Teaching Computer Skills to an Ageing DC Debutante

I had an experience today so bizarre that it has to be shared. At dance class today I was approached by another dancer, a stick-thin, platinum blonde senior citizen who asked me, via a long and rambling monologue, to teach her how to use the internet. I guess she figured that I looked young, intelligent, and broke enough to be up for it, and she was right. After briefly checking my credentials ("how old are you--where did you go to college--What was your major--Ok I guess you must be smart--") she packed me into her sky blue convertible and drove me to her place, all the while telling me that she didn't invite people to her house very often, it was a really nice place, one of the nicest in the city, very impressive, and she hoped I wouldn't be intimidated.

I wasn't intimidated. But still.

Her home is a big brick mansion, looking out over a park. It has a sweeping marble staircase with wrought-iron rails at its center, and the floors are all marble or wood parquet. The coat closet is nearly as big as my current rented room. The dining room walls have hand-painted frescoes. Bits of neoclassical statuary are scattered throughout. It looks like a colonial baronage crossed with an Italian villa, with a few dashes of upscale design magazines thrown in for good measure. It's the kind of house I assumed only diplomats had, a setting where elegant cocktail parties featuring $500 bottles of champagne would not seem out of place. I, in my sweaty dance clothes and jeans, most certainly did not look like I belonged.

After telling the maid imperiously to bring up some refreshments, my hostess led me to the computer room, as meticulously decorated as the rest of the house. For the next hour and a half, I guided her through the basics. This is how you turn the computer on. You want an email account? Let's set one up. Here's how you send an email. Ok, let's try it again. After several iterations, we moved on to google. Her first search? Designer clothes, of course.

I found it all fascinating, not so much the lessons I was giving, but the context. What happens when a 1950s debutante has to confront the modern world? Underneath her makeup and wealthy manners, I detected a very real fear. The knowledge that, were it not for her gilded surroundings and the husband who provides them, she would not be able to survive. She told me that when she was in high school her teachers said that because she was pretty she should take home ec. She hated it, she told me. She said no one ever encouraged her to do anything academic. But what she did not say was also eloquent. She didn't actually try. At seventy, she's still attractive enough that I can see the beauty queen she must have been in her youth. She may have wanted something more than a good marriage, but she didn't have the will to pursue a path outside of her prescribed societal role. Now she's trying to learn a new skill, and she's afraid of it. There's a big, scary world out there, and she knows she's not prepared. I'll do the best I can to teach her. It will be very interesting to see how well she can learn.

Then again, Cambodia is looking good

Apparently the king of Cambodia supports same-sex marriage. I don't have any real desire to go to Cambodia right now. But it's nice to know that the government figurehead likes us there.

Cambodia's king on the BBC

Welcome back to America, Land of the Free

Ah, America. I've been back for almost two months now, writing a lot and looking for a job and housing. I seem to have finally found a place to live, pending paperwork, but so far the only employment I've found has been a one-time gig as a photograpy school model and a one-time gig as a tutor for a thirteen-year-old. Today, the father of the thirteen-year-old called me and asked if I would be interested in teaching English as a second language to latinos. I said sure. At this point I'm interested in almost anything that would result in a semiregular paycheck. So we talked a bit about my teaching experience and things, and then, when the conversation seemed like it was wrapping up, he said, "I don't know why I'm getting this vibration, but I feel I should ask you, do you have a boyfriend?" Before I could answer he continued. "I know its a personal question, but I need to know you're not a child molester...do you like girls or boys?" My first instinct was to tell him that it was illegal to ask me questions about my personal life in a professional context. Instead I laughed and said, " Don't worry, I'm not a child molester. I don't have a boyfriend, but I'm not interested in dating." But he continued, "It's a simple question, just answer, you know I'm asking as a parent, etc. etc." and I just said again that I wasn't interested in anyone, full stop, and that as a teacher or tutor I'm always very professional. He finally accepted that and left it alone.

What I really want to know is, what prompted him to even ask that question? I'm not obviously gay. At least not when I'm by myself. Being in the vicinity of my girlfriend ups my obviousness exponentially, but he's never seen me anywhere near her. And I certainly didn't display any interest whatsoever in his daughter beyond wanting her to rewrite her essay. I didn't like thirteen-year-olds even when I was one. I understand not wanting to hire a pedophile. That would be dangerous. But not wanting to hire a lesbian is just absurd. It's not like it's contagious to be gay. And I have no doubt that if I'd admitted to being sapphic in my orientation the offer of potential employment would have been rescinded faster than you can say "ACLU." It's nice to see that discrimination is alive and well.

Drag (Queen) Racing!

Last night was the annual Halloween Drag Queen Race near Dupont Circle. It was fabulous, as only an event featuring that much gratuitous glitter can be. Drag queens, drag queens everywhere, with ballgowns and lipstick and high heels, oh my. Several were arrayed in getup from musicals, complete with sequined marquees proclaiming which ones they were from. There were Elphaba and Glinda from "Wicked," a heavily made-up feline from "Cats," and a very large middle-aged "Annie," complete with bright orange wig. There was a very elegant Cruella DeVille, a classic devil in a red dress, and an acompanying cupid wearing a loincloth and wings and nothing else. Continuing in the theme of semi-nudity were a toga made from a rainbow flag and a feather boa bikini.

The queens all paraded around, blowing kisses to the audience before the race began. At the word "go" all parties began the three-block race in high heels, some with alacrity, some not. The front runners in the race were moving faster than I can run even without heels. The middle section was a scene of ballgowned mayhem, and the theatre crowd, hampered by their giant marquees, brought up the rear. They were followed only by the queens who had decided that real running wasn't worth it and they would just prance along in exaggerated mincing steps only marginally faster than walking.

The whole race only took about ten minutes, and then the crowd converged for photo opportunities. I was swept along by the human wave until I managed to break free and hit the metro. Sadly, I'd left my camera at home so had no way to preserve the fabulosity for posterity.

National Equality March

Today was the National Equality March in DC, to put pressure on Obama to repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell and the Defense of Marriage Act. I did already blog about this on my more "official" blog, so all I'll say here is that it was awesome, both in the turnout (official counts are now over 200,000) and in how positive it all was. Almost celebratory. We haven't got our rights yet, but we made a damn good showing, and it's the largest gathering of gay people and supporters I've ever seen. Having just spent the better part of two years in countries where homosexuality Does Not Exist and/or Is Not Discussed, it was great to be in an environment where everyone was pro-gay. There weren't even that many counterprotestors. One truckful that jeered as we were waiting to get started, and a small knot of rather disgruntled churchgoers with a megaphone on one corner. I was marching with the UU church, which was marching behind a Jewish group, which I think was marching behind another religious group. So as we passed the bigots who were telling us that god hates fags, we all started chanting "god doesn't hate." They looked peeved. It might have burst their bubble to see church banners and rainbow banners marching side by side.
The other amazing thing was that at the beginning of the parade, when we were all gathered and waiting to move, we looked up and spotted a rainbow. Faint, but nevertheless there. We took it as a good sign. Apparently even god/deity/skyborne light particles were joining in the gay pride.

Strange Conversations in Mongolia

This morning I arrived in Ulaan Baator. Mongolia is one of my favorite places, and the local guide here is one of my favorite people on the road. Very friendly, very cheerful, very educated. We get on quite well in a travelers' camaraderie sort of way, but we've never had a terribly serious conversation about anything outside of tourism. So I was taken aback this morning when, at 7am, he asked me about homosexuality.
"You know, the last group that came here, there were a lot of people who were..."(vaguely illustrative wrist flaps)"...gays."
"Oh?"
"Yes," he continued, "there were five of them. I think it is a record for one trip."
"I see." I wasn't sure where this was going but I was fairly sure the conversation would become awkward for me very quickly. I was right.
In an outburst he suddenly said, "what makes them become like this, these homosexuals? How can they...why do they...What makes them become gay?"
I didn't quite know what to answer. Delicate subjects are best discussed at times other than 7am-post-overnight-train-pre-breakfast. I started to answer with an "um," but he continued.
"I think they are very ugly. I think maybe they're so ugly that no woman would have them. That's why they look at each other. And lesbians? I think maybe they always fought with their fathers. Maybe their first boyfriends were bad. That's why they don't like men."
I had to answer something, however unpopular the response.
"Actually...I think it's biology."
He looked shocked.
"Biology? No, there is no reason for it to be biology." His expression of shock grew as the idea expanded in his mind. "If it was biology...that would mean there would be gay people here...Mongolian people...no, it can't be."
He was clearly at a loss.
I said something about it being ten percent of the population worldwide, and he answered with a hmph and a change of subject. I thought it was just as well. It was a strange way to start the morning.

In some ways his question surprised me. Not so much the question itself, but the fact that it came from him. He knows a lot about Mongolia, its culture and its history, much more so than the average citizen. He knows that in shamanism here hermaphrodites were once considered sacred. (I know this because the subject came up in somebody's joke once and he didn't understand the English word. When the term had been explained he said yes, people like these used to be special shamans). Given that he knew this, I'm surprised that he considered the possibility of homosexuality in Mongolia shocking. But maybe he thinks that's all in the past. Nothing continues today.

Later in the afternoon, I saw part of the movie "V for Vendetta" dubbed in Mongolian, playing on the tv in the hotel lobby. It was the part of the film where Evey is in prison, receiving messages from the cell next door. The life and loves of Valerie were there onscreen, a lesbian narrative dubbed in Mongolian, and I have to assume the translation was accurate. But none of the hotel staff seemed to be paying attention. I wished that the local guide was there to see the movie. I don't know if it would have helped. But I think that the main thing that makes homosexuality scary for people is its unfamiliarity. The guide asked in his outburst about gay people, why they didn't want "another half, a partner." I didn't get a chance to say that they do want those things, just in a different form. But I think if more people were exposed to homosexuality they would realize it's simply a relationship composed in a different way.

And with that thought, I'm going to finally go to sleep and end my obscenely long day.

And...nyet

A few minutes ago I was talking to my Russian housemate over tea, and she mentioned a male friend of hers whose wife had just given birth. Apparently it was a difficult delivery. She said it made her feel scared.

I asked her if she wanted children, and she matter-of-factly said "of course," as though it weren't even a question that needed to be asked. Then she suddenly looked at me with an expression of dawning horror and asked me, "don't you?"

When I admitted that no, in fact, I don't want kids she looked completely shocked. "Why not," she asked.
"Because I don't. I never have. It's just not something that I want."
She continued to look shocked, so I told her that I do like kids as long as I can give them back to someone else after an hour or two. That didn't really seem to help.
"You surprise me," she said finally. Then she got up to go do work.

Well then. Nyet.

It's ironic. This woman is probably my best friend in Russia. We get along really well, we go to dance classes together, we share meals, we drink tea. I was actually debating coming out to her, because I thought that she might be open minded, might possibly understand. I'm glad we had this conversation first before I thought about it too much more. The level of shock she showed at my not wanting kids probably indicates that the reaction would be seismic if I revealed that I also don't want a man.

I just don't understand why it's a big deal. I wasn't put on earth to fulfill some biological imperative, or to follow anyone's agenda other than my own. I don't see why it's shocking that a woman wouldn't want a husband or kids. Regardless of whether she's gay or straight.

I'm glad that I'm leaving Russia soon. I love this country in many ways. But I need to be in a place where my way of life is unremarkable. Where no one gives a damn if I date a woman and don't want kids.

Chinese and Mongolian Pride

I thought, since I posted about Moscow Pride (or rather, the lack thereof in any official sense), that I should post something about Pride in other places as well. For Russia, Moscow and St. Petersburg are the only places large and cosmopolitan enough to be contenders for pride events in a relatively conservative country. Moscow we've already established had Pride planned and then shut down. Googling St. Petersburg Pride gave me lots of results for St. Petersburg, Florida (biggest Pride event in the Southeast, apparently), but none whatsoever for Russia. It's possible that I just didn't look hard enough. But for all intents and purposes, Russian Pride cannot be officially found.

What about Chinese Pride? As I left Beijing I found an article about the first ever set of gay pride events in China being planned in Shanghai. They were largely being organized by expats, and all advertisements for the events were circulated in English. It was thought that if the events were billed as entertainment for foreigners they would attract less government attention. Which was mostly right. When the time came to hold the festivities, some were indeed shut down. But most took place as scheduled. I find it ironic that between Russia and China, the country that's widely considered to have a much more repressive government was the one that allowed gay pride events to take place.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/15/world/asia/15shanghai.html?pagewanted=1

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/06/15/shanghai-pride-china-gay_n_215785.html

What about Mongolia? Since I've been there recently also I feel I shouldn't leave it out. To the best of my knowledge, Mongolia has no organized pride events, and any gay culture is very, very underground. But there were Mongolian participants at a pride event last January in Thailand. So clearly, some kind of scene exists.

http://www.fridae.com/newsfeatures/2008/01/30/2000.chiangmais-first-gay-pride-march

Apparently in Moscow I Deserve to Be Killed

At least, this is what Moscow's mayor says. Seventy-two-year-old conservative mayor Yuri Luzhkov made a televised statement just before banning the attempted Moscow Pride Parade that "Our society has healthy morals and rejects all these queers. If you even imagine that they get permission to hold their parade and gather, they will simply be killed."
http://www.gayrussia.ru/en/news/detail.php?ID=13543

Good to know. On the one hand, I find it chilling that a political leader can get away with saying that people from any minority group can and should be killed. World history has shown that bad things usually follow these kinds of statements. On the other hand, I appreciate the honesty. There's something refreshing about knowing exactly where things stand. He thinks we're evil and deserve to die. Clean cut, black and white. None of that "love the sinner, hate the sin" thing that you get from the more tolerant members of the Christian Right back at home, which often comes accompanied by the two-faced, smiling assurance that you're going directly to hell. The overall sentiment in both cases may be similarly hostile, but somehow I have far less fear of being lynched in Moscow than I would in, say, rural Wyoming if I ever went there.

I haven't been in Russia long, but I've noticed a pattern to the way things work here. Rules are both convoluted and rampant. They are also largely ignored. Drinking in public is illegal, but people drink beer on the way to work, and a common evening pastime is to take a bottle of wine to a park with your friends. It's illegal to drink vodka on the trains, but most trains sell vodka in the dining cars. I've yet to be stopped for drinking vodka on trains with any of my groups so far, but I'm told that the appropriate course of action if it happens is to offer the policeman a drink.

Point being, as long as you stay out of general view of the authorities in Russia, you can do pretty much whatever you want. Moscow's mayor thinks gay people should not exist, but the gay scene is alive and well. Lonely Planet lists three or four locations, and there certainly must be more. Traditionally, the gay scene in most places has always been underground, and with good reason, since in almost every society gay and gender-variant people are seen with suspicion at best and outright hatred at worst. So we stick to the shadows, and most mainstream people don't even think about us or know we exist until and unless we try to make ourselves visible. Like with Pride.

I'm thinking about Pride, because my girlfriend reminded me the other night that once again I'm missing DC Pride, which I've heard is a sight to behold. I'm also missing Boston Pride, St. Pete (Florida) Pride, Paris Pride, and pretty much any other Pride you can think of in any of the places I used to live. I wasn't even in Moscow for the abortive attempt at the pride parade that got shut down by the riot police 30 seconds after it began. In general I think that Pride is great, because it's a fun way to get ourselves out of the closet and be completely out in the open, for once in a year. In countries like Russia, though, the idea of Pride itself is controversial. One person interviewed by Time said that he just wants to be treated like everyone else, and running around screaming that he's gay is not going to achieve that.
http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1899340,00.html

It's a valid point. Everyone might want more acceptance and more rights, but very few people want to be the ones to stick their necks out in the effort to achieve this. I'm no exception; for all that I technically work for a company with an inclusive non-discrimination clause, the fact that I work on the ground in countries like Russia and Morocco effectively means that coming out would be one of the stupidest things I could possibly do. I have no desire to make my life any more complicated than it really needs to be, and I don't want to be the "face of diversity" in my company or anywhere else. I just want to live my life and have that be okay. It's all anyone really wants. It's just difficult to be both visible and acceptable. In general, you have to choose.

The Word of the Day is "Androgyny"

The other day, my Russian housemate showed me a ballet video online.



It's a very interesting piece of modern choreography. I like it from a dance perspective, because they do some unusual things and the fast pointe work is incredible. But it's also interesting from a gender perspective, because it explores relationships. Different people dance together in different ways, and at one point, two female dancers are dressed as men. Before that point, though, during what I thought was a more conventional scene, my housemate asked me a strange question: "Is that dancer a man or a women?"

I told her it was a woman, because the likelihood of a man doing such intricate pointe work is almost nil. (I have seen men on pointe, in the "ballet trocadero," but I have to say that the pointe work was pretty blunt. In my experience, most male dancers don't pursue pointe training at all, so would not be able to perform it with such a high degree of skill). So I told her that the dancer was a woman, but the woman was androgynous.

"How you call this? An-dro-gyn-ous?"

"Yes. Androgynous."

It led me to think about dance in general, how girls from an early age are taught to move in an exceedingly light and delicate mannner, feminine to the extreme. They are also taught to starve their bodies, so that they don't develop a shape with many feminine attributes. Therefore...when a female dancer ceases to move in the typically stylized "feminine" manner traditional to ballet, if she begins to move with force and strength, she automatically becomes androgynous, because neither her movements nor her shape indicate "female." This phenomenon is completely unrelated to her own gender identity. It's simply a matter of gender presentation, which normally goes one way and confuses people when it goes another.

I also find it interesting that of all words I should be teaching people in Russia, "androgynous" is one of the first. I'm not out here and I'm not planning on coming out, but gender is something that seems to follow me. I'm one of the people who notices gender ambiguity in the world, and this means that I end up talking about it to unexpected people, even if I don't talk about its relevance to my personal life.

We didn't talk any more about androgyny, my housemate and I, we just watched the ballet. But I'm happy that one person in Russia now knows the English word for ambiguity in gender.

My inner awesome needs to come back now

Alright. It's been ages since I've posted here, largely because I've been on the road for six weeks and I've had more important things to do than let off personal rants. But starting today I have time off, so I'll rant and then I'll fix things, because that's what I need to do.

This whole year, I feel like I've been screwing up. I lost my job in Morocco. That was the economy, rather than me, but it started everything else. I got job offers with branches of my company in the US and in Russia. I unintentionally caused loads of confusion between the two because neither knew I was being recruited by the other and the US branch changed every piece of contact info I had for them right before I needed to get in touch and say I'd chosen Russia. My first trip through Russia, Mongolia, and China was rocky, and I just got some rather nasty feedbacks and a politely worded letter from my new boss saying that my next set of feedbacks should be significantly better or else. One of my bags was stolen on my latest trans-Siberian train ride. The IRS claims that I owe them money because they don't believe that I was legitimately working in a foreign country for most of last year. This is all in addition to personal shit. I'm wondering where the hell I went off track.

Time was, it was a given that I did everything and did everything well. When and where did that change? When did my competent, good-at-everything self turn into this person who keeps failing?

Part of the problem is that I try to be everything to everyone. I'm a natural introvert, and in many ways it's good for me to force myself to be normal and social, as I need to do in this job. But I seem to have mislaid an essential piece of myself in the process, and I need to get it back. First step is to get myself a new journal and pen. I haven't really written longhand in ages. I think I need to start doing it again. Second step is to meditate. I used to do it every day. Life worked better when I did. Third step is to figure out, well and truly, what it is I want out of life and how it is I need to get there. My current job is a stepping-stone, but it's not the place I really need to be. I'll finish out this tourist season, and I'll do it well even if only to prove a point. But then I need to move on.

I've started looking at grad schools, but only vaguely. I need to look more seriously now. I think I've finally settled on international development as the field I want to work in. I was thinking about fair trade before, but I think that development will give me broader scope. And having a more definite direction will be good for me. Two and a half years of constant travel should be enough to tide me over for a while. And when I travel next, it will be for my own self and my own projects. The service industry is no longer a place I want to be.

So that's the long-term plan. In the meantime, I need to learn everything about Russia that I didn't learn before, grovel to my boss, get a police report, and call the IRS. Because things may be screwed up, but it's in my power to fix them. And so I shall.

Much ado about almost something

Caution: Significant levels of late-night ruminations ahead, which may or may not make any sense at all. Read at your own risk. Feel free to turn back now.

I was tired hours ago, and I wanted to go to bed. But I kept thinking and forming phrases in my mind , and I knew that this evening would be my last night to myself for quite a while. So I'm here and I'm writing instead, about life, the universe, and everything, in a lengthy and possibly pointless reflection on several specific and nonspecific things.

Tomorrow I start my first trans-Siberian. I am, of course, nervous about this, because I'm always nervous about starting new trips. New trips in the sense of my job, of bits of organized travel that I haven't done yet, because obviously I want to do a good job and that comes in large part from knowing the territory beforehand. But also new trips in the sense of new journeys, a different part of the world for me and a new departure from the US and everything that forms part of my life there. I have to wander, this is a given. Exactly why, I'm not sure, but I know it's something fundamental that I have to do. Every time I leave, though, it makes me wonder a little more what my reception will be when I return. Will people still have a place for me in their lives, or will my place be filled with other things? Is it truly out of sight, out of mind? I can go months without seeing people I'm close to, but I still care about them just as much. I don't know if I inspire the same feelings or not. It's hard to maintain even friendships across long distances, to say nothing of romantic relationships. I try. Sometimes I fail miserably at both.

While in the US, I tried hard to see a lot of people. I managed to see almost everyone that I wanted to see, even if only briefly. But I always feel that I could have done more. People in DC I could have seen more often, as I was there for a while. People in Florida I scheduled so tightly that I sometimes missed them, or was horrifically late in seeing them, or saw them only far too briefly, or very occasionally missed them completely. I worry that many of my friends feel slighted, either because I was either constantly running around in Florida or constantly holed up in a computer cave in DC. I worry that my efforts, both here and in other areas, might have been counterproductive and in vain.

Sometimes I'm tempted to cut ties with everything. Start with a completely new slate somewhere, with neither past nor future to think about, no people to worry about. I want to go back to the Camino, when I felt completely free. I could easily do it, just disappear off the face of the earth for a while. The world is a big place, and I've only explored a small part of it. It's full of places that I could hide. But cutting ties with the life I've lived up to this point would hold its own set of problems. People I care about, people I love...I don't want to lose them. It's so hard for me to find people who are worth much of anything to me...most of the human race is entertaining, but very little more. People who are worth caring about are few and far between. People who aren't trying to own me in some way are even fewer.

For most of my life, there's been a constant struggle of trying to figure out where I stand in the world. Being strange made it hard for me to find friends as a child, though I could not for the life of me figure out what made me so different. I remember in elementary school wishing that I was pretty, because then maybe people might like me. Mostly, I wanted to be like everyone else. If being stupid and vapid meant that I might have friends, it seemed like a reasonable tradeoff. Impossible to make, but reasonable nonetheless. Later, I just wanted to leave the world. Possibly by meditating on top of a mountain somewhere. Possibly by doing something else.

I seem to have stopped at that thought there. Unsurprising, as it would have been a full stop in time.

But moving on. I'm still here, and I feel as though I need to justify my continued existence on this planet by doing something with it. I'm not a person who can just exist and be happy with a normal kind of life. Every time I try, I feel trapped. And I'm caught in a double bind, because in order to feel that I'm making any kind of progress I have to be moving around, but to finish and refine anything I need to be in one place. This is true of writing. This is true of photography. This is true of really almost everything. But I have trouble finding the balance. I would like to write something extraordinary. If this takes the form of fiction or creative nonfiction I don't care, but I need to write something that I'm proud of. I'm only inspired when I travel. I can only edit when I'm stationary. I would like to save the world in some manner. There are all sorts of things that need fixing. I'm still figuring out which Herculean task is mine, and how to go about doing it, and where I need to be. I would also like to have good people in my life. But I've always had the feeling that I was meant to walk alone. Now that I know what it's like to have friendships, I'm rather attached to them, but as I've said, relationships can be fragile and hard to maintain. Somehow I need to figure out what I'm doing here. And how to do it. And who to bring. Ideally, I'll have my girlfriend, my friends, a book or several, limitless opportunities to travel, and interesting projects that make a difference in the world. Inshallah that's what I'll be able to get.

So these are my disconnected thoughts for the evening. The questions swirling in the miasma of my mind. If you haven't followed this far I don't blame you; my mind takes circuitous paths and I haven't bothered to clear the underbrush. It's closing in on 3 in the morning now, and I have things to do tomorrow. continued preparations for work and life. Possibly, after writing all this, I'll be able to finally sleep. Or perchance, even to dream.

Muslim =/=Arab=/=Muslim

All Muslims are not Arabs. All Arabs are not Muslims. Unfortunately, not everyone realizes this, including many Muslims. When I lived in Morocco, I discovered that it's not considered to be a "true" Arab country, and it took thirteen years for it to be admitted into the League of Arab States. Because half the population is Berber and has a different culture, and because Moroccan Arabic is so different from Classical and Modern Standard Arabic, it somehow lacks credentials within the Muslim world.

The problem lies with the fact that the prophet Mohammed was from Saudi Arabia. When a religion or philosophy is anchored in the time and place of its origin, it is certain that problems will arise as it's transplanted in time and space. It's fairly impossible for this not to occur, because nothing grows in a vacuum, and the culture in which an idea originates is bound to influence it. The choice lies in whether or not to adapt the idea to the time and place, or the time and place to the original idea. I generally think that the former works better than the latter, but the latter is a popular choice. Why do we have so many varieties of Christianity and Judaism if not for this very same conflict? Somewhere along the line, people had to choose. Do we follow Byzantium, or do we follow Rome? Do we follow the Pope or King Henry VII? What about following Luther? I don't know as much about Judaism, but I know that there are Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform sects, which meant that schisms had to take place at some point over questions of how to believe and behave. Islam is ripe for schism right now. But Islam is supposed to be unified and uniform. Which means that schism will be difficult if not impossible (even though there are already different schools of thought and different sects--Shia, Sunni, Sufi...).

This blog post came about because of reading another blog post on a similar topic. http://www.racialicious.com/2009/04/17/searching-for-my-pakistani-identity/


The author is Pakistani, and observes that other Muslim South Asians are flattered if people mistake them for Arabs and try to display an Arab cultural identity rather than their own. But they are still Muslims, regardless of their culture or race. Likewise in Morocco. Or Indonesia. Or the US.

Same Same but Different

St. Petersburg and Moscow both have extensive metro systems, and one of the most common sights you'll see on the uberlong escalators is of young couples cuddling, kissing, or otherwise engaging in rather sickening public displays of affection. I generally ignore these couples, think sour thoughts at them and look away, because in general I a) think these activities are better done in private and b) would rather not be reminded that I'm several thousand miles away from the only person with whom I could engage in such activities. Last night on the metro I saw another one of these couples, and as they were right below me I found them hard to ignore. When they came up for air, though, my opinion of them changed drastically.

They were both female.

Living for a year in a country in which homosexuality is illegal, I developed a keen sense of Things You Do Not Do Or Say In Public. Clearly, these girls had no such sense. They were totally absorbed in each other, and they didn't care who saw it. Because whoever saw it didn't matter. No one paid them any attention at all. It's amazing to think that homosexuality could be such a nonissue. It's so politicized in the States, often needlessly so, and while there are places where it's a nonissue, there are more places where it's a Very Big Deal. I'm not so naive as to think that all of Russia will be like this, as it's even larger than the US and has far more rural areas. And I'm certainly not taking it as a sign that I should come out to my coworkers, because I like to keep my personal life private and separate from my public self. But still. It's nice to know that there are mainstream places where young queer couples don't have to worry overmuch about expressing who they are. It gladddens my queer-happy heart.

Banyas and body image

Last week, I went to a banya with my group. A Banya is a public bathhouse/sauna, in which you sit in an exceedingly hot steam room for a while, exit and dump a bucket of cold water on your head, sit for a few minutes, and repeat. During further repetitions you get to use birch twigs to whip yourself and your friends--it's supposed to be good for circulation and muscle soreness. It's fabulous, and I freely admit that there's a certain masochistic flavor to it that I thoroughly enjoy.

Inside the banya, large groups of naked women sit talking, drinking water (or beer or kvass) between sauna sessions, sometimes eating snacks. It can be an all day event for some people, and given how cold it's been outside I don't blame them for hanging out in the only truly warm place in town. The interesting thing is that no one seems to notice or care about what anyone else looks like. It's possible that because the average age was fortysomething and they'd clearly all had multiple children they were beyond caring about such things. But it was nice to be in an environment where what people look like doesn't make a difference. It's at odds with what I've observed on the street, the high level of fashion and makeup that scream "look at me!" to everyone who passes by. Perhaps it's a generational difference, or perhaps it's because the banya was in a smaller city (not Moscow or St. Petersburg). For whatever reason, the banya seemed to be the one place so far where people are free to let it all hang out. Which is not a bad thing at all.

New Country, New Norms

I arrived in Russia a few days ago, and already I'm beginning to notice the gender norms of the place. Women walk around tottering on high heels as they walk over cobblestones. Their outfits hover between understated fashion and over-the-top uberclothing (think hot pink tights and black miniskirts--I only saw one outfit like this, but it was memorable). In general, there's an emphasis on looking good. Men don't seem to pay as much attention to their own appearance. They generally look dressed down, with the occasional suit and tie amongst the older generation.

More than fashion, I'm noticing that people here have less in the way of personal space issues than we do over in the US. I've seen lots of girls holding hands or walking arm in arm, and while they're obviously just friends and nothing more it still makes me happy. The phobia of touch is something that I don't entirely uderstand about my own culture, even though it's something in which I tend to participate. I like my personal space, but I also enjoy being affectionate with close friends. In the US, it seems as though most physical contact is construed as being in some way sexual, so no touch is permitted unless it's with someone you actually want to have sex with. I've found in most of Europe that this social taboo is much less prevalent, and consequently friends don't need the twelve-inch personal space bubble that we require in the US.

Klein Grid

A while ago (as in, a few weeks ago), I took a short version of the Klein test for sexual orientation, out of curiosity to see if a somewhat standard test would give results in line with my own self-perception.



It came out more bisexual than I think is really accurate, largely because for the set of questions about who I'd been hanging out with for the past year (not dating, just people I spent time with) I had to answer "mostly male." This was more out of necessity than actual choice; who you hang out with has a lot to do with who's available, and most of the people I knew in Morocco were men. In general I think I'm about 80% gay, but it's not even really as simple as that. I'm attracted to people who fall outside gender norms. So if the pool of people I could potentially date was set at ten, seven would be female, one would be male, and two would be so completely androgynous that no one who wasn't dating them would be able to tell. And all of them would be androgynous to some degree. I think that tests of this nature fall short of accuracy because they fail to take into account that gender itself is not a binary. There isn't just a spectrum of gender-orientation, there's a full spectrum of gender-identity. But no one in research circles is likely to try to quantify that fact for at least another ten years.

More Good News (and questions of language)

Huzzah! We now officially have four states in which it's legal for same-sex couples to get married, now that Vermont has joined the team. And our nation's capital has taken the unexpectedly enlightened step of recognizing same-sex unions performed elsewhere, even if not allowing same-sex unions of its own. Hamdulilah, life is becoming good.

On a completely different note, one I'd planned to blog about before I got the celebratory news of increased legality, I'd like to talk about language. Ever since I started learning foreign languages, I've always been fascinated by the idea of gendered words. From the obvious and inane middle-school jokes about "how can you tell if this pencil's a boy or a girl?" to more evolved questions in high school and college, gendered words have always held questions. Why, for example, is the moon in Europe almost always considered feminine and the sun masculine? Why is it reversed in Japan? Who came up with gendered language in the first place? And does it actually affect how we think about the words themselves? I've had several people scoff at this last question, but a researcher at Stanford has now decided to look at this question as well. Her findings? People do indeed think differently about differently gendered words.

When you think of a bridge, how would you describe it?



Which of these sets of descriptions would you describe as more masculine or feminine?








As it turns out, the set of more "masculine" attributes--"strong, sturdy, towering, etc." was chosen by people whose primary language is Spanish, in which "bridge" is a masculine word. The set of more "feminine" attributes was chosen by people whose main language is German, in which "bridge" is a feminine word.

So does gendered language affect peoples' perceptions of objects? I think so. The question now becomes, what do speakers of an ungendered language like English have to say?

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102518565&ft=1&f=1007

Iowa!? Yay!!!

So...I would never have thought that Iowa of all places would do this...but their Supreme Court just legalized gay marriage! Happy days are here :)

http://www.hrcbackstory.org/2009/04/human-rights-campaign-applauds-iowa-supreme-court-decision-on-marriage-rallies-to-be-held-across-the-state/

Maybe this means that there's hope for the rest of the nation...

Amanda Palmer, Live in Concert

A friend and I went to see Amanda Palmer in concert last night. It was an enjoyable evening, but there were plenty of foibles, so I'm going to give a rundown of the good, the bad, and the ugly for the edification of anyone who wants to know.

The Good:

Amanda Palmer is an amazing artist who clearly enjoys being onstage, flirting with the audience, and generally being an awesome performer. And the first opening act that started off the show, Vermilion Lies, defied all expectations of opening acts in general by actually being an enjoyable group.

The Bad:

The concert started two hours late, apparently because of the second opening act (Hair Somethingorother) who showed up two hours late for sound check. When it was time for their set, the stage stayed empty for twenty minutes, was suddenly occupied by three not-very-attractive drag queens and a man in a leopard print headband for about three minutes, and then fell suddenly dark and silent. Five minutes later they were out of the building and down the road, having wasted everybody's time.

The Ugly:

Really, Hair Whatever was the main ugly. But second was the sea of cameras that emerged over the crowd every time a new piece started. Seriously people, I want to see the artist, not your screens or flashbulbs.

But back to The Good:

Amanda Palmer, as I've said, was amazing. Creative songwriting, great stage presence, and mad skills at the piano. Not to mention fabulous lyrics to songs like "Ampersand" that sum up a great deal of my experience with heterosexual flirting:

The ghetto boys are catcalling me
As I pull my keys from my pocket
I wonder if this method of courtship has ever been effective
Has any girl in history said "Sure, you seem so nice, let's get it on"
Still, I always shock them when I answer, "Hi, my name's Amanda"

Then there's the fact that she can write a catchy doo-wop style song about rape and abortion that's actually fun to sing along to. Song title is "Oasis" if you want to check it out.

Then there was the opening band. (Alright, technically they were first, but they weren't the ones that brought me to the concert, which is why I'm talking about them second). I had never heard of Vermillion Lies, but they're a sister cabaret duo that gets points for vocabulary and creative instrumentation. Anyone who uses a typewriter as percussion gets points in my book. Ditto for marionettes and multicolored handbells. They had funny songs about heart transplants and global warming. And they sang backup for "Oasis," which worked really well.

So all in all, a good evening. My only real regret was that we had to leave early, while Amanda was still singing, because the concert started so late. The moral of the story, I suppose, is that awesome girl artists should sing together. And random drag queens that can't sing or be on time should be locked out.

God Hates...Fruit?

This image has been shamelessly stolen from a friend's livejournal blog, because it's one of the funniest pamphlets that I've recently seen. Read it and believe. God hates fruit.

I Love Chiropractors

I finally went and got my back checked out, after several weeks of procrastination, and discovered that I had two pinched nerves in my vertebrae. After a realignment that involved the chiropractor turning me on my side and pretty much doing a jumping Heimlich maneuver to my hips, I felt a lot better. Sore, but better. My back is stiff now, but not painful, which is a marked improvement. Aerial has been good, largely because hanging upside down is therapeutic, but chiropractors are better. I need to start keeping one in my pocket when I travel.

I'm also incredibly happy that the problem has been fixed so easily. After reading up on all the many things that could be causing back pain, from hairline fractures to protruding discs to any number of other icky things, a pinched nerve sounds like a walk in the park. No scans, no surgery, nothing too expensive or time consuming or painful or annoying. Just a few clicks and done. Huzzah.

Happy Ides of March

Ok, I'm a geek. But I have to celebrate it. In nonlethal ways. Which means that I get to send this ecard to the world:



Happy Holidays! :p

Ballet and body image

I've decided this week, now that I'm living near a dance studio, that I should start dancing again. So I took a ballet class on Wednesday, a barre workout yesterday, and another ballet class today.

Ouch.

There is nothing more humbling than going back to ballet when you've been away from it for over two years. I felt like an elephant, like a bull in a china shop, like all the most ungraceful metaphors in the world all at once. My body has lost all the nuanced movement that characterizes ballet. It felt so easy when I did it all the time, but now I feel like I'm as far from that level of nuance as I am from the moon or a six-figure paycheck. My brain still remembers it all, remembers that the hand goes here and the feet turn out like so and you lift and tuck and tendu and plie and make it all look beautiful and effortless. My brain remembers. But my body doesn't. And therein lies the problem. Because my brain remembers exactly what it all looks like, and how I should look in the mirror when I do each move. But the figure in the mirror looks nothing like how it should be.

In the mirror, I have no alignment. My toes point, but not as far as they should. My feet turn out, but not as far, my legs lift up, but not as high, I jump, I turn, I extend, I pose...but none of it looks like it should. Part of it is that I'm horrendously out of practice. And part of it is that I'm at least 25 pounds heavier than I was in high school, the last time I seriously did ballet. Now, I was never a stick figure, and I never cultivated my anorexic tendencies to a point where they were relevant, but still. I was relatively thin. In the mirror now, I see every inch of my added padding as larger-than-life, an exaggerated caricature of my actual shape. And I know, intellectually, that my weight is actually just fine and my proportions are fairly normal. But you can't say that to a ballet school mirror. They're designed to make you want to become thin.

The funny thing is, I never really paid that much attention to the mirror in high school. I knew what I looked like and that I looked good, so besides the occasional alignment check it was never really relevant. I only started to get self-conscious in college, when I started gaining weight and taking different dance techniques that I didn't know as well. I learned to ignore the mirrors then, because if I focused only on what I was doing and didn't look, I didn't have to fight myself or the movement nearly as hard. And when I got good enough, I didn't have to ignore the mirror. It became irrelevant again. I'll get to that point again here inshallah, probably just in time for me to start traveling again and lose it all. Which means I'll fight the same battle through again when I get back.

Even though it's a Sisyphus-ian effort, though, I'll still do it. I love dance too much to let myself stay out of shape, and I know that in another week or two the mirror gremlins won't seem as bad. You have to wonder what's in an art form to make people stay with it despite the fact that it tends to foster self-hatred. And the answer is this: once you get past that point of self-hatred and focus on the dance, it becomes magic. Once you truly focus on the dance and attain the technique to take you farther, you can suspend normal reality. You can experience total freedom in movement. You can fly.

Which means I'll deal with the mirror gremlins until I reach that point again.

Don't ask, don't tell?

I just read an article stating that the people who originally convened to instate teh "don't ask, don't tell" policy in the military barely even knew what the phrase "sexual orientation" meant when they first started discussing the issue. They came up with the policy in the name of "unit cohesion," the idea that if there were gay people in the military it would make military groups less able to work together, or something like that. That straight people would be squicked out and not want to deal with people who weren't like them.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/nathaniel-frank/as-congress-moves-to-end_b_171070.html

Of course, nowadays, now that several people have been kicked out of the military for being gay, more are being kept in because it seems like people just don't really care about it any more. One service member announced that he was gay on "60 Minutes" and has had felt no military ramifications whatsoever.

http://www.usatoday.com/news/military/2008-01-07-gay-troops_N.htm

I get the feeling that the more people who die in Iraq, and the more people want to get out of Iraq, the less people will care about who exactly it is that's serving as long as they're doing their job.

What happened to my hair?

Last week, I got a haircut for free. And was reminded acutely that you get what you pay for. It seemed like a good idea at the time. A salon was advertising for models to display different styles. I figured I'd go in, have something new and interesting done, and go out feeling like I'd gotten the change I needed. When I got there, though, I discovered to my chagrin that I was the only model who'd signed up (I use the term "model" loosely here, meaning only someone who's willing to go to the hairdressing seat blindfolded). An hour and a half later, after the tender ministrations of ten people struggling to perfect a new cut, my hair was significantly shorter and highly voluminous (never cut curly hair for volume. It leads to something looking suspiciously like a 'fro). I spent the next few days investing in headbands, hairclips, and styling products to mitigate the 'do. I even bought a bottle of purple hair dye, which I haven't gotten up the impetus to use just yet, but that is waiting as soon as I'm sure I won't have an interview anytime soon.

All this got me to thinking...is my hair gay? There's a fine longstanding tradition of lesbian hair, but it's generally limited to buzzcuts, fifteen-year-old-boy-cuts, and the fortunately out of date mullet, which is thankfully rarely seen anymore. My former long, flowing locks were certainly good at getting attention (at one point in college I had three friends fondling my curls and saying that my hair deserved to be groped, looking like it did). But Botticelli-style waves are not inherently gay. Neither, I think, are short, fluffy curls, though they're probably a bit closer. My girlfriend tells me that short hair is hot. It might be. Research has shown me that my current cut does not meet the accepted definition of "lesbian hair" (which, oddly enough, is not "hair that belongs to a lesbian.")

Apparently, there are references to specific cuts:

http://www.lesbiatopia.com/2007/03/lesbian-hair-good-bad-and-ugly.html

http://www.lesbilicious.co.uk/community/lesbian-hair-the-secrets-untangled/

And certain stars have apparently been seen sporting some of them:
http://www.afterellen.com/blog/dorothysnarker/lesbian-hair-makes-a-comeback

I think that I'm actually somewhat relieved. Not having lesbian hair means that I don't fit into a stereotype, which is always good, in my book. And I admit, I enjoy being ambiguous, in this as in other things. So while my haircut may be interesting and unusual, it does not mark me as gay. So people will still have to wonder ;)

Homecoming Queen

George Mason University has a homecoming queen. Who happens to be male. I think that this is absolutely fabulous.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/02/19/AR2009021901780.html?hpid=artslot

It reminded me of a few other articles I'd seen in past years, about gay or transgendered prom kings and queens.

In 2007:
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/222121/not_your_normal_prom_king_transgender.html?cat=62

In 2001: http://www.komonews.com/news/archive/4004466.html

At my high school, something like this would not have happened. At my high school, when I went there, two people of the same sex couldn't even buy homecoming tickets together, let alone be obviously on a date. And while I wasn't aware of my orientation in high school, I did think it unfair that my large group of dateless friends couldn't all get together and buy double tickets. It had nothing to do with gender, back then, and everything to do with economics. Double tickets were cheaper by about ten bucks. But we all bought individual tickets and went as a group and had a fabulous, dateless time.

Things may have changed at my school by now. I don't really know, and I don't particularly care, since I'm no longer there to deal with it. My senior year, someone started a Gay-Straight Alliance. I was already overinvolved and so never went to a meeting, but I was glad that it was there. It might still be there, or it might not. It's someone else's battle to fight, in any case. But it makes me glad to know that somewhere out there, gay teens are visible and making their voices heard.

Food is Out to Get Me

There's the bizarre intolerance of meat-related protein. The periodic random bouts of my-digestive-tract-hates-me that I can no longer attribute to living in Africa. And then I find that some of my favorite sea kittens (ahem, fish) may in fact be trying to poison me in my sleep.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29392319/

Apparently, dangerous microscopic algae in tropical waters get eaten by little fish, which get eaten by bigger fish, which get eaten by bigger fish, which get eaten by us. And since these little microorganisms contain neurotoxins, they basically result in food poisoning gone horribly awry. I'm envisioning PETA launching a "Revenge of the Sea Kittens" campaign as soon as they get wind of this.

I doubt I'll stop eating sea kittens, because dammit grouper is tasty. But I find it scary that slowly but surely the list of things I'm confident that I can safely eat is becoming narrower. Someday soon I might be reduced to nothing but rice noodles and miso. And on that note...I think it's time for lunch.

Torture leads to terrorism? Who knew?

The Washington Post today ran an article about Abdallah al-Ajmi, a Kuwaiti man who spent four years in Guantanamo prison on unconfirmed terrorism charges and became a suicide bomber shortly after his release. Some may take his post-release actions as confirmation that he was held with good reason and that the initial terrorism charges were correct. But the Washington Post asks in its headline, with good reason, Did Guantanamo Turn an Accused Low-Level Taliban Fighter Into a Suicide Bomber?

I think it did.

Al-Ajmi was 23 when he was first interned. Twenty-three. The age of can’t-quite-graduate college fratboys and just-graduated-and-can’t-find-a-job interns. He was arrested in Pakistan on unconfirmed charges that he fought for the Taliban. Even Gitmo officials say that he probably had no connections whatsoever with Al-Quaeda. He was basically a young adult with an eighth grade education who couldn’t get any work outside the military. So he joined. No one knows exactly why he went to Pakistan, or why exactly he was arrested. But even if he did fight for the Taliban as a footsoldier, he was far from a criminal mastermind, and his lawyer described him as “one of the least dangerous people I’d seen at Gitmo.”

So how, once he was released, did he turn suicide bomber so quickly? Well, let’s be logical here. He was held without knowing his charges for an indefinite length of time at one of the most notorious US military prisons in the world. He had no contact with friends or family, no possessions other than a Koran and a blanket which were often confiscated for minor behavioral infringements, and he was often mistreated by the guards. If you were suddenly arrested, stripped of all your rights and possessions, and kept in a concrete cell for four years, wouldn’t you be angry? If you knew that the people who were keeping you prisoner could do anything they wanted, including torture you, without any real fear of recrimination, wouldn’t you become sullen and paranoid? And if you were then suddenly released, as mysteriously as you’d been arrested, wouldn’t you want revenge? Guantanamo turned a young, low-level footsoldier into a terrorist. I don’t understand why anyone would be surprised.


http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/02/22/AR2009022202384.html

It's Milk!

My girlfriend and I watched the Academy Awards last night. It's not something I'm inclined to do normally, because I live under a metaphorical rock and have usually never seen most of the movies up for awards. This year was much the same except for one notable exception: Milk. The film was a biography of Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man to be elected to a public office in the United States. It was incredibly well made, offering up a story known mostly to people in gay culture and making it accessible to a wider audience. How wide is debatable, since it wasn't one of the more widely distributed movies of the year. When my girlfriend came to visit me in Florida we had to drive for over an hour to see it at the one theater in the area where it was listed.

It was worth the drive.

We both agreed that Sean Penn deserved an Oscar. He became Harvey Milk, so much so that clips of photos from the '70s interspersed with footage of the film were almost indistinguishable. That Penn as an actor could create a character who was clearly gay without once approaching the line of stereotype is nothing short of a miracle, one that everyone in the gay community viewed with both relief and applause.

The film drew several Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, and Best Original Screenplay. It won two, Best Actor and Best Screenplay, both well deserved. The movie was incredibly well-written, told in a series of narratives and flashbacks that highlighted the most important aspects of Milk's life. And Sean Penn, as I said before, was simply amazing.

Both Penn and Dustin Lance Black, the writer, alluded to Prop 8 in their acceptance speeches. It's an important reminder that while Milk died thirty years ago, the issues he worked hard for are still timely in our society today.

Black's Speech:



Penn's Speech:



My thanks to both of them for making this amazing movie, and for recognizing its importance in our country today. Hopefully their statements and these awards will raise consciousness for those who still haven't figured out that people are people, no matter who they love. Blessed be.

Aerial Class, again

This afternoon I took another aerial class. New moves, new techniques, some of which I mastered, many of which I did not. The battlescar count for this week includes broken blisters on both palms, a bruise on the inside of my upper arm, and rope burns on the tops of both feet. Mrs. Ladies-Can't-Have-Calluses left after about ten minutes. Apparently she figured out it's not for her.

It is a reasonable question, why people would engage in activities that result in low-grade pain. Sensible people generally keep their feet on the ground, and the avoidance of pain is one of the hallmarks of behavioral theory. Are some of us just masochists who perversely enjoy being punished? Probably. But I think that most of us realize that whatever we gain from our activities far outweighs the discomfort. Blisters are a small price to pay for the sensation of flying, and the rope burns show that I'm strong enough not to fall. And when your battlescars show that you can temporarily outsmart gravity, it's normal to take pride in them. Not to mention that the aesthetic value of dancing in the air is worth whatever side effects you'll find. I haven't yet found the showoff factor in aerial that I've found in fencing, where we all get together and compare our bruises, but I'm sure that it exists. In the meantime, though, we all enjoy the dance.

Fidelity

Courage Campaign, a liberal California org, teamed up with Regina Spektor to create this video protesting Proposition 8. The Supreme Court will hear arguments about Prop 8 on March 5, with a decision expected within 90 days. I'm not often in favor of bandwagons, but in this case...
Watch the video. Sign the petition. Spread the word.



Petition at http://www.couragecampaign.org/page/s/divorce

The Future has Officially Arrived

I found this link today and was floored. Apparently a man who had both leukemia and HIV now has detectable levels of neither following a stem cell transplant. He was given the treatment largely for the leukemia, but the doctors, knowing that the man was HIV positive, derived the stem cells from a donor with the HIV-resistant gene found in 1-3% of people of European descent. As I understand it, no one had much idea of whether the resistant donor gene would have any effect, and since the transplant was for the leukemia, HIV wasn't the main concern. But apparently it worked. Two years post-op, and the man has no signs of disease. I'm impressed.

It's not a solution that will work for most people, because stem cell transplants are fairly drastic procedures in and of themselves. But I think gene therapy is on the way. Noninvasive types of gene therapy could probably be in their final rounds of testing in about five years' time (based on my understanding of where the technology is now and my knowledge of how long clinical trials take). Once it's all tested, gene therapy could be the hope that millions of people are looking for, an alternative to AZT and the drug cocktails that are the current treatments for HIV and AIDS.

Here's to positive uses of stem cells!

http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/02/11/health.hiv.stemcell/index.html

Clarification

So, to clarify my last post...

I got a call from HR yesterday saying that there's not enough work in Morocco right now so they're letting go of expat leaders there. Those expats from the EU (i.e., most of them) will be leading trips in Europe. Those expats from the US (i.e., me) are in limbo. I am neither officially employed nor officially unemployed right now. I may be able to get transferred to a region where things are stronger (i.e., somewhere in Asia). Or I may get transferred to an affiliate company in the States. Neither of these things would be bad, and both would definitely beat undergoing a job search. But...

Morocco. It's been my home for a year. And while day-to-day life there isn't easy in the long term...it's such an amazing place. And I will miss many things. Sitting on the ramparts overlooking the sea in Essaouira. Getting lost and found again and again in Fes. Fresh orange juice for 3dh in Marrakech. Watching weavers and potters at work. Practicing Arabic. Seeing my Moroccan friends.

So I will miss Morocco. And I will try to go back there. Maybe to work, maybe to study, maybe just to visit. But I will be back. It's too much a part of me now to give it up.

Tour Leader for Hire

For Hire: One Tour Leader
Skills: Good with languages. Fluent French, decent Italian, beginning Arabic. Will learn other languages at will. Good at crossing cultural and linguistic barriers. Good negotiator. Manages groups well. Big on sustainability. Happy to work anywhere on earth. Needs job.
Any takers?

Aerial Dance and Gender Stereotypes

Earlier today I took an aerial dance class, my second one so far. It's the most fun I've had in a while, in terms of physical activity; my four-times-a-week yoga classes are good for getting back in shape, but not really what I would call "fun".(Too structured, always the same poses, more emphasis on staying in the postures than in the joy of movement). Aerial, on the other hand, is a form of dance, which means that joy in movement is integral. Doing amazing feats and making them look effortless and pretty...that's what movement is about.

So. Technique. You step up to the low trapeze, wrap your hands around it, and hang your weight down, making sure to protect your neck. Explore moving while hanging from the bar, see how it feels, that's the first step. Next step is to get up. Hold on to the bar, drop your weight down, and kick your feet up to place them between your hands. Hook your knees over the bar. Let go with your hands and arch your back. Now swing yourself back up to hold on to the bar with your hands, and walk your hands up the rope to pull yourself up to a sitting position. Ready to move on? Disengage your right leg from the bar and extend it down. Slide your left knee to one corner of the bar, and brace your right shoulder blade against the opposite rope. It will hold you, despite what you may think. Disengage your shoulder blade from the rope, hook your left elbow over the bar, and extend yoru right arm. You should be hanging from your left knee and your left elbow, with your body in a straight line extended below the bar. For something even more advanced, straighten your left leg and hook your foot aorund the rope. Bring your right hand up to the bar and let go with your left hand. You're now hanging below the bar with one wrist and one ankle. Had enough? Now you can get down. From the hanging position, just bring both hands up to hold the bar as you kick your feet down to land gracefully below.

We practice like this for an hour and a half. As a beginner, the wooden bar hurts my hands, I get rope burns on my palms, my triceps aren't strong enough to hold my full weight for very long, and my graceful landings are often more like thuds. By the end of class, my arms want to fall off. But it's fun, and I'm enjoying it. I look forward to getting stronger muscles and bigger calluses so I can stay up longer. I can't wait to develop more technique and artistic skill.

After class today, I struck up a conversation with an older woman who was tyring the class out. Fortysomething and built like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, she understandably had a bit of trouble. But she seemed nice enough, so we chatted a bit. She said that her arms hurt, and I said that was to be expected. After my first class I could barely lift grocery bags for the next several days. Then she said she didn't want calluses on her hands, because those look bad on women, and people would think badly of her. I suggested athletic tape as protection, but then...

"Defy gender stereotypes," I said, as I often do when confronted with the idea that there are things that women shouldn't do.
"What?" she responded, as though she must have misheard what I'd said.
"Defy gender stereotypes. Go against them. They're bad."
The dawn of horrified comprehension appeared. With a look of the most righteous possible indignation, she primly said "I believe in them very strongly." Her tone brooked no argument.

Oh. Oops.

Now, I admittedly self-select the people I hang out with. Most of my friends are queer or queer-friendly or just don't give a damn one way or the other what conventional wisdom says about how they should behave. I know boys who sew and girls who fix plumbing, and they're all quite comfortable with their gender identities. Even my friends who do partake in "stereotypical" activities will fight tooth and nail to say and show that they can do other things as well. Never have I ever in my life talked to someone, a woman no less, who "belives very strongly" in a system designed to keep us all rigidly in our (subordinate) place.

This woman won't do anything that will give her bruises, cuts, scrapes, blisters, calluses, or any other blemish. She's had five babies (which is worse for your body than most other activities I can think of that would result in bruising). She likes to pamper herself. (I could be uncharitable and say that this combination probably directly contributes to her Pillsbury shape, but that would be mean and unfair so I'll desist). She proceeded to tell me, in the most patronizing way possible, that I might think differently while I'm young and foolish but as I get older my opinions will change and I'll realize, like her, that the stereotypes are true.

Not bloody likely, I thought, but did not say. I bid her a polite goodbye. I doubt that I'll see her again. Aerial dance is not for the fainthearted, and if you're afraid of a few blisters you'll never get far. (That's true of most things, after all). As for me, I take pride in my bruises. I take pride in my calluses, scratches, and scars. They show what I've done, where I've been, what I've accomplished. From ballet feet to rope-burned palms, I have it all, and I'm not ashamed. So if you're looking for a nice, pretty, scarless girl to cook and clean and have babies, don't wait up for me.

I'll be on the trapeze.


Trapeze artist Emily Schadel

That's So Gay

I recently found on the GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian, Straight Education Network)website a set of ads geared toward teens to discourage the use of the phrase "that's so gay." Not sure how well it will work, but I do like the idea. Apparently the campaign was launched in October, and has won awards for creative and sensitive handling of the issue, which is good. Now the question is, will people listen?

There are three videos, each one featuring a different celebrity. Hillary Duff, Wanda Sykes, and, my personal favorite, Laurel Holloman of "The L Word."

Laurel Holloman's video is below. For the others, go to
http://www.thinkb4youspeak.com/

The Ultimate Narcotic

Last Friday, my girlfriend decided to cook us a fancy dinner at home. She went to the nearby market and bought bluefish, cream, and spinach linguini. She wouldn't tell me what was for dessert. After dinner she chased me from the kitchen, with several cautionings of "I've never tried this before" and "I don't know if this will work." So I stayed in the bedroom, reading Margaret Cho and wondering what the hell kind of dessert involved a pot of boiling water and a can of whipped cream. Ten minutes of so later I found out.

Chocolate Ravioli.

I was dubious, I admit. Chocolate pasta? How does that work? But with willing suspension of disbelief, I took a bite. And melted.

The ravioli are made with cocoa powder added to the pasta itself, and are stuffed with mascarpone and ricotta blended with bittersweet chocolate. They are divine. Incredibly rich. My girlfriend had bought six, but we found that we could only eat two each before lying back and falling asleep fully clothed with the lights on in a chocolate-induced coma. We woke up a few hours later, confused but still high.

So if you feel the need for opiates but can't get them prescribed, try chocolate pasta. Your girlfriend will thank you. :p

Prop 8, the musical

Most people have seen it at this point, but I'm posting it because it's great. The best way to deal with the politics you hate is to make fun of it, and this video is the perfect example.

Enjoy!

"Prop 8 - The Musical" starring Jack Black, John C. Reilly, and many more... from Jack Black

Make your own!

In order to publicize the sea kitten campaign, PETA also has a "make your own sea kitten" section on their website. It's surprisingly fun, particularly when you do things like combine moustaches and tiaras on them :p.



Create Your Own Sea Kitten at peta.org!

I eat sea kittens raw!

Apparently, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) has decided that fish need new PR. So, instead of "fish," swimming sea creatures with fins will henceforth be referred to as "sea kittens." The rationale being that "no one would want to hurt a sea kitten!"

http://www.peta.org/sea_kittens/about.asp

As it turns out...sea kittens are tasty, especially in the form of sushi. Which led a friend of mine, at a group sushi dinner in Boston, to propose making shirts for all of us that proclaim "I eat sea kittens raw." Because, in fact, we do.

Now, I refer to myself as a vegetarian. Technically I'm a pescatarian, because I'm vegetarian + fish. But normal people go "huh?" if I use big words, so I generally stick to explaining that veggies + fish = good. I've been called a hypocrite a number of times because I don't "go all the way," i.e., I'm not completely vegetarian or vegan. And the reason is...being completely vegetarian sucks. I tried it for a month or so, when I first went veg. At the time, I was dancing and fencing four days a week and becoming horribly protein deficient and anemic because a pure vegetarian diet within the constrains of a college dining hall was not sufficient to supply the nutritional needs of an athlete. I became vegetarian for health reasons, not ethics, and I missed seafood. I see nothing wrong with killing animals for food. The plants I eat die too. I do have a problem with the practices used in the megafarming of livestock, but if I really wanted to eat meat I could easily get around that by eating organic-free-range-and-humanely-killed-animals. Which brings me back to why I still eat sea kittens.

My reason for being vegetarian, quite simply, is that meat makes me sick. Physically ill. It's like lactose intolerance, only with meat. My body doesn't produce the right enzymes, and I'm not willing to eat something that causes me intense physical pain. So birds and mammals are outside my natural food chain. Sea kittens are not, because seafood in general is healthy for me and does not make me ill. Yes, there are problems with deep-sea trawling and overfishing that get my ethics up. And I'm still working out the best way to handle that. But in the meantime, I'm going to eat what keeps me healthy. And raw sea kittens are definitely on that list.

Siren Song

Margaret Atwood is one of those names you hear a lot in feminist circles, but until a few months ago I'd never read anything by her. I finally got my hands on a copy of The Handmaid's Tale during one of my trips, and I found it both absorbing and disturbing, as she doubtless intended. I've since heard of other books by her, though I've not yet read them. But I have discovered that she also writes poetry. Thus far, this is my favorite.

Siren Song


This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

Margaret Atwood

A bookstore is a fabulous, dangerous place

I have been bookstore-ing.

The practice of bookstore-ing has many important health benefits. It also has detrimental effects on the wallet.

Over the past week or so, I've been hanging out at home, sitting in front of my computer, attempting to be a freelance writer and translator. I've been marginally successful; I've had a response to an article query, and I've gotten one translation job, which I've completed, submitted, and need to invoice. The downside of all this freelance work is that staying at home all day has made me pretty raving insane. I thought that in order to be a "serious" writer I needed to pretty much chain myself to a desk. I somehow forgot that I have never been inspired to write anything in this manner. All of my great ideas come when I'm either a) exploring or b)so busy that my mind is constantly engaged.

So. Yesterday I went to the Smithsonian, and discovered that several of their buildings have free wireless. Good to know. I took pictures of the snow and ice outside, and wandered through the galleries of Asian art. That helped somewhat. I finished an article when I got home, made dinner, and went to bed.

Today...I went to Borders. And I found books. Lots and lots of books and magazines. Lots and lots of print. I'd initially gone in to buy a few copies of various magazines that I'm interested in writing for. I ended up in the bibliophilic equivalent of a diabetic coma, after poring over every square inch of the store. Have I mentioned that I love books? Have I mentioned how book deprived I've been in Morocco? And being in this atmosphere of so many books, so many words, words like the ones I want to write...I feel more inspired after one single bookstore visit than I've felt for an entire week.

Note to self: go bookstore-ing more often.

Condi!?

So...I recently read in "Curve" magazine that Condoleeza Rice might be Family. To quote, she has a "girl friend" (the significance of that space!) "with whom Rice shares home ownership and a bank account."

Interesting.

I'm not going to jump to conclusions here, but it makes me wonder. "Curve" magazine speculates that Palin was chosen over Condi as the Republican VP candidate because of these lesbian rumors floating around. So...apparently it's better to be an idiot bigot who has never left the country and has minimal government experience than to be a potentially closeted lesbian with plenty of political experience who happens to be the former Secretary of State. Right.

A Brand New Bright Obama Day

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a new president. Hamdulilah/Halelujah/Praise Be.

He's an inspiring speaker. He's young enough not to have been completely corrupted by the political system. And as the first black/biracial president, he represents such a departure from the last eight years that everyone who's been unhappy is looking at him with hope. He has a lot to live up to. I hope he handles it well.

In Morocco, when Barak was first elected, random people in the street would congratulate me. Taxi drivers cheered when I entered their cabs. It was incredible to feel such support, to know that the world was happy in this, to for once have elected a president who might play well with others and be popular at school. I don't know how long the worldwide euphoria will last. But I hope he can ride it for as long as possible. His work will go more smoothly as long as it lasts.

Closer to home, we have promises of change.



Obama specifically includes rights for GLBT people in his civil rights agenda, including civil unions, workplace antidiscrimination, and hate crimes protection. Even if he only accomplishes a few of the thins he's listed, it constitutes a big step forward to see this agenda listed, not at an activist website, but at whitehouse.gov.

Straight Privilege

My girlfriend and I are about to embark on a road trip up to Massachusetts this weekend. The last time we embarked on such an event, she was a new Teach for America recruit, and we passed the time driving by reading aloud all the required materials. A lot of the TFA materials talked about "unpacking privilege," generally with regards to race and class. Things like racial privilege being able to see movies featuring stars of your own race and find barbie dolls of your ethnic background and other things like that.

Someone then created a list of things that constituted "straight privilege," which was largely identical, only with a few words changed. The ability to see gay movie stars, etc. We thought that their straight privilege list was incomplete and rather silly, so we filled it in with a few instances from our own experience.

Straight privilege is being able to hold hands and otherwise show affection in public without worrying about what other people think.

Straight privilege is being able to kiss your partner at home in front of the windows without first pulling closed the blinds.

It is being able to kiss goodbye at the airport when you know you won't see each other for months.

It is going to a hotel and not having to clarify that you want a double bed.

It is having no question whatsoever about your rights to marry, adopt, or share benefits.

And here I was intending this to be a lighthearted entry...

...because at the time we were creating this list we were actually laughing about it all. Because there's something slightly ridiculous about "unpacking your straight privilege" when driving with your girlfriend from Northampton to Provincetown, the two gayest cities in the US. The two places where, for once, the privilege actually turns the other way.

A Place Like Home, and a New View of Abroad

I'm back in the glorious US of A, sharing a two-bedroom sublet with my girlfriend for two months. It's lovely and domestic, and I'm enjoying the luxury of staying in one place for a little while. I'm cooking good food, taking yoga classes, and trying to find people to pay me to freelance for them. It's a good life.

My new expanses of free time have launched new discoveries, as I attempt to figure out what sort of niche I want to make for myself in the developing world. I found this article very interesting.

http://www.projectcensored.org/top-stories/articles/22-care-rejects-us-food-aid/

Basically, a major international aid organization rejected US aid this year. Why? Turns out that US aid in its current form is actually counterproductive. Instead of providing food based on the needs of people who are starving, it's providing food based on its own agricultural surpluses. A lot of the money that the US is theoretically "giving" in aid goes right back into its own pockets in the form of farm subsidies and internal transport costs. This self-interest in itself wouldn't be so bad if it were still providing good services to those in need. But the presence of foreign food being sold at low rates undermines local farmers in developing countries, which makes the countries less able to support themselves overall and makes them even more dependent on foreign "assistance."

Vicious cycle, yes?

I wonder what other charming pieces of news I'll learn while I'm here.