The last ten days has witnessed, hopefully, a crescendo of craziness with shock waves unsettling least stable region on earth, unions getting busted in the one-time laboratory of democracy and nuclear reactors cracking open in the world’s most orderly country. Amid all this heavy history going down, what was this slacker up to? A typically tranquil ten days in Querétaro – that’s what.
Starting a week ago Friday, I met my sweet novia, Angélica, in the middle of downtown and we ventured over to the Teatro de la Republica to pick up our symphony tickets. It was in this hallowed hall that the Constitution of 1917 was signed, making México a Republic, at times faltering, ever since.
Since I had ordered the cheapest tickets, of course, we took our place near the front of the line forty-five minutes ahead of the show to get good general admission seats. We actually prefer this timing because it gives us time without distraction to talk about our lives. Forty-five minutes is a challenge for me as I can summarize my life in forty-five seconds. Soooo: sit, stay and listen.
The concert itself was lovely. La Filarmónica de Querétaro is very good and the acoustics quite personable. The evening’s menu included some tumultuous Liszt, boring Strauss ending with sublime Brahms. Ironically the Liszt piece was a ‘poema sinfónico’; I can only imagine Franz’s idea of a love ballad…in my darker moments.
Saturday, I spent much of my time working through the eight hundred page accounting manual, finally getting – on the fifth reading – a tentative sense over mastery of the ungainly and recalcitrant beast. Then off to Angélica’s for a DVD, the “Soloist” (2009) starring Robert Downey, Jr and Jamie Foxx.
This film was what “Black Swan” should have been since it opened the story up to consequences of the mad artist on others’ lives. Granted “Black Swan” operated under heavy constraints as the story-line was itself an allegory of the ballet plot-line.
Sunday was another great DVD, “Sleeping Beauty” (1982) by the Kirov Ballet of the erstwhile Leningrad. The sorceress sure was ugly, and her Adam’s apple did little to reclaim her lost femininity! The week at work was interesting and I will write separate letters on life in Querétaro and at CIDESI, a state-sponsored center of scientific research.
Friday rolled in once again and, with it, the Filarmónica at the Teatro. This concert was even better than that of the previous week. The solo by another whiz-kid, Vladimir Curiel – very internationalist Mexican with a Russian first name and French surname – during Lizst’s piano concerto #1 was riveting and contemplative.
Reminded me of the calming influence that piano playing had in my household growing up.
Saturday brought work on my Peace Corps trimester report. The day ended with a light dinner with Angélica. The meal was posole, a type of meaty soup in México filled with tasty ingredients which I would rather leave undiscovered. We then watched the film “Glory” (1990) about the Civil War. Even after six times, I still adore that film. It should take two hours to watch but my poor novia had to sit through three hours as her novio re-played his new “favorite scene” every ten minutes or so.
Sunday featured a free concert in the main city square. Two Mexican guitarists migrated from classical Spanish to flamenco to break-away boogie-woogie to basic blues to blue grass and back to México; Jules Verne, move over: I made it around the world in eighty minutes! Angélica and I closed the week-end with a smoothie and a walk in Querétaro’s prettiest park, Cerro de las Campanas.
So while the world slid toward Hell over the last fortnight, a latter-day Willie Keith (i.e., me) spent two quiet week-ends next to Heaven.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Letter #30 to friends and family: Peace Corps and its big Five-oh...nooo!
Last week, the Peace Corps celebrated its fiftieth anniversary at a thousand points of light around the world, including a sizable fête right here in Querétaro. Byron Battle, the former director for Peace Corps-México, and his his truly lovely wife, Margarita, hosted the event. The Battles know how to throw a Peace Corps party. First, their home has the elegance of an old style hacienda, displaying Margarita’s upbringing, blending in smartly with well-placed pieces of more contemporary art.
Then came the life-sized portrait of President John Kennedy with the current Peace Corps symbol suspended above his head – a thought-cloud in a comic book. President Kennedy´s cloud-sourcing worked since his initiative was a big dream brought to fruition by his brilliant – and under-appreciated brother-in-law – Ambassador R. Sargent Shriver. Their dream endures today.
Though banished too far out in the campo to attend the party, two friends and fellow volunteers – Arpan Dasgupta of (somewhere in) New Jersey and Steve Walker of Sarasota, Florida – helped set the tone by posting on FaceBook timely YouTube videos of President Kennedy announcing the formation of the Peace Corps.
Of course, there were tacos galore – and other things I can not name (¡even after six months!) – and the wine flowed freely. Best of all, for me at least, my wonderful novia braved the unknown and came to the party with me.
The Peace Corps has been in Mexico for only 15% of its half century. And México remains an outlier since it is already a member of the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development, qualifying her as a rich nation and not fitting in with the typical recipient country.
Of course, the festivities brushed such prosaic details aside until we each had to introduce ourselves as returning volunteers, former volunteers, seasoned current volunteers and newbs (‘twas I…yesirree). Now I work on debit and credits for a technology center – BORING material for a wine-drenched dinner.
What to do? Escape was one option. I had to nix that one quickly since, to walk out would have entailed:
a) being uncouth;
b) displaying cowardice;
c) acting unprofessionally; and, most important,
d) walking right through the peace-buzzed merriment.
Ah…to be gutless.
So, Charlie Goldsmith, an old pro as a current volunteer, was on the end of the line that had kicked off the previous groups. Safely standing at the opposite end was I until Charlie threw a curve ball and beckoned my end to start. By mistake, I thought that meant me as I did not realize Sonya Greegor – lovely woman and good sport – had joined the line but outside of my view and knowledge.
So, when Charlie motioned me to speak, I almost fainted.
¡Damn! I should have walked out in front of everybody when I had the chance.
Now, what do I do?
Talk about debits, credits and accounting harmonization in México?
Nope.
With a quick breath, I asked God for deliverance.
Then the calm of the 23rd Psalm (King James Version, if you please) descended upon me. Why not pull a J.F.K. maneuver? One of my favorite stories of President Kennedy was when he went to Paris with his glamorous wife of twenty-nine years at the time, the former Jacqueline Bouvier. Her cultivation, ancestry and fluent French made Jackie Kennedy an instant icon in Paris.
President Kennedy’s sense of humor and spontaneity shone through his grace as he said to a crowd something like, “Hello, I am John Kennedy, President of the United States of America. But, you know me as Jackie’s husband…” Of course, like Senator Bentsen would say, “You’re no Jack Kennedy.” But, hell, I can have fun, too, especially since the gracious Mexican beauty in my company was already a hit.
So I fitted the Presidential Patron of the Peace Corps to the situation and said spontaneously, “Hi, I’m Ned McDonnell and my project is my beautiful girl-friend. Yeah! On my free time I do work in administration at a local science center.”
People laughed and cheered, showing that President Kennedy still lives, transcending the ghastly images of the Zapruder film. Were he alive today, that president would be a very contented ninety-three year old, obviously not with my emulation, but with his and the saintly Ambassador Shriver's – and our – inimitable Peace Corps.
Then came the life-sized portrait of President John Kennedy with the current Peace Corps symbol suspended above his head – a thought-cloud in a comic book. President Kennedy´s cloud-sourcing worked since his initiative was a big dream brought to fruition by his brilliant – and under-appreciated brother-in-law – Ambassador R. Sargent Shriver. Their dream endures today.
Though banished too far out in the campo to attend the party, two friends and fellow volunteers – Arpan Dasgupta of (somewhere in) New Jersey and Steve Walker of Sarasota, Florida – helped set the tone by posting on FaceBook timely YouTube videos of President Kennedy announcing the formation of the Peace Corps.
Of course, there were tacos galore – and other things I can not name (¡even after six months!) – and the wine flowed freely. Best of all, for me at least, my wonderful novia braved the unknown and came to the party with me.
The Peace Corps has been in Mexico for only 15% of its half century. And México remains an outlier since it is already a member of the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development, qualifying her as a rich nation and not fitting in with the typical recipient country.
Of course, the festivities brushed such prosaic details aside until we each had to introduce ourselves as returning volunteers, former volunteers, seasoned current volunteers and newbs (‘twas I…yesirree). Now I work on debit and credits for a technology center – BORING material for a wine-drenched dinner.
a) being uncouth;
b) displaying cowardice;
c) acting unprofessionally; and, most important,
d) walking right through the peace-buzzed merriment.
Ah…to be gutless.
So, Charlie Goldsmith, an old pro as a current volunteer, was on the end of the line that had kicked off the previous groups. Safely standing at the opposite end was I until Charlie threw a curve ball and beckoned my end to start. By mistake, I thought that meant me as I did not realize Sonya Greegor – lovely woman and good sport – had joined the line but outside of my view and knowledge.
So, when Charlie motioned me to speak, I almost fainted.
¡Damn! I should have walked out in front of everybody when I had the chance.
Now, what do I do?
Talk about debits, credits and accounting harmonization in México?
Nope.
With a quick breath, I asked God for deliverance.
Then the calm of the 23rd Psalm (King James Version, if you please) descended upon me. Why not pull a J.F.K. maneuver? One of my favorite stories of President Kennedy was when he went to Paris with his glamorous wife of twenty-nine years at the time, the former Jacqueline Bouvier. Her cultivation, ancestry and fluent French made Jackie Kennedy an instant icon in Paris.
President Kennedy’s sense of humor and spontaneity shone through his grace as he said to a crowd something like, “Hello, I am John Kennedy, President of the United States of America. But, you know me as Jackie’s husband…” Of course, like Senator Bentsen would say, “You’re no Jack Kennedy.” But, hell, I can have fun, too, especially since the gracious Mexican beauty in my company was already a hit.
So I fitted the Presidential Patron of the Peace Corps to the situation and said spontaneously, “Hi, I’m Ned McDonnell and my project is my beautiful girl-friend. Yeah! On my free time I do work in administration at a local science center.”
People laughed and cheered, showing that President Kennedy still lives, transcending the ghastly images of the Zapruder film. Were he alive today, that president would be a very contented ninety-three year old, obviously not with my emulation, but with his and the saintly Ambassador Shriver's – and our – inimitable Peace Corps.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Letter to Friends and Family; TRACT 29: Goy, you can give me a shine.
In writing my last letter home, I began thinking about my ambivalence toward the Catholic Church, a reflection I often have here in Mexico. And I began thinking about an idea that popped into my head when I was dabbling in hagiography many years ago.
Wikipedia quickly refreshed my memory and added another fact: beatification allows Catholics in a location to venerate a local hero beatified by Rome (though such centralization of sanctity was not the case for several centuries); canonization is the elevation of a beatified Catholic to sainthood.
Appreciation of this rich tradition of relating to God through people, even townies, excites misgivings about modern Catholicism with the silence of Pope Pius XII during the Holocaust and the recent scandals about sexual abuse in the U.S. and elsewhere. These events taint the Church but not necessarily its traditions.
Perhaps the Roman Church can do something to reconcile this divisive history. Call it a new “Stride Toward Freedom”. When Martin Luther King wrote that spiritual milestone, by pre-Vatican II standards, he was headed to Hell or, at best, Limbo for not being an R.C. My time in an Episcopalian grade school, with my beloved ´1940 Hymnal´, probably planted the seed of beatifying non-Catholics.
´Hymn 243´ sings merrily of the saints of God – patient and brave and true – and they are people like you and me. Hmmm. Sounds like early Christianity when there were too few of the faithful around to be exclusive and martyrs checked their egos at the Coliseum.
Let’s face it: we live in a difficult and bloody time amid the globalization of selfishness. Winning has become the only thing and we are all losing. Billions of impoverished people are left behind despite the unflinching efforts of brave and compassionate people, ranging from soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq to AIDS workers in Africa.
People need hope and relating to God directly can be difficult. What if the Roman church, still in a position to better the world, started beatifying non-Catholics? For example, Martin Luther King would be a perfect candidate. What would be the practical consequence?
First, devoted Catholics in the U.S. would be permitted to venerate (i.e., show respect openly inside the Church) this saintly man; it already happens in many parishes on M.L.K. Day. More important, the Roman Church would be sending a message – not necessarily a relativistic one – that the plea for peace and the sacredness of sacrifice still resonate in this hardened age.
WHO WOULD YOUR CANDIDATES BE? Do not fret over whether you are Catholic. Who would be, in your eyes, worthy of old-fashioned veneration because (s)he basically deserves it? For me, Robert Kennedy and Sargent Shriver would lead my list as devoted Catholics.
Non-Catholic nominees would include the obvious like Mahatma Gandhi, Florence Nightingale, President Abraham Lincoln, Prime Minister Menachem Begin, Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Dietrich Bonhoeffer while others emerge from the accidental place and time of my birth like William Larimer Mellon, Charlie Blango, President Gerald Ford, David Hackett and, of course, Roberto Clemente.
Beatification simply means these people are in the presence of God now. Thus beatification becomes almost a tautology.
Why?
These people were already in the presence of God when they lived amongst us, making us a little better by their very examples shining through their very human faults.
Wikipedia quickly refreshed my memory and added another fact: beatification allows Catholics in a location to venerate a local hero beatified by Rome (though such centralization of sanctity was not the case for several centuries); canonization is the elevation of a beatified Catholic to sainthood.
Appreciation of this rich tradition of relating to God through people, even townies, excites misgivings about modern Catholicism with the silence of Pope Pius XII during the Holocaust and the recent scandals about sexual abuse in the U.S. and elsewhere. These events taint the Church but not necessarily its traditions.
Perhaps the Roman Church can do something to reconcile this divisive history. Call it a new “Stride Toward Freedom”. When Martin Luther King wrote that spiritual milestone, by pre-Vatican II standards, he was headed to Hell or, at best, Limbo for not being an R.C. My time in an Episcopalian grade school, with my beloved ´1940 Hymnal´, probably planted the seed of beatifying non-Catholics.
´Hymn 243´ sings merrily of the saints of God – patient and brave and true – and they are people like you and me. Hmmm. Sounds like early Christianity when there were too few of the faithful around to be exclusive and martyrs checked their egos at the Coliseum.
Let’s face it: we live in a difficult and bloody time amid the globalization of selfishness. Winning has become the only thing and we are all losing. Billions of impoverished people are left behind despite the unflinching efforts of brave and compassionate people, ranging from soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq to AIDS workers in Africa.
People need hope and relating to God directly can be difficult. What if the Roman church, still in a position to better the world, started beatifying non-Catholics? For example, Martin Luther King would be a perfect candidate. What would be the practical consequence?
First, devoted Catholics in the U.S. would be permitted to venerate (i.e., show respect openly inside the Church) this saintly man; it already happens in many parishes on M.L.K. Day. More important, the Roman Church would be sending a message – not necessarily a relativistic one – that the plea for peace and the sacredness of sacrifice still resonate in this hardened age.
WHO WOULD YOUR CANDIDATES BE? Do not fret over whether you are Catholic. Who would be, in your eyes, worthy of old-fashioned veneration because (s)he basically deserves it? For me, Robert Kennedy and Sargent Shriver would lead my list as devoted Catholics.
Non-Catholic nominees would include the obvious like Mahatma Gandhi, Florence Nightingale, President Abraham Lincoln, Prime Minister Menachem Begin, Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Dietrich Bonhoeffer while others emerge from the accidental place and time of my birth like William Larimer Mellon, Charlie Blango, President Gerald Ford, David Hackett and, of course, Roberto Clemente.
Beatification simply means these people are in the presence of God now. Thus beatification becomes almost a tautology.
Why?
These people were already in the presence of God when they lived amongst us, making us a little better by their very examples shining through their very human faults.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Letter-28 to friends and family: Farewell to a Warrior.
Last week-end was a busy time for souls of a higher level. First came the great news that Pope Benedict XVI had approved the beatification of John Paul II just five years after his death. Then came Martin Luther King Day, celebrating one of the finest spirits to emerge in mid-Century America followed by the death of an unsung hero of the War on Poverty under President Johnson, R. Sargent Shriver.
In his own way, each man demonstrated that, to be its own reward, virtue requires more than talking the talk or even walking the walk; it entails sacrifice whether it be a life’s dream, a life of ease or life itself. I have already talked about the impact of Dr King’s spiritual classic, “Stride Toward Freedom” (http://nedmcdletters.blogspot.com/2010/11/letter-22-to-family-and-friends-peace.html). My frame of reference with the Polish Pontiff came from newscasts.
That leaves R. Sargent Shriver, whom I knew for all of thirty seconds. That took place in Framingham, Massachusetts in February 1976. A history teacher invited me along for a week-end trip up to Massachusetts to work on the Shriver-for-President campaign. Since I was languishing on final warning (near expulsion), this trip represented a chance to swill a beer and a ticket out of town for a few days.
It proved to be a lot more. My only “encounter” with Mr Shriver before that had been three years earlier when he and his son walked through the dining hall during dinner-time. He was a candidate for Vice President of the United States at the time and so the people at my table, including me, decided to be deferential by flicking butter pads against the ceiling. Contact! Sarge looked up at our handiwork, rubbed his chin and walked out. Needless to say, his son did not join us the next year for mystery meat and other fine fare.
In any case, R. Sargent Shriver was running a hopeless campaign for President in 1976, punctuated by the fact that his bother-in-law, Senator Ted Kennedy, did not endorse him in Massachusetts. Nevertheless, he came and spoke to each one us, exchanging pleasantries but being genuinely warm. Those thirty seconds – and reading about his “tireless” efforts on behalf of the Peace Corps in American History class – convinced me that I would be a Peace Corps volunteer some day.
It may have taken thirty-five years in my case, and may have required going to Afghanistan to bide my time until I could start, but I got here, thanks to a man comfortable enough with himself, with his beliefs and with power. Sadly, logic and virtue rarely pick a President. The best news of all for me is that these “brief-but-profound” (mini-ha-ha) encounters proved accurate.
Last night, my novia and I had a wonderful dinner with the former Peace Corps-Mexico Director, his wife and another lovely couple. The host was really the founder of the program here. Peace Corps-Mexico gets the formula for capacity transfer right by working with people who truly want to receive it and not paying us a boat-load of money. He and his wife are lovely people and have had an interesting life together.
My acquaintance worked closely with R. Sargent Shriver when the latter was in Paris as U.S. Ambassador from 1968-70 (i.e., under Prsident Richard Nixon). While my dinner host saw the warts of Ambassador Shriver that I never would be able to perceive on a freezing night in Framingham, his assessment of Shriver basically confirmed my first impression over small talk and blatant “place-dropping” (on my part): a warm, decent, humble, hard-working and intelligent man.
Oh what a loss we have had.
In his own way, each man demonstrated that, to be its own reward, virtue requires more than talking the talk or even walking the walk; it entails sacrifice whether it be a life’s dream, a life of ease or life itself. I have already talked about the impact of Dr King’s spiritual classic, “Stride Toward Freedom” (http://nedmcdletters.blogspot.com/2010/11/letter-22-to-family-and-friends-peace.html). My frame of reference with the Polish Pontiff came from newscasts.
That leaves R. Sargent Shriver, whom I knew for all of thirty seconds. That took place in Framingham, Massachusetts in February 1976. A history teacher invited me along for a week-end trip up to Massachusetts to work on the Shriver-for-President campaign. Since I was languishing on final warning (near expulsion), this trip represented a chance to swill a beer and a ticket out of town for a few days.
It proved to be a lot more. My only “encounter” with Mr Shriver before that had been three years earlier when he and his son walked through the dining hall during dinner-time. He was a candidate for Vice President of the United States at the time and so the people at my table, including me, decided to be deferential by flicking butter pads against the ceiling. Contact! Sarge looked up at our handiwork, rubbed his chin and walked out. Needless to say, his son did not join us the next year for mystery meat and other fine fare.
In any case, R. Sargent Shriver was running a hopeless campaign for President in 1976, punctuated by the fact that his bother-in-law, Senator Ted Kennedy, did not endorse him in Massachusetts. Nevertheless, he came and spoke to each one us, exchanging pleasantries but being genuinely warm. Those thirty seconds – and reading about his “tireless” efforts on behalf of the Peace Corps in American History class – convinced me that I would be a Peace Corps volunteer some day.
It may have taken thirty-five years in my case, and may have required going to Afghanistan to bide my time until I could start, but I got here, thanks to a man comfortable enough with himself, with his beliefs and with power. Sadly, logic and virtue rarely pick a President. The best news of all for me is that these “brief-but-profound” (mini-ha-ha) encounters proved accurate.
Last night, my novia and I had a wonderful dinner with the former Peace Corps-Mexico Director, his wife and another lovely couple. The host was really the founder of the program here. Peace Corps-Mexico gets the formula for capacity transfer right by working with people who truly want to receive it and not paying us a boat-load of money. He and his wife are lovely people and have had an interesting life together.
My acquaintance worked closely with R. Sargent Shriver when the latter was in Paris as U.S. Ambassador from 1968-70 (i.e., under Prsident Richard Nixon). While my dinner host saw the warts of Ambassador Shriver that I never would be able to perceive on a freezing night in Framingham, his assessment of Shriver basically confirmed my first impression over small talk and blatant “place-dropping” (on my part): a warm, decent, humble, hard-working and intelligent man.
Oh what a loss we have had.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Letter-27 to friends and family: A Christmas Comida
A few letters ago (Letter-19: Unpalatable Patriotism), I discussed the perils of Peace Corps Missions II and III. These missions include representing U.S. culture overseas and taking an alien culture home, legally. So permit me to talk about today’s comida.
In México, comida is the big meal of the day and occurs about two o’clock in the afternoon. Traditional Christmas dinners in the United States tend to start at three in the afternoon. Combine that coincidence with the fact that I walked off with the big prize at a departmental shin-dig last week, and we have got a "Christmas comida".
Last Thursday, the general management division of the engineering research center where I volunteer had a grand breakfast to celebrate Christmas. After trying every which way to avoid winning, I ended up with this turkey. Not only did I feel guilty as a guest of one month’s standing taking the prize, I was mortified because I do not know how to cook nor does my novia.
Frankly fed up with my yammering over what to do about this fifteen pound predicament, a colleague bailed me out by offering to cook the turkey. That is when His Eminent Brilliance put two-and-two together for the Christmas comida. So my running all over town (i.e., to an upscale Mexican market, WalMart and Costco) combined with the help a lovely lady who pitched in a tasty salad and my colleague's masterful job -- actually that of his sisters -- on the turkey yielded a solution.
Monday would have been the logical day. No way; I immediately vetoed that idea. Call me a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee – a Northerner still fighting the War – but I could not see throwing a party, even in another country, on the one hundred-fiftieth anniversary of the secession of South Carolina from the Union to precipitate a war that claimed about as many of our countrymen (both South and North) as every other war put together.
History aside, today’s was a truly American Christmas comida with turkey; Mexican stuffing and salad; cranberry sauce (with the can-ridges as noted by my sister); brie and crackers; mashed potatoes and gravy; sparkling grape juice (in lieu of wine, per major school rules); chocolate almonds; as well as, of course, pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Out of thirty people eating, only two Peace Corps Volunteers (Brian Johnson and I) were from North of the border.
My Mexican colleagues loved the Christmas comida. They gave me a big group cheer, amid my blushing. One senior exec said to me, perhaps giving me my best gift this Christmas, “Thank you, Ned. People will remember this fiesta for a long time…” As gratifying, I had the privilege of paraphrasing a condensed version my father’s traditional Thanksgiving grace in my halting, frightful Spanish:
“Dios, pedimos la bendición ahora para esta comida de navidad porque nuestra familia son amigos y nuestros amigos son familia. Gracias.”
(Supposed to say: God, we now ask for your blessing for this Christmas dinner for our family are friends and our friends are family. Thank you.)
In México, comida is the big meal of the day and occurs about two o’clock in the afternoon. Traditional Christmas dinners in the United States tend to start at three in the afternoon. Combine that coincidence with the fact that I walked off with the big prize at a departmental shin-dig last week, and we have got a "Christmas comida".
Last Thursday, the general management division of the engineering research center where I volunteer had a grand breakfast to celebrate Christmas. After trying every which way to avoid winning, I ended up with this turkey. Not only did I feel guilty as a guest of one month’s standing taking the prize, I was mortified because I do not know how to cook nor does my novia.
Frankly fed up with my yammering over what to do about this fifteen pound predicament, a colleague bailed me out by offering to cook the turkey. That is when His Eminent Brilliance put two-and-two together for the Christmas comida. So my running all over town (i.e., to an upscale Mexican market, WalMart and Costco) combined with the help a lovely lady who pitched in a tasty salad and my colleague's masterful job -- actually that of his sisters -- on the turkey yielded a solution.
Monday would have been the logical day. No way; I immediately vetoed that idea. Call me a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee – a Northerner still fighting the War – but I could not see throwing a party, even in another country, on the one hundred-fiftieth anniversary of the secession of South Carolina from the Union to precipitate a war that claimed about as many of our countrymen (both South and North) as every other war put together.
History aside, today’s was a truly American Christmas comida with turkey; Mexican stuffing and salad; cranberry sauce (with the can-ridges as noted by my sister); brie and crackers; mashed potatoes and gravy; sparkling grape juice (in lieu of wine, per major school rules); chocolate almonds; as well as, of course, pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Out of thirty people eating, only two Peace Corps Volunteers (Brian Johnson and I) were from North of the border.
My Mexican colleagues loved the Christmas comida. They gave me a big group cheer, amid my blushing. One senior exec said to me, perhaps giving me my best gift this Christmas, “Thank you, Ned. People will remember this fiesta for a long time…” As gratifying, I had the privilege of paraphrasing a condensed version my father’s traditional Thanksgiving grace in my halting, frightful Spanish:
“Dios, pedimos la bendición ahora para esta comida de navidad porque nuestra familia son amigos y nuestros amigos son familia. Gracias.”
(Supposed to say: God, we now ask for your blessing for this Christmas dinner for our family are friends and our friends are family. Thank you.)
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Letter-26: Christmas wish for Afghanistan
A former FaceBook friend wrote me an impassioned response to my sending a soldier an e-mailed Christmas card with the additional comment of hope that our younger brothers and sisters be home unharmed and in time.
Though I can no longer respond directly to her, I am posting specific comments in response to parts of her e-mail; they appear as comments to this shorter letter. The intellect involved here is far stronger than mine and these angry comments should have currency this Christmas season.
Afghanistan remains dreadfully transparent, even in the North where I was. The United States is caught between Iraq and a hard place (as King Hussein used to say about Jordan). My response expresses a helpless sense of ambivalence about Afghanistan; it comes across as weak.
Personally, I am at the point where enough is enough; I have lost confidence in the crowd that thinks “this time will be different”. In writing this, I want to repeat that I know and respect many soldiers facing very difficult situations this Christmas. They actually make a big difference in the everyday lives of beleaguered people.
While I have butted heads with many of these soldiers during my four stints in war zones, I could never lose sight of the fact – and it is a fact – that these people have been among the finest I have known. And it is time for our soldiers to come home, the sooner the better.
Apparently, troops will be in Afghanistan until or through 2014, implying a 2½-3½ year time-line. This time-line is a depressing disappointment. Since a phased withdrawal may take more time than the one year I would prefer, my disappointment falls short of disillusionment.
Political calculation may be at play, here, in trying to get this increasingly troubled misadventure off of the re-election radar in 2012. Things are neither simple nor subtle. Afghans exhibit the same ambivalence toward U.S. troops that Americans used to have towards Congress: “Congressmen are corrupt and rotten, with the exception of mine."
Likewise, many Afghans hate the Americans except for 'their' Americans. For all of its high-profile glitz, the ‘Whole-of-Government’ approach simply does not work. USAID’s development model is, when viewed charitably, ineffective; other USG Departments are having difficulty fielding workers.
The soldiers in the communities - not over-paid USAID or USDA field-workers - provide much more direct (and appreciated) community development. There remain two fundamental concerns with a precipitate withdrawal. First, would a likely Taliban victory in Afghanistan lead to an expansionist 'Pashtunistan'?
This uniting of the Pakistan and Afghan Taliban, quarrelsome as the two appear to be, would probably emerge from the almost certain collapse of Pakistan, hardly a nation in its own right. A bigger, bloodier war over Kashmir might then erupt among two nuclear powers and a nuclear renegade from the 12th century.
Further, a Taliban victory might precede a whole sale slaughter of thousands of Afghan women activists and local leaders brave enough to challenge an archaic and brutal culture. The mainstream arguments cited most often against withdrawal are elegantly geo-political but inevitably amoral.
Another sense of the word withdrawal comes to mind: the withdrawal involved in de-toxifying from drug abuse. Every drug-addict hates it; but, to be free, the unpleasant transition must occur sooner or later. There are always a thousand excuses for putting off the difficult, but rarely an over-riding reason.
As eloquent as the interventionists’ arguments are, the circumstances, upon which they base their arguments, will be there in a another year, two or ten. Another approach is now in order, is it not? So, I say: let the surge be the surge. Then pull back the development efforts to those truly secure parts of Afghanistan, maybe just 5-10%.
With the funds saved by a full withdrawal by mid-to-late 2012, the U.S. governmnet can lead multi-lateral efforts to ring-fence ‘Pashtunistan’ while re-settling in safer areas current women activists and local leaders standing up to the Afghan Taliban.
If we leave without protecting those brave Afghan men and women currently risking their lives for the establishment of human rights and local governance, the blood from their likely slaughter will be on our hands and conscience.
Though I can no longer respond directly to her, I am posting specific comments in response to parts of her e-mail; they appear as comments to this shorter letter. The intellect involved here is far stronger than mine and these angry comments should have currency this Christmas season.
Afghanistan remains dreadfully transparent, even in the North where I was. The United States is caught between Iraq and a hard place (as King Hussein used to say about Jordan). My response expresses a helpless sense of ambivalence about Afghanistan; it comes across as weak.
Personally, I am at the point where enough is enough; I have lost confidence in the crowd that thinks “this time will be different”. In writing this, I want to repeat that I know and respect many soldiers facing very difficult situations this Christmas. They actually make a big difference in the everyday lives of beleaguered people.
While I have butted heads with many of these soldiers during my four stints in war zones, I could never lose sight of the fact – and it is a fact – that these people have been among the finest I have known. And it is time for our soldiers to come home, the sooner the better.
Apparently, troops will be in Afghanistan until or through 2014, implying a 2½-3½ year time-line. This time-line is a depressing disappointment. Since a phased withdrawal may take more time than the one year I would prefer, my disappointment falls short of disillusionment.
Political calculation may be at play, here, in trying to get this increasingly troubled misadventure off of the re-election radar in 2012. Things are neither simple nor subtle. Afghans exhibit the same ambivalence toward U.S. troops that Americans used to have towards Congress: “Congressmen are corrupt and rotten, with the exception of mine."
Likewise, many Afghans hate the Americans except for 'their' Americans. For all of its high-profile glitz, the ‘Whole-of-Government’ approach simply does not work. USAID’s development model is, when viewed charitably, ineffective; other USG Departments are having difficulty fielding workers.
The soldiers in the communities - not over-paid USAID or USDA field-workers - provide much more direct (and appreciated) community development. There remain two fundamental concerns with a precipitate withdrawal. First, would a likely Taliban victory in Afghanistan lead to an expansionist 'Pashtunistan'?
This uniting of the Pakistan and Afghan Taliban, quarrelsome as the two appear to be, would probably emerge from the almost certain collapse of Pakistan, hardly a nation in its own right. A bigger, bloodier war over Kashmir might then erupt among two nuclear powers and a nuclear renegade from the 12th century.
Further, a Taliban victory might precede a whole sale slaughter of thousands of Afghan women activists and local leaders brave enough to challenge an archaic and brutal culture. The mainstream arguments cited most often against withdrawal are elegantly geo-political but inevitably amoral.
Another sense of the word withdrawal comes to mind: the withdrawal involved in de-toxifying from drug abuse. Every drug-addict hates it; but, to be free, the unpleasant transition must occur sooner or later. There are always a thousand excuses for putting off the difficult, but rarely an over-riding reason.
As eloquent as the interventionists’ arguments are, the circumstances, upon which they base their arguments, will be there in a another year, two or ten. Another approach is now in order, is it not? So, I say: let the surge be the surge. Then pull back the development efforts to those truly secure parts of Afghanistan, maybe just 5-10%.
With the funds saved by a full withdrawal by mid-to-late 2012, the U.S. governmnet can lead multi-lateral efforts to ring-fence ‘Pashtunistan’ while re-settling in safer areas current women activists and local leaders standing up to the Afghan Taliban.
If we leave without protecting those brave Afghan men and women currently risking their lives for the establishment of human rights and local governance, the blood from their likely slaughter will be on our hands and conscience.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Letter-25 to Friends and Family: ¿Spiritual Nutrition or Attrition? You make the call.
Unfortunately, I have had little to report the last two weeks, at least on Mexican culture, for life has been busy with the reading – and, yes, reviewing – of an eight hundred page document in Spanish on how to harmonize accounting standards. That and compliance with Salvador’s gauntlet. Salvador is a kindly older neighbor here in Querétaro, who occasionally gets fed up with my whining about a different catastrophe in my life every week.
Around Thanksgiving, Salvador announced that he had enough and so he pointed his finger at me and said something to effect that “your people are making a big production out of saying thanks right now.” Salvador lives up to his name. He challenged me to write down any two people for whom I felt grateful during each of the fifty-three years of my life.
This group could include anybody – family member, movie actor, teacher, John Lennon, friend, national leader, anybody. Dutifully, I dissected the past – usually found wanting – and realized that my fashionably tragic life had produced more mirth than myth. In fact, the two man rule swept many dear friends into the great dust-bin of history; I think, in retrospect, that was the point.
Feeling fitly smug after this ‘spiritual discipline’ and winding down the Chinese palabra torture, I magnanimously consented to my novia’s desire to see a recent Julia Roberts flic, “Eat, Love, Pray”. Bracing myself for a piping tepid chick-flic, I was pleasantly surprised. The story-line is a romantic adventure about a woman setting out to find her authenticity in three very spiritual places: Rome, Calcutta and Bali. In the film, Smiley finds her inner peace with some simple ideas for complicated people.
A pilgrimage defying all expectations
Like Julia Roberts, but at a younger age, and like a great many others, I made the requisite trip to India. Unlike the film, where Smiley works scrubbing the floors of an Ashram, I worked in a hospital. My inspiration to lose myself in “the East” was not from a dark night of the soul, like Smiley; yes, in truth, I was inspired by Mia Farrow in the Woody Allen film, ‘Alice’. Perhaps not the best start, but enough.
On the trip over and during my stay, I hunched over the Book of Tao; the King James from Saint Edmund’s; the Buddha’s sayings; the least boring book by Joseph Campbell I could find; Parzifal by von Eschenbach; and, the Little Prince. This disciplined study intended to lay the foundation for some Unitarian version of the pilgrim’s catharsis, if not progress.
In Calcutta, the quarters were spare and the work demanding. Nevertheless, during my short stay, I had some riveting experiences like blowing chow apocalyptically and being saved by the capitalist pigs of Pepsi Cola. There were young people from all over the world at this hospital.
One such youngster was an acquaintance from the West Coast, Richard. As the only two Yanks in the place, we spent some time together, when I wasn’t busy vainly seeking enlightenment from one of three beautiful Parisian women with whom I practiced la belle langue and, dammit, nothing else.
Since I am a little doofy and almost barfed when cleaning feces the first time, my Cali-bud -- the temporary head of volunteers owing to his seniority -- did not know what to do with me. Out of a potent mix of exasperation and desperation, just prior to lunch one steaming hot India day, he asked me to sit with a patient who was obviously agitated.
The lesson learned
This poor fellow was in cot #33 by the Y-shaped entrance (main door, anteroom, two doors on either side up a few stairs). The anal details apparently had great significance as I later learned from a psychic who was the wife of a friend of my sister and brother-in-law. So I sat down with the man. He looked like a Muslim; since I could speak neither Arabic nor Hindi, I could only sit there like a dumb ass.
Around Thanksgiving, Salvador announced that he had enough and so he pointed his finger at me and said something to effect that “your people are making a big production out of saying thanks right now.” Salvador lives up to his name. He challenged me to write down any two people for whom I felt grateful during each of the fifty-three years of my life.
This group could include anybody – family member, movie actor, teacher, John Lennon, friend, national leader, anybody. Dutifully, I dissected the past – usually found wanting – and realized that my fashionably tragic life had produced more mirth than myth. In fact, the two man rule swept many dear friends into the great dust-bin of history; I think, in retrospect, that was the point.
Feeling fitly smug after this ‘spiritual discipline’ and winding down the Chinese palabra torture, I magnanimously consented to my novia’s desire to see a recent Julia Roberts flic, “Eat, Love, Pray”. Bracing myself for a piping tepid chick-flic, I was pleasantly surprised. The story-line is a romantic adventure about a woman setting out to find her authenticity in three very spiritual places: Rome, Calcutta and Bali. In the film, Smiley finds her inner peace with some simple ideas for complicated people.
A pilgrimage defying all expectations
Like Julia Roberts, but at a younger age, and like a great many others, I made the requisite trip to India. Unlike the film, where Smiley works scrubbing the floors of an Ashram, I worked in a hospital. My inspiration to lose myself in “the East” was not from a dark night of the soul, like Smiley; yes, in truth, I was inspired by Mia Farrow in the Woody Allen film, ‘Alice’. Perhaps not the best start, but enough.
On the trip over and during my stay, I hunched over the Book of Tao; the King James from Saint Edmund’s; the Buddha’s sayings; the least boring book by Joseph Campbell I could find; Parzifal by von Eschenbach; and, the Little Prince. This disciplined study intended to lay the foundation for some Unitarian version of the pilgrim’s catharsis, if not progress.
In Calcutta, the quarters were spare and the work demanding. Nevertheless, during my short stay, I had some riveting experiences like blowing chow apocalyptically and being saved by the capitalist pigs of Pepsi Cola. There were young people from all over the world at this hospital.
One such youngster was an acquaintance from the West Coast, Richard. As the only two Yanks in the place, we spent some time together, when I wasn’t busy vainly seeking enlightenment from one of three beautiful Parisian women with whom I practiced la belle langue and, dammit, nothing else.
Since I am a little doofy and almost barfed when cleaning feces the first time, my Cali-bud -- the temporary head of volunteers owing to his seniority -- did not know what to do with me. Out of a potent mix of exasperation and desperation, just prior to lunch one steaming hot India day, he asked me to sit with a patient who was obviously agitated.
The lesson learned
This poor fellow was in cot #33 by the Y-shaped entrance (main door, anteroom, two doors on either side up a few stairs). The anal details apparently had great significance as I later learned from a psychic who was the wife of a friend of my sister and brother-in-law. So I sat down with the man. He looked like a Muslim; since I could speak neither Arabic nor Hindi, I could only sit there like a dumb ass.
The poor fellow would not take any food. Despite my diversions employed to sneak some orange juice into his mouth, only to see this dying man maintain his dignity by spitting out the juice. The obvious conclusion stiffened me momentarily: this man was prepared to depart.
So, I tried the technique of Erich Fromme by gently rubbing the shaking man's forehead and saying softly enough for him alone to hear, "I need you because I love you." That may sound strange but that was all I could think of to say.
So, I tried the technique of Erich Fromme by gently rubbing the shaking man's forehead and saying softly enough for him alone to hear, "I need you because I love you." That may sound strange but that was all I could think of to say.
Remarkably, the fellow calmed down and seemed soothed by my make-shift succor. When I returned from lunch, cot #33 was empty; my temporary companion had departed. Captain California noticed my ambivalent success and assigned me to cot #33, once again into my morning shift.
The same sobering scenario unfolded again. When I returned from lunch, cot #33 was empty once again. There was a quiet dignity to these men as they faced their deaths with calm, aided by me, and with a diligent dignity practiced long before I showed up.
Needless to say, I approached the impromptu foreman the next morning and said, "Richard, if I am to sit by cot #33 again, perhaps you should get the permission of the patient first.
The lesson earned
My California friend took to saying in response to my frequently unanswerable and mainly rhetorical questions, “Eat dessert first; life is uncertain.”
¡EUREKA! Mission accomplished…I am Zen; Zen again, I am Ned. Time to go home.
Some weeks later, braving the raw temps of April in New York, I was walking back to my apartment late on a stormy week-day night. Venturing South on Lexington Avenue, I walked past two blocks around Seventieth Street that hosted beautiful pre-War red-brick buildings. The rain was hard, cold and strident. The umbrella had been useless since at least Eightieth Street. I was only a little less drenched than the damnable trench coast.
On the first floor of these buildings were fine toilet shops, heirlooms-bought-or-stolen-and-sold and an obnoxious interior decorating store. That decorating store would switch its display periodically but never deviated from its formulaic format of a Victorian couch with fine, goofy pillows, one of which had a needle-pointed platitude like “Eat, Pray, Love”.
As I passed the display window, I wiped the lens of my glasses to read some trite and true saying. And what was that month’s perfect pillow-talk? You guessed it: “Eat Dessert First; Life is Uncertain.”
This time around, ‘Eureka’ was hardly the first word to cross my mind.
Needless to say, I approached the impromptu foreman the next morning and said, "Richard, if I am to sit by cot #33 again, perhaps you should get the permission of the patient first.
The lesson earned
My California friend took to saying in response to my frequently unanswerable and mainly rhetorical questions, “Eat dessert first; life is uncertain.”
¡EUREKA! Mission accomplished…I am Zen; Zen again, I am Ned. Time to go home.
Some weeks later, braving the raw temps of April in New York, I was walking back to my apartment late on a stormy week-day night. Venturing South on Lexington Avenue, I walked past two blocks around Seventieth Street that hosted beautiful pre-War red-brick buildings. The rain was hard, cold and strident. The umbrella had been useless since at least Eightieth Street. I was only a little less drenched than the damnable trench coast.
On the first floor of these buildings were fine toilet shops, heirlooms-bought-or-stolen-and-sold and an obnoxious interior decorating store. That decorating store would switch its display periodically but never deviated from its formulaic format of a Victorian couch with fine, goofy pillows, one of which had a needle-pointed platitude like “Eat, Pray, Love”.
As I passed the display window, I wiped the lens of my glasses to read some trite and true saying. And what was that month’s perfect pillow-talk? You guessed it: “Eat Dessert First; Life is Uncertain.”
This time around, ‘Eureka’ was hardly the first word to cross my mind.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)