On numbers

I have heard quite a bit of snarky chatter on the subject of the 1,027 Palestinian prisoners being traded for Gilad Shalit.

If you are reading this, I know that this story has already been hemmed or patched or molded to fit into your preexisting political worldview. Be it about the bullying brutality of Hamas, the relative value of human life based on nationality or what have you, you have already decided what this story means. I don't intend to change your mind.

Here is what it means to me:

Israelis are people. Palestinians are numbers. I have noticed this (and written indignant research papers about it) since I was old enough to know why it mattered. Israelis have names and grieving families to be interviewed. Palestinians are body counts, anonymous numbers without background story.

This is not the whole truth; occasionally Palestinians are names, particularly when they are terrorists. Occasionally Palestinians are photos, particularly when they are carrying weapons or when they are old women grieving and surrounded by rubble.

You will hear (or, rather, I have heard) people saying that Israel has released one thousand terrorists, bombers who target night clubs and public busses, just to save one boy. Because they understand the value of life.

What you will not hear are many of the names of these thousand, or that many of them were arrested as boys for throwing stones at tanks, that many of them were arrested for their political activities, that many of them have been in jail, cut off just like Shalit, with grieving families at home given no assurance if they live at all. You will not hear that, unlike Shalit, they were not wearing military uniforms when they were taken, they were often not even holding guns. Many were held without charges. Many were tried without a right to defend themselves.

In the weeks to come, you will hear one name and one number. These 1027 are not just numbers. They have names as well. Not just the infamous ones, all of them. We will never know their stories the way we have been told Shalit's.

I can only think of all 1028 of them as victims of this occupation. 

Christian Fernandez

"Because of his age, Fernandez will not face the death penalty."

His age, in case you are not going to read the entire article, is 12.

A 12 year old, facing life in prison without parole, charged as an adult. A 12-year old born to a 12-year old mother (no, I'm not joking) who watched his abusive stepfather commit suicide rather than be taken into custody for abusing him.

This is the "man" they are charging with the death of his 2 year old brother, who might have been saved had his mother not waited 4 hours to seek medical attention after returning home to find him unconscious. 

Beating your 2 year old little brother is not ok, it's certainly a criminal act but it is not first degree murder. Christian Fernandez is not an adult and should not be tried as one. 

This is just wrong. Also it's escaping the notice of the national media entirely so I'm blogging about it. Tell your friends. Post on facebook. Please sign the petition (useful or not it's worth a try:)

http://www.change.org/petitions/reverse-decision-to-try-12-yo-cristian-fernandez-as-an-adult?utm_medium=email&utm_source=action_alert&utm_source=action_alert&utm_medium=email&alert_id=EUajlIhDIm_PuvYQzxVdS

Are we happy?

I don't think it is a particularly unusual thing to notice, when travelling abroad and particularly to countries that are poorer than the United States, how much happier much of the rest of the world seems. I think many travelers (and particularly travel writers) arrive at this conclusion as though it is their own precious jewel of revelation, carefully mined from the dark earth of their own experience. And maybe it is, but I've heard it too often to think that I'm the first person who noticed it. But notice it I did. And bowl me over, it did. Even as I went into my travels prepared by so many writers to be enlightened by the simplicity of life in poor countries and the happiness such living brings, I was SHOCKED (in a distinctly all-caps way) by how happy people seem.

Happy in places without running water or electricity. Happy without fancy restaurants or TV or shopping malls or dentists. Happy even though they lose children and loved ones to completely treatable diseases. Happy doesn't even cover it.

I'm not being didactic here. I'm not preaching that we should give up all modern conveniences (or dentists) or that living in mud huts will make every one happier. But the biggest single shock I faced upon my return to America was not cars or English or grocery stores (though all three were confusing and kind of stressful) but the fact that every one seemed to be in such a bad mood. Grumpy. Stressed out. Impatient. These are things I often was (and still often am) but things I no longer see as a necessary part of my life.

So as I sit in Starbucks waiting for my mom to finish up at the dentist so we can go to the mall and go shopping, I have to wonder at the people around me. Are any of them happy? They don't smile. Most look bored, a few look angry, two are gossiping loudly and expressing their disapproval of another woman's life choices and despite the expensive clothes, the impeccable dental work and the abundance of highlighted hair, I have to say that I don't see a whole lot of beauty- I see instead the exhaustion of trying to appear beautiful, the high-strung desperation and even fear of youth slipping through fingers that were never meant to contain it.

I don't think Americans are happy. I don't think we know what makes us happy. I don't know that I do, either, but I am grateful for at least having learned that stressing about time, appearance, money or status doesn't make me happy, has and will never make me happy. I'm not going to do it any more. Or, I should say I'm going to try not to do it any more. Some habits can't be helped and I have spent too long conditioned to care about these things. Lately whenever I find myself getting consumed by stress I close my eyes and think about my trip and I just say "ok." This will happen. Or this will not happen. I have time for this. Or I don't. I care about this. Or I don't. Laisa Muskela.

I know that much of the world aspires to be more like this- Rich. Developed. Powerful. Globally significant. I'm not one to credibly say what is best for any one, but I hope that we figure out what makes us happy and I hope that other societies aren't so quick to emulate what we have that they lose sight of their own value, or the drawbacks of our own system.

I don't know what the answer is- is it possible to have a society where people don't die easily of preventable diseases without a Starbucks on every corner? I hope so. 

Don't worry-

I didn't get brave.

I didn't tell you that I get that tingling feeling every time you look at me or that sometimes the air goes out of the room when you walk in it.

I didn't tell you that you make me calmer and braver and more hopeful.

(I did cry, a little.)

I don't know what happens next. I suppose I am harboring two fugitive feelings: hope that it will change at all and fear that it will only change for the worst.

But as the good Count tells us:

Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, -'Wait and hope.'

I didn't get brave enough to divorce my hope from my fears but I didn't let it go yet, either. 

On the train back to Fes from Asilah

Content in air-conditioned train cars

I am still shedding skin to Atlantic salt and Moroccan sand

not yet feeling the linger of the African sun on my red red limbs. 

Night has fallen and we are miles away yet but morning was spent in the surf

letting the waves tangle and untangle and re-tangle my hair

smiling at the familiar feel of riptide around my legs

the undertow I nearly called by your name

the dangerous and demanding pull to deeper waters. 

Rushing in and tempting me gracelessly, irresistibly on. 

I can feel the echos of those waves on my skin even now.

As clearly as I see the mile-long stare you hide with a smile.

I know better than to provoke the wrath of such an angry sea.

You'd drag me out and down and be done with me 

broken, sea- and sand-polished smooth

I would wash ashore alone

harder and more beautiful for your destructive ways,

perhaps, 

skin-smoothed and eye-bright

but I would spend my life lying in wait

for a hand to skip me back out to sea

and never again walk into your waves,

a provocation on two unsteady feet. 

There will come a time, you'll see

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears


Sorry for all the ambiguity here of late. I'm having feelings I don't like about a person I should know better than to feel them for. Cut off from my usual therapy (ie telling every single person I work or live with and collecting their advice on the matter) I felt the need to journal about it.

Don't worry. I'm actually right about this being a terrible idea (and also not having the potential to go anywhere.) I'm just not used to being Mr. Darcy about these things. It's frustrating how much of my mind is not only happy but EAGER to be taken up with romantic thoughts. (Also, I'm not rich & powerful like Darcy, which, if I recall correctly, were rather key elements to his eventual success.) Right now I should be writing in Arabic about Khubz and I am daydreaming instead.

I blame the muzak version of "my heart will go on" blaring inside the cafe.

I really want to believe that one day falling in love will be easy and painless and not stressful and largely humiliating. I don't know if that's how it works, but I do know today is not that day. 

THIS IS A REALLY BAD IDEA

I very much dislike the ease with which I ignore my inner sensible person. My inner sensible person will say things like "you've been here before, it didn't end so well. Maybe you don't want to go back?" And I will say "hush, you. I know what I'm doing."

I don't know what I am doing. I make decisions and then promptly ignore them. I make grand declarations about things I Absolutely Will Not Do and then do them.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I know a bad idea when I see one and I somehow can't help myself.


I'm going to tell myself these petty little emotions I've been having lately don't mean anything. I'm going to tell myself that trouble is not two eyes grinning, long-lashed, in my direction.

I'm not going to give in.

In the square

Exhausted, sun-stroked, we sat
after hours of tying not to admit I'd gotten us lost
I gulped tepid water, pretending
that my thirst might be quenched.
Shade. The obliging trees of an unfamiliar village square,
Foreign bodies unused to Moroccan sun,
we rest.

Cigarettes appear, in an attempt to blend in.
I do not smoke.
As our talk turns to the nature of happiness,
I begin to reconsider.
I thirst for the taste of paper smoldering to ash between your fingers.
I believe you, when you say happiness is a poor child
you befriended in an alley by gifting a toy car.
You may not own him
or command his every secret
but you, at least,
would know him
if he passed you in the street.
His hand raised in greeting
And your response rolled out like smoke
exhaled over a native tongue.

I swallow more water.
The others are still discussing happiness
academic, abstract, now, but no less real than your barefoot boy.
It is as present, as possible for them as the sweat on their necks
the weight of sundry electronic devices in REI backpacks
the provocation of color in the spray paint on sand-colored walls.
They do not worry that we are lost.
They are paper, warm tobacco on your wet lips
I am hot ashes falling from your fingers in the
stubborn, stagnant afternoon air.

Oh yeah, my senior essay is almost done, too.

I think this version is much better than the last one I posted but you can be the judge, if you're interested:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Nj2uhYNpAYCf1EfxvR8tsXA0zsLF-9IeH7KFl9sQe2w/edit?hl=en_US&authkey=CLu1-PgI

Feedback is welcome. Even though I turned this in as my final for a grade, I'm still hoping to keep improving upon it.

Updates from Spain and smelling like an airplane

I already posted an update on my Morocco blog but I thought I'd post here because I'm killing some time waiting for a shower to free up. The Hostel I'm staying at is adorable and kind of strange but full of marble staircases and weird locks with codes that are all one number. It feels super secure but I'm still paranoid since my wallet was stolen and I'm not taking any chances. The challenge will be taking a shower without leaving anything too valuable out in the bedroom.

I met a couple of American girls in the coffee shop next door. (Ok, full disclosure: it was Starbucks. I know, I KNOW, I didn't fly across the globe to drink the same Americano I was too good for in Seattle. But they have free wifi and a bunch of open couches and I had to kill an hour before check-in. Wandering around Spain sounds great, just not with two giant backpacks.) They were nice girls, on their way to Portugal and then back to France. It's funny the way Americans meet when we're abroad. I probably wouldn't trust these girls as far as I could throw them back in the states, but here we are allies, guarding each others' backpacks while we take turns in the bathroom, sharing tips about what to see, what to read, and how to get to the airport.

I think I'm going to go shower now and wander in the sun in a dress while I'm still in a place where it is culturally acceptable. I really can't wait to stop smelling like airplanes. I miss and love you all!

The book!

A first look at the lovely cover art by Kitri Wood:

Detail:

Right now the printer that will make the inside of the book is down, so I'll be posting ordering details, pricing and all that jazz as soon as it is back online....

What friends are

Sometimes you take one in the teeth.

Yesterday was a bad day for me before anything went wrong at work. I'll be up front about that. There are certain kinds of wounds that don't heal right, that leave just big empty spaces inside until even compassion hurts too much. My life has this disfiguring scar from years ago that changed so much about who I am and where I ended up and how I got here. Most days I don't think about it. Some days I can't help but stare. It is small and spiteful and beneath me to still think this, but I resent the hell out of every normal moment he gets to have. I suppose I could avoid knowing it, but news of him is like a tumor surrounded by too many healthy cells to cut out completely. I have cut out enough of my life and I would rather spend a resentful few days than cut out any more. Since I'm on a bit of a Col. Brandon kick lately I will think May He Endeavor To Deserve It until I forget, again.

So, anyway, when a chance at catching a big shoplifter yesterday was missed because of my mistake, I took it pretty hard. Every one messes up, and in a high-stakes game the heightened thrill is a direct result of the possibility that something like this can happen. That you can mess up in the smallest way imaginable and the consequences are huge. So I fucked up just about as badly as I ever have in an employment situation. But the moment you really mess up is the moment you learn the kind of stuff your friendships are made of. Mine amaze me. Literal and figurative shoulders to cry on. Kind words of support when I needed them. The misguided but still appreciated instinct to grab car keys and come rescue me. Stories of mistakes on the same level. My writers group boys not minding that I was both drunk and miserable. and then, this morning, my boss being so amazingly decent about it all. Everything is OK. I still simmer with regret and self-reproach but I will make up for it.

You pick yourself up, you take a deep breath and you get through. Then you stop crowing about small victories till you find one that rivals this mistake.

That is how.


So what now? New lady gaga, a shower, the end of a new Jason Vanhee novel and an early bedtime. Life is going to kick my ass sometimes, I'm going to make mistakes sometimes, and I'm glad I have people in my life to be there for me.

Thanks, all.

Wandering Girl Haiku

Nights like this, listening
only to love songs, waiting
to feel this again.

Morocco Blog!

Hey all,

I've started a travel blog for my upcoming trip. It will be very advice-oriented and apolitical, as it is for school, and my department has enough problems with me. I will still blog here (though probably less often once I am in Morocco and cut off from regular internet access) and I will even post links to updates over at that blog from time to time if I have any really exciting adventures.

While I'm updating about random things, I thought I should mention Dear Mr President- the book. Yes, it is finally ready for the printers, thanks to the combined efforts of Kitri, the wonder-woman of graphic design, and Anna, the Jedi copyeditor. Soon it will be handed over to Homer, the Espresso Book Machine at UBS and then it will be available to purchase. More details (price, ordering, etc.) to come on this, I know I've been dragging my feet but it will be a much, much better book thanks to the efforts of my talented friends. Thanks for your patience, and, I promise, you won't be disappointed :)

The End was Near. Or something.

So, the rapture clearly didn't happen. I know that the rapture and The End of the World As We Know It aren't exactly interchangeable, but still, just in case those nutjobs were actually right and the rapture was happening today, I went to Yogurt Land and had pizza last night. Also I thought about the word "rapture" and how it sounds so unpleasant- like a celebrity couple name for "rape" and "capture". Or a scary super-smart dinosaur that hunts in packs and only eats nonbelievers. (Look out! it's a veloci-rapture!)


If I am honest, I have to say this day never seemed like more than an opportunity for bad jokes (as opposed to an actual confrontation with my mortality.) After it became clear that I'd given myself permission to consume excess calories for really no good reason (I'm actually rather OK with it, to be honest) I got to thinking about the End (impending or otherwise). The world will end for each of us, in our own time. And, when we are faced with what Elizabeth Cady Stanton called "that solemn solitude of self", that final hour when it is only us and death and no one to stand between us, I suspect we won't know or care if the world is ending just for us or for every one else as well. We probably won't have much warning- particularly not in the form of helpful bilboards and pamphlets from sidewalk preachers- but I hope that before each of us finds that day we have time to go to whatever our personal Yogurt Land might be.


So tonight I raise a glass to the end of days, whenever that may be, and the hope that we face it with humor, grace, and frozen yogurt. And to you, my friends. Good night.

Shy girl haiku again

Don't faint. Don't blush. Breathe.

Outgrow your hero worship 

See him as a man. 

Third Intifada Haiku

Don't tell me it was
Self-defense. Unarmed, they marched
as you opened fire.

Common and "controversy "

The level of acceptable (and increasingly blatant) racism in this country, particularly in this country's media, is really making me queasy today.

Common was invited to a poetry reading at the White House. You can read or watch coverage of the ensuing and COMPLETELY RACIST "controversy" from FOX, Palin and other cartoons. I encourage you to watch the whole Daily Show coverage (I think I linked only to the first half.) My favorite part is when Karl Rove says (sarcastically) "Yeah, let's invite a misogynist to the White House." As though the legislative agenda he (and President Bush) and his party have been advancing for decades isn't both more misogynist and more likely to negatively affect people's lives than Common's lyrics.

The level of mental acrobatics required for this kind of cognitive dissonance is olympic-medal-worthy.

Side note: I met Common once, in DC. He came to my Borders for an event I helped organize. People had camped out for hours before the store opened, the line was amazing for a weekday afternoon. I remember more about the running of the event itself (this was probably the largest event that I had any kind of significant role in, outside of the HP7 release) than I do about Common, but what I recollect about him was a genuine kindness toward the staff and toward his fans. He's one of those people you can't help but feel a little intimidated by- he could run intellectual circles around me at my most intelligent- but he's approachable and  friendly and not at all demanding like some of the other authors/artists I organized events for.

Truth be told I'm a fan of Common's music, (though I probably wouldn't line up overnight to get his autograph) and I enjoyed meeting him. But while I was proud of the event, I basically didn't give it much thought after that. So, yes,  I am defending him and the First Lady's decision to invite such an important creative mind to the White House but I don't think it's because of my personally positive experience.

I think the Daily Show's comparison to Johnny Cash is an apt one. Violent, anti-establishment or "controversial" lyrics from a white man never elicited an objection (tweeted or otherwise) from Rove, FOX or Palin. This is racism, pure and simple. This is why, while I do not believe all Republicans are racist, I do have a difficult time understanding how any one not wishing to be painted with the same brush can stand so close to party leaders/figureheads/mouthpieces when they spout this kind of bullshit.

(Particularly when so many Republicans believe every American Muslim or Arab ought to denounce terror with every other word or be called a terrorist supporter/sympathizer.)

And, yes, the White House's choice of guests is really not that significant of an issue. However, I think that any one willing to be so brashly racist about trivial stuff is probably not keeping their racist views out of news they report (or comment on) or the policies they promote. No one should need to have heard this to know that Rove, Palin and FOX are completely racist, but I don't see how any one could possibly continue denying it after this.

The sexiest thing is trust

So, clearly I've been listening to a lot of Tori Amos lately. (The title of this blog post comes from the song "Jamaica Inn") but I have to say the soundtrack to my most recent crush is for sure Tegan  & Sara (no, he's not a woman, it's just that their music tends to be more about the slightly-creepy-can't-actually-talk-to-you-how-is-this-SO-awkward kind of love.) Anyway. I keep telling myself I Do Not Have A Crush On Him Anymore. At All. Seriously.

Oh but I do. This morning we were talking in the hallway before class and he looked at me for what was probably a couple of seconds but felt like a moderate-length geological age and I could hear my little rational self pounding her fists on the inside of my love-struck face screaming "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU HAVE A TEST IN 15 MINUTES!" to, of course, no avail. None whatsoever.

And so now, instead of writing about important things like world events or even funny cat videos on the internet (or the raccoon I saw in a tree on capitol hill last night!)  or, I don't know, maybe MY FUCKING THESIS, I'm writing about how I for sure do not have a crush on this guy I'm absolutely head over heels for because I know I could never trust myself with emotion this irrational. Hence, the lyrics. Trust is the sexiest thing and I just don't feel capable of it lately.

So I'm asking myself WWBS? (What Would Ballard Say?) Matt Ballard was, for those of you not fortunate enough to work with him at Borders in DC, my wise, wonderful friend and probably the individual deserving the most credit for me returning to college at all (not to mention my impending graduation.) Ballard had all kinds of wisdom for moments like these, moments so awkward as to approach unbearable, moments when my priorities were thrown so completely out of wack by my emotions, moments where I feel, as ever, like the awkward girl in 7th grade still longing for Billy Ruiz to turn his lovely eyes in my direction just once before the bell rings and homeroom is over.

Ballard would say, Kelsey, (imagine this in a British accent, it helps) you've got to grow up. Or something like that. It might involve a self-deprecating and amusing anecdote from his own days as a young awkward kid, it might involve sage advice about how he managed to end up with his wonderful wife, or it might involve a vaguely exasperated sigh and the unsubtle suggestion that this is a lesson I ought to have learned a long time ago.

Ok, boss, I'm trying.

I met Ballard at a time when I'd lost any kind of trust in other people, particularly in men, in myself, and even in my perceptions of reality. He let me follow him around like a lost puppy, learning his merchandising preferences and the way he took his tea (just a splash of whole milk or cream) and gave me a few months to not worry about who or what to trust and just to put one foot in front of the other, one book on table beside the next. Height and color and shape and symmetry. The world that become far too complicated for me to handle was reduced to the simple order of making the bookstore look as nice as possible for as long as possible.

And then, maybe because I'd had enough time in the safe world inside the walls of Borders, maybe because he was moving and didn't want to leave me behind, or maybe because he recognized the red flags of another impending meltdown, Ballard sent me home to Seattle. Go back to school, he said. Figure out what makes you happy and do that. Just do that. Don't worry so much about everything else.

Life didn't magically become easy, I didn't magically become sane or calm or whole, it's still taken me far  too long to get even this close to graduation, but I survived. Most days I grew up a little.

Most days I still do.

Today, I guess, is just not one of those days. I guess we'll see about tomorrow.

Shy girl haiku #6 & 7

She tells me, "Jameel"
is not used to describe men.
But I am certain,

if the grammar lords
of the Arabic language
met you, this would change.