feel like when I'm looking for my voice have to fight with so many other voices. I'm holding them down with one hand and writing with the other... I'm lost in the wilderness." The One Kid replied, "I'd say stay lost." Later on the One Kid said, "Writing is my favorite toy," which didn't seem to jive with the others' view that writing is a solitary and painful act.
Anyway, that was Saturday. It was hot and god awful and this post is beginning to resemble a mutant baby. I think I'm going to go read Dances with Dragons now.
The first panel was Really Early in the morning (10:30) and consisted of Camille T. Dungy and Ibtisam Barakat talking about the art of teaching creative writing. It was better attended than I expected. I didn't know either of panelists, but that didn't stop me from being impressed with them. Some bullet points that I liked:
- Teaching and writing can be mutually beneficial crafts.
- Teaching is a way of cultivating empathy, a quality necessary for writing.
- Teaching and the desire to share are and ought to be generous and enthusiastic acts.
This is particularly intriguing since there is a socio-political angle to her humanitarian philosophy. As a Palestinian woman, she grew up in a conservative society where she was not allowed to express herself. Furthrmore, during the occupation, she was told by authorities that she and her people essentially didn't exist and should be quiet. Writing, therefore, is an act of rebellion. Saying Something is as important as the content of her writing.
Barakat also went on to describe, at great length, why education as a institution was so vitally important to women in particular. She believes it is her, and every educator's duty, to encourage female students in particular. Education has traditionally been a white male privilege and if we're really all dedicated to a humanitarian, egalitarian endeavor then we must ensure that women have equal access.
Things went downhill when the audience was allowed to speak and ask questions. Most of the people in the room were educators, I gathered. One man said (paraphrasing), "You said that one third of people on earth are denied an education. But don't you think that in their own societies and cultures they are getting just as valuable an education from those around them rather than being brought into the patriarchal institution? That's not my question, but I want you to think about that. My real question is..." and I don't remember what it was. Needless to say, the panelists were not interested in his Real Question either.
What I find interesting about his comment is that it's a pretty old criticism and was Supposed to be on the side of the two panelists. About thirty years ago (I'm ball parking him), somebody needed to point out that the Institution was patriarchal and doctrinal. In this context, though, it seemed like an antiquated and arrogant point of view. Barakat and Dungy's response was essentially that institutional education can and must always be improved, but it's really our best hope.
Anyway, I could go on, but I'd like to gloss over the second panel and this post is already too long.
The second panel was "Young Writers Talk about Writing" and included five kids, four of them 18 and the last was 13. Barakat moderated and I have to say that as enamored as I was with her earlier that morning, she can't interview kids worth a damn. Barakat has a very rigid opinion of what a writer is and does, which is primarily social advocacy. The Writer does a great service to society and must approach the craft with an appropriate gravity. That seemed to be true of two of the writers. One Kid, though, was having none of this.
At one point, Barakat asked how the panelists found their Voice, commenting, "I often feel like when I'm looking for my voice have to fight with so many other voices. I'm holding them down with one hand and writing with the other... I'm lost in the wilderness." The One Kid replied, "I'd say stay lost." Later on the One Kid said, "Writing is my favorite toy," which didn't seem to jive with the others' view that writing is a solitary and painful act.
Anyway, that was Saturday. It was hot and god awful and this post is beginning to resemble a mutant baby. I think I'm going to go read Dances with Dragons now.
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