As has been said one thousand times before, we live in a world of terror. As I sit on a flight to London, a new friend sits beside me, trying not to think that she may never be able to go home because her country is no longer safe. Meanwhile, another new friend goes from gate to gate in the Amsterdam airport after hearing word that the roads from Damascus to Beirut have been bombed. Unsure of where he will be able to go, he tries to find a flight to London or Orlando, where he will watch the news and wait, for better or for worse.
The Lebanese are not the only people scared for their homes—they join the ranks of countless others living in a world of uncertainty and anger, a world in which conflict too often results in displacement, disillusionment, loss of life, loss of home. The events in Lebanon and Israel during the past four weeks only emphasize how important our studies are. As we’ve said, we live in a new world order. This does not just refer to global cities but to the ways in which the world’s parts relate and interact. We live in a world in which the old answers are not enough. We live in a world in which trust is obsolete and security is never guaranteed. To relate it to this past week in Holland, what do we know now? What have we learned on these visits that we can use to smooth the transition of this new world order, how can we look at what we have to find out what we need? To me, these questions are powerful, and we can only begin to consider them.
I have seen a lot in the past week. I now know that states can work together and that they are held accountable for their actions. I know (from OPCW) that the world is interested in a more peaceful dynamic and will take steps to see this change. I know that if we don’t have faith in this, there is not much hope. So where do we pick up from what we have and continue on? How can we start to think and work proactively instead of retroactively? If I had all the answers to these questions, I would be sitting beside Kofi Annan and Tony Blair, implementing something better. But these questions need consideration and I will not give up.
Friday, August 4, 2006
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
Amsterdam
After a week here, Amsterdam has grown on me. When I am old, I wouldn’t mind spending my hours bicycling around the canals and reading the International Herald Tribune in a café. My great aunt, who in her younger days was a fashion model in Paris, has paid countless trips to Amsterdam precisely for the serenity that comes with a city shaped by water. In her memories, Amsterdam is the great escape, the place where the fabulous people of the 40s and 50s went to retreat. Amsterdam seems to have changed somewhat since then—instead of escaping the rambunctious British men populating London’s pubs, I have encountered them in hoards in the red-light district, where they stumble as at home, cursing and laughing through the streets of Amsterdam. Did Amsterdam have a more glorious day? Is it still an escape? I see two Amsterdams—the tourist’s Amsterdam and the resident’s Amsterdam, the latter of which has been pretty successfully hidden from view.
What I have enjoyed most about Amsterdam is its history and its beauty. Amsterdam is a city that is historically a maritime center, a leader in shipping and oceanic exploration. It is a city of liberal minds and opinionated voices, a city where free will is valued and right answers are important. But to me, most of all, it is a beautiful place to explore—the city’s preservation of facades and height-limits make it feel as though you are walking a path that has been tread a thousand times yet you are discovering it for the first time. Amsterdam also has a strong Jewish history and is home to Anne Frank’s hideaway (now a museum) and a number of stunning synagogues. What’s more, Amsterdam is a city of art—the Van Gogh Museum is here, as well as a museum of Dutch art that includes works by Rembrandt.
While these cultural facets are wonderful, I'm not certain that I could live here. I am realizing more and more that I love the buzz factor of cities like London and New York. The frantic, constant movement of a city is important to me— I need to be somewhere where things are happening, where even when I am not involved (and I’m usually not) there are interesting and important and enlightening things going on. Amsterdam is too quiet of a city in every way; while it is a place of fine art and beautiful architecture, and a place steeped in history, it is not hugely involved in today’s world. I get the feeling in Amsterdam that there are people sitting in the cafes, talking and talking about important things, while the people in New York, London, and Tokyo actually do them.
The Hague is in these respects both similar to and different from Amsterdam. Amsterdam is a city that goes in and out of the global market, whereas The Hague has been consistently developing as an important city. At the same time, The Hague, in its small, niche-specific network, seems to be largely a place for conversation about things that are going on elsewhere. That said, The Hague is the titan of its industry. Beyond that it is a city of wealth, where diplomats dot the brick sidewalks and intellectuals fill quiet restaurants with controversial conversation. I like the way this city feels more than Amsterdam—it isn’t trying to be anything more or other than it is. It markets itself as the international center of peace and justice, and that’s just what it is. It knows its global reach and caters to that, yet it pushes to be a bit more. There is a kind of buzz in The Hague, of a global elite looking to make a change, to create a new world order. But it doesn’t try to be any other kind of buzz, because this is enough. I like this.
Addendum
In two days I will say goodbye to another phase, another set of people and places. This has been a completely new experience. We, the seven-plus of us, have developed a new way of thinking. We have adopted a new lens which each of us will use in the contexts through which we experience life. We as a group are composed of very different individuals with very different backgrounds, yet we have come together in global cities to consider them and how they impact our contexts, our colleagues’ contexts, the world we share that is, on many levels, continually getting smaller and larger. We have become, together, citizens of the world, not just in our travels but in our dialogues, in the conversations, even casually, that a Beirut-ian and a Bangkok-ian and a New Yorker have together. How do they frame the world differently? How do they understand their role? How do they reformulate, reconsider, reinvent in and after these conversations? When they go back to Beirut and Bangkok and New York where do they fit? What is their perception? I believe that every experience remolds you and causes you to recalculate, perhaps unconsciously, your position. How will we redefine ourselves? We are our own community of fate. Will we contribute to the organization of a new political space? I will be interested to see where my fellow world citizens end up.
What I have enjoyed most about Amsterdam is its history and its beauty. Amsterdam is a city that is historically a maritime center, a leader in shipping and oceanic exploration. It is a city of liberal minds and opinionated voices, a city where free will is valued and right answers are important. But to me, most of all, it is a beautiful place to explore—the city’s preservation of facades and height-limits make it feel as though you are walking a path that has been tread a thousand times yet you are discovering it for the first time. Amsterdam also has a strong Jewish history and is home to Anne Frank’s hideaway (now a museum) and a number of stunning synagogues. What’s more, Amsterdam is a city of art—the Van Gogh Museum is here, as well as a museum of Dutch art that includes works by Rembrandt.
While these cultural facets are wonderful, I'm not certain that I could live here. I am realizing more and more that I love the buzz factor of cities like London and New York. The frantic, constant movement of a city is important to me— I need to be somewhere where things are happening, where even when I am not involved (and I’m usually not) there are interesting and important and enlightening things going on. Amsterdam is too quiet of a city in every way; while it is a place of fine art and beautiful architecture, and a place steeped in history, it is not hugely involved in today’s world. I get the feeling in Amsterdam that there are people sitting in the cafes, talking and talking about important things, while the people in New York, London, and Tokyo actually do them.
The Hague is in these respects both similar to and different from Amsterdam. Amsterdam is a city that goes in and out of the global market, whereas The Hague has been consistently developing as an important city. At the same time, The Hague, in its small, niche-specific network, seems to be largely a place for conversation about things that are going on elsewhere. That said, The Hague is the titan of its industry. Beyond that it is a city of wealth, where diplomats dot the brick sidewalks and intellectuals fill quiet restaurants with controversial conversation. I like the way this city feels more than Amsterdam—it isn’t trying to be anything more or other than it is. It markets itself as the international center of peace and justice, and that’s just what it is. It knows its global reach and caters to that, yet it pushes to be a bit more. There is a kind of buzz in The Hague, of a global elite looking to make a change, to create a new world order. But it doesn’t try to be any other kind of buzz, because this is enough. I like this.
Addendum
In two days I will say goodbye to another phase, another set of people and places. This has been a completely new experience. We, the seven-plus of us, have developed a new way of thinking. We have adopted a new lens which each of us will use in the contexts through which we experience life. We as a group are composed of very different individuals with very different backgrounds, yet we have come together in global cities to consider them and how they impact our contexts, our colleagues’ contexts, the world we share that is, on many levels, continually getting smaller and larger. We have become, together, citizens of the world, not just in our travels but in our dialogues, in the conversations, even casually, that a Beirut-ian and a Bangkok-ian and a New Yorker have together. How do they frame the world differently? How do they understand their role? How do they reformulate, reconsider, reinvent in and after these conversations? When they go back to Beirut and Bangkok and New York where do they fit? What is their perception? I believe that every experience remolds you and causes you to recalculate, perhaps unconsciously, your position. How will we redefine ourselves? We are our own community of fate. Will we contribute to the organization of a new political space? I will be interested to see where my fellow world citizens end up.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
A Visit to the Arts Council of England
It is raining in London today, for the first time in three weeks of unbearable heat and humidity. It is amazing how much I can feel the change—people continue to pepper the sidewalks, but their strides are more purposeful, even fresher. They have a new directive. It is gray again now too, that normally unescapable shade of London that has characterized it in so many of its portrayals. To be honest, the London I am seeing on this visit is different than the one I grew to love in the spring. This London is noisy and crowded, full of people wandering aimlessly and confusingly through overly sunny streets and past the tiny, pub-lined alleys that make this such a fascinating city. In this neighborhood, in this time of year, I believe that London is an unbearable haven for blinded tourists who do not know a city when it is sitting below, around, above, even between them. Yet I understand that we, as Londoners and lovers of London, need these people to make this city thrive, and of course that is important to us.
I have been thinking about this while reflecting on our visit to the Arts Council of England today, of which I have somewhat mixed feelings. The woman who spoke to us clearly understood our mission and spoke to it beautifully, discussing the need for culture in a global city and how people want to be in places where there is culture. She spoke about how funding goes in on one end and comes out somewhere else; I think this is such a great concept, and I am trying to use it to convince myself that these tourists are needed in order for the continued vitality of the London that I know. If commercial theatre brings in millions of pounds for London, will the small theatres and experimental groups eventually see some of that, whether by visitors looking off the beaten path after exhausting the West End or by a commercial theatre starting a small side troupe for new works? And I suppose, in the context of this course, this brings me to another question: are the small, more local arts projects part of the global city, and do they deserve the same attention?
I would argue absolutely yes. There are people who come to this city because they know that there will be a place for them, or because they know that this is the place to be for puppetry or sound design or modern dance or whatever. In the first class we talked about the draw of a city, the pull that makes people feel they need to be there. It seems like everything is happening in a city. To me, before it is a center for international commerce and a hub for world markets, London is a living, breathing, interacting city, full of daily exchanges on the personal, social level, and existing in the ways in which its residents and visitors and newcomers perceive it. It is a space for development and creativity, for the cultivating of ideas through many perspectives and many lenses. So is there room for the small creative groups in the global picture of London? I hope so.
One of the things I greatly admire about the London branch Arts Council of England, or at least about the woman who spoke to us, is the recognition of the tension between making the global city and addressing the local need. If London didn’t have a local population, would it be a global city? I think people need to live there for it to be a truly functioning place. This tension extends beyond London; the Arts Council of England focuses much of its attention, and finances, on London, and this is understandably sometimes difficult to explain to the other regions. In this movement of global cities towards being massive complexes of global power and wealth, I think it is important to consider the impact that this will have on local life and culture. Class and ethnic issues aside, for anyone can live in a global city and be involved in the local life and culture, what will happen to local communities if their character becomes dominated by international conglomerates tagged with names and brands applicable to every city in the world?
I have been thinking about this while reflecting on our visit to the Arts Council of England today, of which I have somewhat mixed feelings. The woman who spoke to us clearly understood our mission and spoke to it beautifully, discussing the need for culture in a global city and how people want to be in places where there is culture. She spoke about how funding goes in on one end and comes out somewhere else; I think this is such a great concept, and I am trying to use it to convince myself that these tourists are needed in order for the continued vitality of the London that I know. If commercial theatre brings in millions of pounds for London, will the small theatres and experimental groups eventually see some of that, whether by visitors looking off the beaten path after exhausting the West End or by a commercial theatre starting a small side troupe for new works? And I suppose, in the context of this course, this brings me to another question: are the small, more local arts projects part of the global city, and do they deserve the same attention?
I would argue absolutely yes. There are people who come to this city because they know that there will be a place for them, or because they know that this is the place to be for puppetry or sound design or modern dance or whatever. In the first class we talked about the draw of a city, the pull that makes people feel they need to be there. It seems like everything is happening in a city. To me, before it is a center for international commerce and a hub for world markets, London is a living, breathing, interacting city, full of daily exchanges on the personal, social level, and existing in the ways in which its residents and visitors and newcomers perceive it. It is a space for development and creativity, for the cultivating of ideas through many perspectives and many lenses. So is there room for the small creative groups in the global picture of London? I hope so.
One of the things I greatly admire about the London branch Arts Council of England, or at least about the woman who spoke to us, is the recognition of the tension between making the global city and addressing the local need. If London didn’t have a local population, would it be a global city? I think people need to live there for it to be a truly functioning place. This tension extends beyond London; the Arts Council of England focuses much of its attention, and finances, on London, and this is understandably sometimes difficult to explain to the other regions. In this movement of global cities towards being massive complexes of global power and wealth, I think it is important to consider the impact that this will have on local life and culture. Class and ethnic issues aside, for anyone can live in a global city and be involved in the local life and culture, what will happen to local communities if their character becomes dominated by international conglomerates tagged with names and brands applicable to every city in the world?
Friday, April 7, 2006
London Observations
Subtly, unintentionally, I think I’m learning more about the culture here than the organization where I work or the field of study I'm pursuing. I remember being a child and singing "London bridge is falling down," seeing Paddington bear and London Fog jackets and imagining a gloomy, phonebooth-red-tinted city of grime and Charles Dickens and proper accents. I think in many ways I have yet to open my eyes to this city. I have been so caught up in making this the place I live, in adopting a "British lifestyle," that I have ignored the beauty that is London and the exquisite opportunity of this recognition. It's gloomy today, as that typical London day is, and gray strips of clouds hang over Canary Wharf, lightly matching the dark gray water of the Thames below Greenwich. Everyone around me is exclaiming “brilliant” and “cheers” and complaining about the weather, as anyone anywhere would. To them this is life, but it's something that I'm learning--the differences are quiet and subtle, hidden beneath casual lunchtime conversations and the day-to-day acknowledgments and comprehensions of the workplace.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Spacious Skies and Amber Waves of Grain
It is hard to really describe America. Can you encompass it in a phrase? We can pinpoint aspects of eras, fractions of moments, the elements that seemed to be the most glaringly obvious personifications of this country, and yet still with a million of these details we cannot come to see the bigger picture. I think what fascinates me the most about the United States is the quietness of its diversity. The news boils everything up and down, making scenes and taking fragments for the world. But what about the people who are just going about it? Everyone has their larger issues and battles they fight, but somewhere every moment a representative from every group is going to the supermarket or the bathroom or the office. There are certain elements of American daily life that, in some form, become universals--but where does this take us? Back to the very differences that exist quietly, or in some cases loudly, and make this country what it is. And I want to see all of it.
I want to see Montana and Wyoming, where there are stretches of uninhabited land for miles. I want to see Los Angeles and the Anglo-European Sikhs and Chinese immigrants and Indian Americans who live and work and drive their SUVs there. I want to see Texas, all of it, I want to see Houston with its black Evangelists and Austin with its urban Texas mezcla and San Antonio with its Catholics, its Jews, its Texans, for the lack of a better word. I want to see New York for the thousandth time and see something new about it, like I always do, I want to walk down new streets and old streets and changed streets and feel the movement that is too easy to miss and too hard to dismiss. I want to see Attica, Kansas, again, and remember the vastness of this country. I want to see Route 66 and every inch of what's left of it, I want to drive down Santa Monica Boulevard and through the hills of Denver and across the grand state of Missouri and through places I've never been--Kentucky, Idaho, South Dakota, Georgia. I want to drink coffee in Boulder, pray in Chicago, speak Spanish in New Mexico, discover Alberkerkee which I can't even spell, eat cheese or do something even more wonderful in Wisconsin. I want to root for the New England Patriots and boo for the visiting team at a Knicks game and wonder when the Oakland A's will win the series. I want to meet a stranger on a bus in Saint Louis and remember everything but her name, I want to encounter the hundred cultures I see on the Boston T every morning, I want to experience them and their Americanness and their foreignness and their joys, their worries, their realities. I want to see Bombay Dreams and the Producers in the same day, I want to visit Colliers ABR and a construction site in Arizona, I want to speak with them all and hear their stories. I want to compare in an incomparable sort of way. I want to discover without being a tourist, I want to play the role of the outsider and the insider, the visitor and the neighbor, I want to view this from so many angles.
I want to look out the window of my apartment on Morningside Drive and see all of it in the cab crawling through the rain on a gray April night. I want to see it in the eyes of David and Nivan, with whom I end up in the same place after lifetimes of difference. I want to see it in the future of three children playing in a park in a nameless, timeless place, and know that the more things change the more they stay the same, and it is good.
I want to see Montana and Wyoming, where there are stretches of uninhabited land for miles. I want to see Los Angeles and the Anglo-European Sikhs and Chinese immigrants and Indian Americans who live and work and drive their SUVs there. I want to see Texas, all of it, I want to see Houston with its black Evangelists and Austin with its urban Texas mezcla and San Antonio with its Catholics, its Jews, its Texans, for the lack of a better word. I want to see New York for the thousandth time and see something new about it, like I always do, I want to walk down new streets and old streets and changed streets and feel the movement that is too easy to miss and too hard to dismiss. I want to see Attica, Kansas, again, and remember the vastness of this country. I want to see Route 66 and every inch of what's left of it, I want to drive down Santa Monica Boulevard and through the hills of Denver and across the grand state of Missouri and through places I've never been--Kentucky, Idaho, South Dakota, Georgia. I want to drink coffee in Boulder, pray in Chicago, speak Spanish in New Mexico, discover Alberkerkee which I can't even spell, eat cheese or do something even more wonderful in Wisconsin. I want to root for the New England Patriots and boo for the visiting team at a Knicks game and wonder when the Oakland A's will win the series. I want to meet a stranger on a bus in Saint Louis and remember everything but her name, I want to encounter the hundred cultures I see on the Boston T every morning, I want to experience them and their Americanness and their foreignness and their joys, their worries, their realities. I want to see Bombay Dreams and the Producers in the same day, I want to visit Colliers ABR and a construction site in Arizona, I want to speak with them all and hear their stories. I want to compare in an incomparable sort of way. I want to discover without being a tourist, I want to play the role of the outsider and the insider, the visitor and the neighbor, I want to view this from so many angles.
I want to look out the window of my apartment on Morningside Drive and see all of it in the cab crawling through the rain on a gray April night. I want to see it in the eyes of David and Nivan, with whom I end up in the same place after lifetimes of difference. I want to see it in the future of three children playing in a park in a nameless, timeless place, and know that the more things change the more they stay the same, and it is good.
Tuesday, May 6, 2003
Goodbye to New York, Part 6
The first thing I see when I open my eyes as we descend into LaGuardia is the New York City skyline jutting into my window. The transition from Cleveland (or rather Oberlin, Ohio) to airports to New York City is not a smooth one. I missed New York and I didn’t even realize it. Sometimes living in Manhattan makes us forget that we live on a tiny island and makes us dismiss the word “glorious” as touristy when it applies so well. Who could disregard such awesome man-made beauty, despite the sea of dirt and concrete and all the excrements of too many peoples’ lives? As we descend I watch the island from my aerial angle. I can see down all the streets, straight from east to west the reds and yellows that litter the perfect lines and comforting symmetrical grids. Now I’m stuck in the traffic I pinpointed from the plane when I muttered to myself “shit look at all that red, it’ll take forever to get back to the city,” spoken like a true New Yorker. I’m starting to realize that this will become my commute, this half-day trek from flat normalcy to vibrant hectic heights. I will be leaving the city behind, and it will not wait for me. I will come back a foreigner to the city that has been my home for eight years. I will get in a cab from the airport and frantically write in the dark backseat about how the city sucks me in and spits me out and no matter how much I keep up I will always be behind. Yet there is no other way to live the city life, to breathe the dirty city air and thrive on it. When I’m gone I will compare everything to how it’s done in the city, but after a few weeks my definition of the city will be entirely obsolete. When I return to it I will have to start again, rebuilding my definition, only to do it again and again for a lifetime. This is not a bad thing, though, for every time I return to Oberlin, Ohio, it will be waiting for me just as I left it, with everything in its proper place. I will know it and own it and I will not need a rhythm or a vibe because nothing will require that kind of synchrony. That kind of familiarity will be nice for a few days, but this city, the city, does not suffer from monotony, and its constant deformities and reformations will keep me from sinking into passivity, into “okay” and normalcy. The city makes do; it goes on what it has and doesn’t pause for departures. The city will not miss me; it will take my absence with nothing more than a grain of salt. I will never say goodbye to the city, because it has never said goodbye to me.
Monday, May 5, 2003
Goodbye to New York, Part 4
I loved Miracle on 34th Street until I became a New Yorker. On that first Thanksgiving in the city, for that’s when Christmas starts here, the holiday became my third symbol of New York. I love the Christmas season because everything is so happy, even the women Goodwill Santas collecting dimes from wealthy Long Island shoppers outside of Macy's during a blizzard or even in slush. It seems like everything is dying around me even while remaining so hiddenly vibrant. Call me sentimental but I cried during the Christmas All-School chapel this year, when the first graders processed down the isle with plastic candles in all their glory, the children's eyes focused intently on the outstretched arms of squatting teachers at their destination. I picked out you and Bobby and Giulia and Laurence, vicariously remembering you when you were six through these unfamiliar children, at the same time mixing future with the past and present and wondering if my children will be repeating the same holiday ritual in a few years. Then during "Once in Royal David's City," the words to a song I hear only here serenaded me and the strong beautiful voices of the thirty other people in chorus surrounded me like the timbre of a tympani drum. My eyes watered and I looked around at all the other seniors near me and saw similar tears in their eyes. We knew security was quickly leaving us and tradition slowly releasing its grip on us, ready to exclude us the next time around, though we may not be ready to let go.
Our eyes danced over the rows and rows of Trinity students in their uniforms and formal attire, and for once we did not spite the rules we loathe nor did we desire to change the system we criticize, but rather we accepted it for what it is indeed and found the beauty somehow, somewhere, in the moment. Some of us remembered the Messiah Sing-In two nights before and how we stood outside singing carols, as always, and were not ready to shed the tears we knew we would later shed over the moment. And then when Mr. Rupcich told us he would be conducting next year at that event, smiles and tears all around in the basement of that old church that only we know by heart, some happy because they will see him in all his glory, some sad knowing they will not be able to return for it. In a heartbeat the service was over and we didn't know exactly how to feel. Lost?
Our eyes danced over the rows and rows of Trinity students in their uniforms and formal attire, and for once we did not spite the rules we loathe nor did we desire to change the system we criticize, but rather we accepted it for what it is indeed and found the beauty somehow, somewhere, in the moment. Some of us remembered the Messiah Sing-In two nights before and how we stood outside singing carols, as always, and were not ready to shed the tears we knew we would later shed over the moment. And then when Mr. Rupcich told us he would be conducting next year at that event, smiles and tears all around in the basement of that old church that only we know by heart, some happy because they will see him in all his glory, some sad knowing they will not be able to return for it. In a heartbeat the service was over and we didn't know exactly how to feel. Lost?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
