Temporary Housing

I will be going to upstate New York this summer to do some archaeological fieldwork, and need a place to stay. I found some temporary housing possibilities on craigslist, but since I live in NYC, a friend of mine, from that region, has agreed to visit possible rooms to rent, on my behalf.

After I gave her a list of things to check out, her over-protectiveness kicked in, she is my Mom's age. It is a gesture I appreciate, although it is somewhat unnecessary, but it makes me feel cared for. She said she would find out if my potential housemates were clean, nice, had moral standards, and what their sexual proclivities were. I suspect some of this information was more for her own vicarious pleasure, and, mine too. I replied, that moral standards were like expectations, and that there should be none; as for sexual habits, let's face it, it's fun to hear about sexual escapades.

So, after she saw some possibilities, she decided one was suitable for my stay, I trust her judgment and will take the room she recommends. Unfortunately, no one was forthcoming about their sex life, and moral standards can't be judged in one visit alone. One of the apartments she visited belonged to a white male under-graduate student, who greeted her rather coldly and rushed her through the visit. He kept saying that he had a doctor's appointment, even though he had agreed to show the room at that specific time.

I think it is because he expected her to be younger, not his grand-mother's age. My friend is a very fit, Caucasian lady, with a hippie disposition, whose company I enjoy.

Appearance does tell you lot about a person, but I think it tells you more about your own preconceived notions of others. We place a lot of value on looks, and while it maybe hard to get past that, ultimately the outward appearance is only temporary housing for the soul. As for my temporary housing for this summer, well, it won't be with the under-graduate boy, in addition to being kind of a douche-bag his place was not very clean.

Shooting an Elephant

“In Moulmein, in Lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people – the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me.”

George Orwell’s 1936 essay, “Shooting an Elephant”, is at its core about the oppressor being oppressed by his own oppression.

Orwell’s narrator is a British police officer in the town of Moulmein, the southern part of present day Myanmar, who must kill an elephant gone wild (from sexual heat). The elephant in its rampage through town kills an Indian “a black Dravidian coolie”, and as the policeman, the narrator is expected to handle the situation, for which he is clearly unprepared. He arms himself and goes in search of the elephant, which he finds in a paddy field. By this time a large number of on-lookers have gathered to watch the British policeman’s showdown with the elephant. He shoots the beast, debilitating it but not killing it, and then proceeds to fire shot upon shot to end the creature. The elephant finally dies after some time, but its death is slow and painful.

The narrator is glad that the elephant trampled and killed the coolie; it legally justifies shooting the elephant, eventhough the elephant is considered to be more valuable than the coolie. The pressure on the narrator to shoot the elephant is not because it killed a human being, nor because it is dangerous and destroying property, instead it comes from the expectant on-lookers. “I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool.” The Burmese people expect the British police officer to take action, he correctly assumes that if he does not, he will lose position, power, privilege and face.

Orwell wrote this essay with a bold honesty, the policeman, like Orwell, is an anti-imperialist, stationed in Moulmein; he is a lone representative of the very institution he despises. Although the policeman’s personal view is anti-imperialist, he also expresses a certain disdain for the native population, as he has been the target of hostility from the people whom he policed. One cannot help but feel sympathy for the policeman; he is a foreigner, a low-level law enforcer of a vast empire that was fairly clueless about the populations it ruled. His loneliness and occupation oppresses him, he cannot relate to the Burmese people beyond their mutual hatred of the British Empire, to him they are not individuals to but a jeering monolithic mass. This view of the Burmese as a large group void of individuals is Orientalist* in nature. Individualism is not purely a Western concept**, yet the view from the west, of the east, does not accord the Easterner any individuality.

Lastly, the oppressor and oppressed relationship this essay reveals is that the oppression goes both ways, it affects both sides; both parties have expectations and presumptions of the other. I was reminded of Antonio Gramsci’s idea that a hegemon governs by the consent of the oppressed, while power may have been attained forcefully, the maintenance of that power and the rules therein are reinforced by the oppressed. The oppressed expect decisive action (amongst other things) from their oppressors, and in so doing hold a certain power over their oppressors.

Orwell’s essay is clearly anti-imperialist, it does not position itself with the oppressor or the oppressed, it does, however, demonstrate the contempt of a Western individual against a massive empire and the massive native population which it subjugated.




*There is much to write about Orientalism, which I will save for future entries.

**The ascetic movement, which took place on the sub-continent, around 500 BCE, was not only a reaction to the exclusivity of Hinduism, it was a movement of individuals who left the Vedic structure for the inward search of truth. To me it doesn’t get more individualistic than this, and of course, two prominent figures to come out of this movement were Buddha and Mahavir.

Strangled

I feel like an old fuddy-duddy when I’m trying to find good contemporary rock-n-roll music to listen to. Everything sounds like it was done better, 20-40 years ago, by musicians who were more innovative than many of the younger musicians of today. In the past few weeks I was craving sounds that would make me feel excited, something that would uplift me in the way good rock-n-roll can. I found the Stranglers again. I had first encountered them when I was a teenager; I would go through my brothers' record and tape collections and there I found Rattus Norvegicus, No More Heroes, and The Raven. I was in love with their sound; it was aggressive, obscene, intelligent, danceable, and so fucking awesome. As a teenager, I didn’t share my interest in the Stranglers with my friends; I figured they’d object to the menacing, sometimes sexist, sometimes vulgar lyrics. I thought the Stranglers were bold and politically incorrect, to me they were really cool. Listening to them now, I love them even more because they have always been underrated and bit under the radar, at least on these shores, and of course, my own nostalgia.

The Stranglers made some amazing music during the mid 70s to mid 80s, and I thank them for giving me melodies in which I can lose myself. I am sharing "Hanging Around" with you, it's from their first record, and it has a great one-minute collision that never fails to uplift me. It is a minute in which I could live forever.

Alien

Perched above, way up high,
down below watch the ants go by.
Insects in a world they form,
a society and its norms.
High above, left alone,
can't come down, can't be a clone.
Steel wings could not have flown
down to the ground, to the world of ants,
a society's intricate dance.
High above, cannot move
to the sound of the insect groove.
Their melody is unclear.
Do I dance or do I steer?
Undecided I remain,
high above the insect plain.

Pseudo Intellectual

So very smart, so very clever
can't do anything, can't work ever
Too much time is spent thinking,
the contributions just keep shrinking
Walk around a well-spoken fool,
have no use, a useless tool
Know so much, know so many things,
all this knowing, sadness it brings
This intelligence is inert,
put it on like an ill-fitted shirt
Can't do anything, can't work ever
so very smart, so very clever
Reading books, reading papers and news
read so much, have so many views
Know so much, know so many things,
all this knowing, indecision it brings
This intelligence is inert,
put it on like an ill-fitted shirt
Talking, talking, saying so much,
all this talking is a crutch
Talk in circles, talk in lines,
so much talking is a crime
Can't do anything, can't work ever
so very smart, so very clever.

I was a teenage runaway

When I was 15 I ran away from home.
It was 1987.
It was the day after Martin Luther King Day, and there was a blizzard approaching.
I had saved around $250 in cash gifts from a recent birthday party.
My plan was to get to Florida, because it was warm there.
From there I would somehow get to Jamaica, and join a reggae band.
If I didn’t get that far, then I’d join a rock band.
It made sense to my 15 year-old mind.
I went to Penn Station, and took a train to Miami.
It was a 26 hour ride, giving me ample time to think and draw.
Long train rides have a way of inducing reflection in its passengers.
I was convinced I was doing the right thing.
Once I arrived in Miami, late at night, I realized that the train station was nowhere near the center of the city.
How would I get there?
I took a taxi, but had very little money to pay for the fare.
I told the driver to take me to the nearest Salvation Army.
On the ride we spoke, and he figured out that I was a runaway.
Instead he took me to a police station.
At the station, a policeman called my parents, and I spoke with them.
My mother’s voice was stoic, while my father sobbed on the phone.
I felt very sad by the pain I had caused them by leaving.
My parents flew me back home the next day, and the police took me to a runaway home for the remainder of the night.
The next morning, at breakfast I met the residents.
Girls and boys, lost, lonely, and hopeless.
I did some assigned chores, like the residents.
I spoke to a counselor.
I went to the airport, left Miami and arrived at LaGuardia.
My mother and uncle were there to receive me.
It was a quiet ride home.
At home, my room felt sterile, the police had gone through all my belongings.
They had read all my letters.
Everyone at school knew that I had run away.
The school had been scandalized; rumors abound for my reasons for leaving.
They never thought that it was because of them, because wanted to be someplace else.
I had earned the respect of some kids because I did what they only fantasized about.
I hated that place, I hated those people, and I still wanted to leave.
I felt a profound sense of sadness for my parents and myself.
I took the police officer’s advice, and waited to go to college.

Years later when asked by my siblings to recount this experience,
I can hear my father sobbing over the phone, and I weep.

Vygotsky

Lev Vygotsky was a Soviet developmental psychologist, during the 1920-30’s. His short but utterly prolific research and writings have made an indelible mark on the social constructivist approach to pedagogy and child development. Vygotsky had a profound understanding of; how children develop, how language is learned, how behaviors are learned and evolve.

At the root of Vygotsky’s research is cultural mediation, the way a child’s higher mental functions develop, which happens when a child is interacting with others, generally parents, siblings, extended family, etc. These interactions teach children cultural habits, linguistic patterns, and symbolic knowledge. Vygotsky’s theory asserts that culture is the primary factor that determines an individual’s development; so the culture dictates what to think and how to think.

Vygotsky supported teaching morality as an important aspect of education. Without learning morals we can revert to fulfilling our primordial base desires, and in essence, the instinct to restrain ourselves from pursuing those desires, which separate us from our former, primitive selves. Our instincts have evolved to suit the respective set of conditions in which we live, and our instincts can be cultivated to regulate our behavior. Morality is a product of social psychology; moral concepts and ideas vary depending on the social environment.

The problem is teaching morality in a way that is not merely a list of dos and don’ts with rewards and punishments, but teaching children how to make their own decisions within the realm of what is socially acceptable. “Do not turn morality into the internal policeman of the soul. To avoid something out of fear still does not mean you are performing a good deed.” (Vygotsky, 1926) The conundrum is teaching ideals in a less than ideal society. Parents and teachers should model moral behavior, yet we are all so fallible, committing minor (sometimes major) immoralities on a regular basis. We are hypocrites.

I do love Lev Vygotsky; he was a realist and understood that teaching ideals in a society with social contradictions was a utopian dream, much like the great experiment that was Soviet society. I respect the desire to attain ideals, but clearly, it is set up for failure. The beauty of failure is that there is far more to be learned from failure than success.