America is a World

Reading series from April to December 2015

I got this reading list from the Bread Loaf School of English. It is a intensive summer course taught by Professor Nash.The course description is as follows: "In this course we will explore fiction by authors of various ethnicities that examines the issues of interaction with and integration into “American life.” Under that broad rubric, we will discuss a range of topics including the processes of individual- and group-identity formation and erasure; experiences of intergenerational conflict; considerations of the burden and promise of personal and communal histories; examinations of varied understandings of race, class, and gender; and interrogations of “Americanness.” Grounding our discussions in a common historical text, Ronald Takaki’s A Different Mirror, we will examine works by Sherman Alexi, Arturo Islas, Philip Roth, Julie Otsuka, Jhumpa Lahiri, Junot Diaz, and Dinaw Mengestu."

TEXTS
Ronald Takaki, A Different Mirror: A Multicultural History of America - April and May
Julie Otsuka, The Buddha in the Attic - May
Julie Otsuke, When the Emperor Was Divine - June
Sherman Alexie, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven - July
Arturo Islas, The Rain God - August
Philip Roth, The Human Stain - September
Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake (Mariner) - October
Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao - November
Dinaw Mengestu, How To Read the Air - December

Using NYT Best Seller List to Get Back into Reading

I got back into reading by choosing books from the New York Times Best Seller List. The first title I read, In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin by Erik Larson, is based on the life of the American Ambassador William Dodd and his family during his assignment in Germany from 1933 to 1938, preceding United States’ declaration of war on Hitler. The author depicts what occurs when governments turn a blind eye to the evil actions of men in power, even when the people they ask to report call for a quick and drastic response. What was most interesting to me was the evolution of the characters, most of whom did not want to believe that such atrocities were occurring against the Jewish population. The book is based and supported by excerpts from the diaries and letters of correspondence of the people who lived in Hitler’s Germany including William Dodd, Martha Dodd and George Messersmith on the American front and Rudolph Diels and Ernst Hanfstaengl who were part of Germany security and armed forces. The author’s writing style is seamless. Larson does a wonderful job inserting the bits and pieces from different diaries and letters to create a fluid story filled with drama, suspense, danger and even more than a single love affair.

The second book I read, Lost in Shangri-La: A Story of Survival, Adventure and the Most Incredible Rescue Mission of WWII by Mitchell Zuckoff narrated the crash and rescue mission of the survivors of the Gremlin Special, a C-57 plane that went down in Dutch New Guinea in 1945, packed with soldiers and WACs who flew around the island to see an undiscovered village of natives which they had called Shangri-La. The crash took the lives of 25 individuals, leaving only three survivors, John McCollum, Kenneth Decker, and Margaret Hastings who make it in spite of grave injuries, hunger and atrocious weather conditions. The story is a detailed account of their journey from the plane to the valley where the “cannibalistic” natives live and the relationship that ensues between the survivors, rescue team and the Dutch New Guinea natives. It is an interesting and exciting read that includes pictures of the people that participated in such an incredible operation. The author’s writing style is very descriptive and clear, making it easy for an average reader to understand the inner workings of the United States armed forces, which I greatly appreciated.

The last book I’ve finished in the last couple of months was The Help by Kathryn Stockett, by far my favorite title of the three. The novel is narrated in three perspectives, first Aibileen Clark, a middle-aged African-American maid who spends her life raising white children, and who has recently lost her only son, Treelore; Minny Jackson, an African-American maid whose smart-talk towards her employers results in her having to frequently change jobs, exacerbating her desperate need for work as well as her family's struggle with money; and Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan, a young white woman and recent college graduate who, after moving back home, discovers that a maid that helped raise her since childhood has abruptly disappeared and her attempts to find her have come to naught. I found the book particularly interesting not only because it was flawlessly written, but also because of the parallels between the maids’ situation Jackson, Mississippi in the early 1960’s and Caracas, Venezuela today, even though people in Venezuela are not deprived of their rights. I enjoyed the author’s writing style and was very disappointed to find out it was her first novel and I could not read another book written by her right away.

The Climber Parts

The gentle rays of daybreak sneak into my tent through the opened zipper and land across my sleepy eyes. Still in my pajamas, I release the warmth of dreams trapped within my sleeping bag and slide into my sneakers silently, wanting to look at the sun rise alone, not wanting to experience the morning splendor with another.

The day is clear, not a cloud is in sight. I approach the steep cliff looking into the purple horizon, imagining hidden valleys surrounded by trees, unknown towns cradled by mountains, by other peaks I can see in the distance but doubt I will ever climb. I am drawn to the limitless opportunities, to the movement of the leaves on the countless trees that stretch far before me until they touch the sky.

Behind me people open their eyes, yawn while their stretch slumbering limbs into wakefulness. I hear the clacking of a camping pan, the smooth sliding of a sleeping bag being rolled up into its pouch. I do not stir, for I am hypnotized by the day, submerged in a clarity I don’t want to dissipate by moving. For the first time I feel no motivation to continue on the climb to the top of this particular mountain.

My peers pack up and continue their climb, never looking back to check my whereabouts. It is a group climb but each person has her own endeavors, timing and goals. I do not have to climb today at all if I am not inclined.

I cannot rip my eyes away from the horizon. I stand glued, teetering on the edge of a precipice that ends right after my toe tips. The movement of nature, the wind sweeping my hair lifts me, takes me on a limbless journey from this mid-mountain crag across raging rivers, flowering fields, dense forests and quaint towns. The landscape I see, on this one clear day, makes climbing seem pointless. Why would I want to spend my days watching for rocks and roots? What do I hope to achieve by climbing? It is so important to see farther if it’s from a single perspective? How integral is the view from one mountain?

With these questions I feel the climber in me lay down her back pack, trusty utensils, warm sleeping bag and waterproof tent. I turn towards the mountain only to see her smile and disappear down the path, walking into my intercepting shadow, which grows long and dark with the rising sun. I am not sad. I am not afraid. I am not nostalgic for the climber, for she has parted willingly and made way for another me.

As I relinquish my old dreams, trade the suspended and far-reaching goals of a climber I am liberated. I free to just live, experience. Within me awakes the daring infant who spent Saturday mornings playing with German Shepherds barefoot and in pajamas, the tiny girl who rode her troublesome horse bareback, the teenager who approached newcomers and new tasks in triumphant confidence.

Welcome, I say.

Together we take a couple of steps back, turn and jump off the cliff!

An Old Definition: The Climber

I begin 2008 with an old entry; a composition written by me, about me and for me. It was the way I saw myself at a certain moment in my life...

The CLIMBER

You ask me: Do I know who I am? Can I define the person I want to be with?

I answer: I know where I stand right now, the route I have chosen to travel in my infancy, youth and adolescence. Looking back over the terrain from a mountain top I know where I could have avoided tripping, a wrong turn and a long hard trail. I can see a cave where I would have slept warm and dry during the storm and a beautiful waterfall I missed along the way. Yet, I can also see that I pitched my tent in the perfect field, I enjoyed many campfires singing along friends and I took my time to appreciate the scenery.

Today, the day is clear. Clearly, I can see where I faltered and succeeded standing on this mountain of experience. I expect I haven’t reached the top, but I know I am not standing at the bottom. I also expect the weather will change and some days will be cloudy, others warm, still others clear, like today.

So, you think: So what can she answer with certainty?

I respond: I can say with certainty that life, to me, is an adventure, a steady climb to the top of my potential. To others it may be a sky-dive, a roller coaster, a chess game, a slow dance, a constant party. And because I choose to climb, the people who walk beside me are also climbers, adventurers, nature lovers, bird watchers, wanderers, nomads. That’s the constant, the certain thing, the ambition, thirst that drives us to continue to move forward, see more, farther, from a higher place; the highest place; the pinnacle.

I can say with certainty that death is a transition; it is but the separation of this adventure from the next. It is a clean slate, clear plate, the starting place of a new race. If in essence (in your soul) you are a climber, then you will stand before the next high mountain and the people around you will be familiar; climbers, adventurers, nature lovers, bird watchers, wanderers, nomads, your family. If you didn’t learn from your mistakes, you will inevitably trip again, miss a turn, sleep under the storm and in your soul you will know it is not the first time. If you did learn, then your mistakes will be entirely new, small adventures to overcome within the climb of life, the biggest adventure of all.

You ask, what about love?: Love is what I can be most certain about because I create it. It starts with accepting my self, my essence, my thirst to climb and see beyond the next cliff. Accepting that I will never be comfortable because of my insatiable need to be better, move faster, go higher. When I accept myself, I accept my adventure and truly appreciate the company. No one can carry my bag-pack, fill my canteen and step over the rocks on my path.

And within the many climbers I may find that one person I choose to walk with. In time he may become the person who I sit next to around the campfire and tell my secrets to. The person, who gives me warmth at night, looks for me if I loose my way, worries when I stay out in the rain. We walk side by side, sharing, but not burdening. Knowing that each climber must choose a trail, a pace, a resting place and that company is not an obligation, but a gift.

In answer to your questions: I am a climber, an adventurer, a nature lover, a bird watcher, a wanderer, a nomad and so will my final partner be.

Off to March!

Once every two months (or maybe more frequently) the citizens of Venezuela prepare to support or reject change in a constitutional law the government is attempting to pass with people in their specific political party. Across the entire nation people congregate in public parks, march and wear their party colors mid-workweek, activities which have become the norm in a Venezuelan’s life. Through these public displays the government and the people measure the relative support or level of rejection for the particular law, before the act of suffrage.

On a more personal note…

The announcement begins at least a week before the actual event takes place. During that time people all across the country rearrange their work, school, life commitments in order to attend. The silent tension that we live with on a daily basis, that collects on our backs or at the pit of our stomach, becomes a palpable buzz, a nervous excitement much like the rising bubbles of a couple of alka-seltzers in a glass of water. From the moment the event is made public, people begin to determine the logistics: who to march with? Where to meet? At what time? How to return home?

I like to march with my family or my boyfriend’s family, not friends. I also like to go in the middle of the event, to take the place of the people who started early. I don’t usually stay for the speeches, but walk home and watch them of the television, where I can actually understand what the speakers say. Marches are exhausting. Walking among a river of high strung, nervous Venezuelans is both draining and stimulating. Everywhere you turn someone is yelling a slogan, singing, dancing, carrying a poster or wearing an interesting shirt. You exchange tidbits of information with people you know along the way and always keep an eye out for any type of disturbance that can escalate to a running stampede or a confrontation with the National Guard. More than once I have found myself running away from advancing vehicles packed with guards that are shooting into the angry crowd. One very real lesson I have learned from attending these marches is that a second can change my life and affect (negatively) the people who care about me, thus I stay on the fringes of the conflict although I always go. After these events one frequently hears of people who where shot, injured, beaten, or captured by the National Guard and how, after that, their life is never the same.

Sometimes marching can be misleading. Seeing rivers of a hundred thousand people can make you confidant about the outcome of an election, so confidant many people who take the time to march fail to stand in line to vote. I think this is where our problem as Venezuelan’s lies and even the reason why we have lost so many elections in the past. We invest our energy in the wrong thing, in expressing our point of view so that our peers can see our devotion, yet we fail to follow through, to express this same opinion in the privacy of an election ballot. Until we learn to save our energy for the right thing, to defend our rights the right way (through suffrage), we might continue to be stuck with what we do not like.

What are you interested in?

If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate.
- Elbert Hubbard

Sometimes, when I get together with people I see regularly, like my friends, boyfriend, even family members, we seem to review the conversation we had the last time we talked. Who is each person dating and how is that going? What are the current problems or solutions at work? How are the respective kids and hubby doing? Oftentimes, after reviewing the same conversations more than twice, with very little headway, I get bored, zone out and probably come off as being a very rude friend who acts upon her obvious lack of interest. In the past, I’ve complained about the recurring topics but really did nothing to include more interesting tidbits of information into our regular conversations.

Then a couple of days ago I was riding in a car with a friend and we got into Venezuelan politics, before I knew it my friend was talking up a storm, shooting off statistics that support her personal opinion like a fine tuned machine gun. Although I try to keep current on the political comings and goings of Venezuela, I am nowhere near as knowledgeable (or devoted) as my friend but I found that her passion made me want to learn more so that we can discuss the issues when we see each other again. It was like finding a treasure I thought existed but had never ventured to find. This experience with Gaby made me realize that many times we are content with the superficial small talk that reviews what we already know about the person, and that getting off the dizzying loop may mean finding out what they are interested, doing a bit of reading, and bringing it up when you see them again.

Welcome to Venezuela

Don’t get me wrong… I love my country. When I have a chance to get away for the weekend and do a bit of national tourism I am always taken aback by the raw beauty of our beaches, the power of the rivers that carve their path through clusters of green mountains, the height and density of the trees that line the winding roads. I love the fact that my sister goes fishing for the weekend and returns with a live video of her petting an anaconda that was sunning itself on a branch by the river bank, that you can land on a beach and have it all to yourself for a day or the entire weekend, that patches of thick rainforests are no more than a stone throws away. Yet today’s Venezuela is not the place I remember in my infancy, or even the country I moved to in 1999. The most important and beautiful tourist spots are now owned and run by foreigners, Europeans, who set their prices in dollars, making them inaccessible to the majority of the native population. I admit that everything works more smoothly than it used to, some places even with the timeliness of a Swiss watch, but at the expense of the Latin warmth, camaderie, anarchy that made those Europeans set their eyes on this place. Our beaches are no longer ours, but a European oasis within this chaotic jumble, where blond men and women come to sunbathe, topless, while everything else falls apart.

Yet today I wonder what will happen to these Europeans, how will they run their businesses, survive in a country that (in spite of all its wealth) lacks basic foodstuff like milk, eggs, sugar, cooking oil and soon pasta? And for us, it is no longer a matter of keeping our best tourist places in-house. Slowly but surely we are less citizens of our country, Venezuela, as we (productive men and women) leave our parents behind to make a better life somewhere else, as foreigners. It is obvious that Venezuela needed a change that, for once, included the needs of the majority of its impoverished population. We all wanted to make the change. It was a beautiful idea; it would have been an incredible dream come true if Venezuelans had prospered as a country, if social class lines had not been turned into the trenches of a civil divide which has taken us from fear, to hate, to madness, to loss.