Another End to the War with No End

Today, the 2nd of April 2011, President Obama announced that Osama bin Laden, the mastermind terrorist behind 9/11, had been killed, and that the body had been removed and buried at sea- to conform with Islamic practice (that the body must be buried within 24 hours) and to keep any potential grave from acting as a shrine to him.

I am deeply embarrassed to note that, across the nation, most upsettingly at university campuses, people erupted in cheers, impromptu celebrations, and general revelry at the news. People have joined together once again in the US, but this time to glory in the death of another.

What a terrible pity to see the baseness of American arrogance. When videos surfaced that some had celebrated the September 11th attacks on the USA, people were horrified and hurt. Now, when the reified symbol of terrorism in the US was announced as dead, people dance and cry and hug. Once again, the world is reminded how isolated the USA is in its arrogance and assurance that no one shall challenge the disturbing control that US military power exerts over the rest of the world.

Not everyone is reacting so thoughtlessly. I found this quote from a CNN article quite interesting: She likened the feeling to "what people feel like when someone has been killed and they finally capture or kill the person who did it." (Full article here: http://edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/05/02/bin.laden.color/index.html?hpt=T2).

So yes, for those who lost family or friends, I can understand a quiet acknowledgement and feeling of relief or closure at seeing the alleged perpetrator captured. However, I’ve never heard of other criminals- rapists, murderers, pedophiles- entering jail or the death penalty with the echoes of fireworks and happy cries ringing in the ears. Justice is achieved there, yes, but it is for the victim’s families to accept; any celebration would be crude.

Is it racism that makes the distinction between these two scenarios? It could simply be the fact that, symbolically, Osama bin Laden „touched“ all of us with his evil- or rather, he was shown to us as the mastermind, the head conductor of evil. So, because of the scope of people who were affected by his plan, people are pleased. Or is this greater- an „us“ vs. „them“ scenario? Can we imagine if President Bush was killed and people in other countries celebrated? Americans would be horrified and angry. And yet, as they dance merry jigs in the streets, this doesn’t cross their minds. America’s power and dignity was challenged, and those who dare to do so are punished. I’m not condoning terrorist behavior, and I find the violence that was inflicted on the US to be- to this day- terrifying and even more tear-jerking when I watch the videos now. But we are dancing over the grave of a man who started as any other man and, as we now know, gained his military expertise from the United States. And we have the audacity to feel justified in crushing others who find our reign unbearable, suffocating, and ultimately horrifying in its scope, secrecy, and strength.

American should go back inside and- this will be the only time that beg for this- turn on Youtube and find the videos of the attack. They should listen to the frightened cries of victims and remember that those were brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers of other Americans. As James Croft puts it in his blog (Found here: http://www.templeofthefuture.net/current-affairs/the-tolling-bell-do-some-deserve-to-die), there may be a begrudging satisfaction one can take, but the breadth of joy and celebration today is disheartening, dispiriting, and dehumanizing- for all of us.

What's in a name?

Did you ever feel like your name was a strange label for yourself? I was just lying in bed and thinking about my name. Hannah. Hannah. hannah! Why did I start thinking about my name? I was thinking about the film Freedom Writers, and thought to myself, "If I ever become a teacher, I would want people to call me Hannah." It's unprofessional, perhaps, it's uncouth or unorthodox, but I never heard it enough- and those who said it to me, I treasured unduly (perhaps). I think about the men I have loved who called me by my name- not baby, but hannah. There's an interesting book called The Forgotten Beasts of Eld- one of my favorites- and in it, knowing the name of someone- and also giving them your name- is a way of belonging to that person, who is then able to call you within their own soul from wherever they are, and you would have to respond to them, and-somewhat sinisterly- could be captured in this way. I liked the idea of giving your name to someone, of protecting it as a metaphor for your deeper identity- and, most of all, of knowing this identity and coveting it, as something worthy of protection; to cherish, and to give it sparingly, but ultimately to give it knowingly and fully when the time was right. Your name could also be found and taken, and only if the person gave it back to you could you walk away, free.

I find this concept interesting in many ways. You can give your name to somebody and risk losing it, risk them guarding just that name and not allowing you to grow, of having it lost from others in ancient texts, but to have that mean freedom- being independent and free in knowing and guarding the name-identity as a sacred object. I think back now on how important of a message it is- to know yourself and have control over your identity, and not to lose that in someone else.

But back to my name: I want to take out a photo of myself right then and write Hannah hannah Hannah hannah hannah all over it just so I could look at myself like everyone else looks at me. I went to this amazing bar last night in downtown Chicago where four unbelievably talented musicians got suggestions of what to play, and switched between piano, guitar, electric violin, and drums- whichever they could play best for that song. I was brought by one of the musicians and sat with girls I haven't seen in 8, 9 years. They saw Hannah, a Hannah they haven't seen for almost a decade, I was still somehow recognizable by face and name to them- even though I'm an unrecognizable me to that former self. They were kind, sweet, we exchanged the pleasantries and generalized 9 years away in the space of a few short bursts of conversation. I bet they are so different, but I got to know them last night about as much as I knew them before, so they are still the same women to the same faces- at least to my eyes.

How does this happen? I don't believe that I'm hannah. I can't see the hannah that they see, I find it shocking that they can recognize me from years of faces and come up with a little placard- even though I can do the same with them. I just don't hear it enough, I get "hey" and "hb" (Hannah banana) and "What's up" and "hi" but not often "hi hannah, hello hannah, what's up hannah." It seems like such a funny name now. I wonder if other people laugh when they say it, because all I can do is laugh now when I say it to myself. Hannah hannah hannah. And then, it's so strange to me that I can walk up to someone in the grocery store who I saw every day for a year, who I sang with in the madrigal choir, who I looked after because he was so sweet and young and talented, and I have to say "I'm hannah" for him to understand who I am. That name that I can't see on myself, that I want to paint onto all of my pictures so that I can make the connection. And still, I want to hear the name, nobody calls me hannah anymore. "Hey hannah? can you pass the salt?"

What's a happy day?

I keep going back to this one day.

I planned for months to make Erik an Advent calendar. In Europe, they usually have chocolate Advent Calendars- every day, you open up to the same or different types of chocolate. While we were in Leipzig, one of our friend's girlfriends gave him a homemade one, elaborate with its beautifully wrapped presents for every day of December.

As I sat alone in Chicago over a long 2-month holiday with the family, I contemplated what I would put inside mine- and how to make it. I settled easily on a variety of American candy, his favorite sauces, and other things he missed from the US. And, after a while, I decided that a Christmas tree shape would be the most suitable.

The day finally arrived- December 1st- to assemble it in his apartment. I arrived at 9 am, waiting in the snow for him to leave (as the Christmas tissue paper slowly got destroyed by rogue snowflakes), finally calling him only to find out that he was not indeed leaving at 9 that morning, but 10 (his attendance became more and more questionable as the internship went along). Fine. But I was stuck. I called one of the roommates, and managed to make it into the building, where I set up camp on the 2nd floor. But, one roommate decided that was ridiculous, and ushered me into her room to wait until he left, bringing me coffee and distracting him.

But he didn't need distracting. He sounded overjoyed- they were singing, playing guitar, and chatting over breakfast. He got in the shower for a long, long soak (over 20 minutes- something I have never seen before) and he was singing the entire time. His step was sprightly as he raced past the door I was hiding behind, rushing up the stairs, grabbing his things, singing all the while. He went out, came back, went out, yelling, laughing, shouting as he went. It was the first night in a while that he had been alone, without me, and he sounded well rested, and jubilant. Never, in all the time we've dated, was he so exuberant, so musical, and so long in the shower! -I didn't know what to think.

Then I look at my feelings on that day. I was feeling shocked, surprised, and empty as I sat there, listening to his happiness, me silently waiting behind closed doors. I felt silly, thinking back, because my entire day was predicated upon his excitement at my gift, my glee and exultation that day was heightened only in anticipation of his recognition, of his happiness, of his acknowledgement of my hard work, and his gratefulness. I was not disappointed- and even burst out crying because his reaction was better than I had hoped for. But that's what I wanted- I desperately needed a reaction from him, I needed him to see what I could/would do. But I felt empty again after giving it, as if everything had gone into that little lopsided Christmas tree, but it couldn't resuscitate something that was missing all along. My dignity? My independence? Love enough for myself and from others without needing his final approval?

And then, I look back on his overwhelming happiness that morning. Is he not acting like himself around me? Is this the true Erik, that gets stifled when his room is filled with two?

I talked this over with my sister this morning, trying to eke out the reason. He loves his roommate Anna, something that used to bother me. He told me at one point that sometimes she is easier to talk to than his other roommate, that she actually complains, because life isn't always beautiful, because she can empathize. But we (he and I) never seem to empathize about the same things, we never seem to feel each other's pain. They have more in common, I think- they spend their free time similarly. I have more in common, I sometimes feel like my heart is being seen more clearly by others. This goes back to my previous post- are we not trying hard enough for each other? Are we not being honest enough about our insecurities, about our passions, so that the other can only compete, but not really fit into the picture? Are we too competitive for each other, and are better as friends? Would he be happier if I played guitar like he does, if I enjoyed sitting around for 6 hours and playing/listening, if I knew more movies and we shared on that account? Would I be happier (in this relationship) if he talked more about his feelings, if he wanted to explore more with me, if he recognized my music and took an interest in it?

It also goes back to the question I keep asking- would we be friends if we weren't dating? He partied a lot more last year- he was more of a night owl. But, we still saw each other alot, studied in Starbucks, both enjoy wandering around stores- would we have found that connection if we only bonded over a somewhat shared past and a similar sense of humor? Would we be together, would we have found each other eventually, if we didn't at the beginning? It's hard, impossible, to look back and guess, but it makes me wonder if we wouldn't be happier if we were more supportive of each other because we had more similar interests, than the competitive spirit dividing our attention to the other's strengths, or the incommunicable wells of feelings, inscrutible to the other, dark and misty and uninviting, but open to another who can understand those caverns better?

Opposites attract, but sometimes a little more common ground would be nice.

Breaking Up

Breaking up.

Uglier than moving, because it is cutting off a connection to another human, with jokes, secret kissing places, testimonies, love, compromises, and plans all factored in. I may soon break up with my boyfriend in a mutual decision to end our 1 year, 2 month (depending on how you look at our beginning) relationship. We are growing apart, after months of anxieties, fears, pressure, and adriftedness that has pitched us together in an unsteady and exhausting dependent state, while causing us to spiral deeper into ourselves and away for each other as we try, perhaps, to protect each other from the instabilities that we both see in our current life.

Living the expat life is not easy, especially with regards to relationships of any kind. I have watched (and experienced) other strange relationships take out on other continents and then struggle to spark again on home soil- or relationships that move to foreign locations and then widen tiny fissures as the pressures to deal with language, bureaucracy, distance, and coping with the myriad tiny difficulties of finding your favorite food, getting parents on skype, figuring out the bus schedule, and making new friends takes hold.

My relationship now is of a different sort. Born between us as we pursue our Master's degrees in Europe, we had a sort of shared history that sustained and deepened our knowledge of each other's past quickly, as we had both attended the same university for our undergrad, but never met. Our relationship strengthened over a long year in Germany as we both found solace in each other in the loneliness of leaving everything behind, and we became the darlings of the group, the couple that group sentiments rallied around for its sweetness, novelty, and the feeling of complicity that everyone had to keep our relationship afloat.

As our program mandated, we set off for a new country, Austria, after 10 months. The boyfriend took off earlier to start an internship, laying the foundations of his life far before me, engaging with his roommates, and welcoming visitors from home. I joined two months later, fitting into his pocket as he rushed around in his life, and free-riding on his friendships and happiness. I was empty, though, and found it difficult to make friends and to break out of my dependence on him and his world. He is so happy- he always seems so happy- and I was jealous of little indications of the contentment of his world, when he didn't need me anymore as he needed me in our previous year.

He grew! He found himself in a new place. Not entirely, of course, but I was blinded by my own needs. It soon became apparent, through sudden and multiple panic attacks, that he was also finding the pressure great, that he too is homesick, adrift, worried about the future, nervous, struggling. But our relationship fizzled again as the labidos dropped, the sadness within each of us grew, and the fear of disappointing the other became overwhelming. I worried incessantly that he would break up with me for the first two months. He labored under his own emotions, unable to share them, and convinced that dumping them on me would turn me away- a typical result of the very undiscussed problem of the pressures of the myth of machismo on young men, usually subsumed or made subordinate to the pressures on women of body image, which seems much more apparent, if only because it is fiercely advocated for and challenged by legions of feminists. Read Betty Friedan's "It Changed My Life" for an honest and accomodating feminist's early perspective on the multiple pressures of relationships to get an idea of the untold suffering of men in our society.

We are "on a break." We are both scared and sad, but the gulf dividing us is real. Writing this out now, I think it is because we are both so lonely and afraid of our futures (separately, without even beginning to consider together, though naturally, 'together' is a big, scary issue that we try to tackle without real conviction of its reality, which Erik chalks up to us being afraid of committing too early) that we are turning in on ourselves instead of sharing together in a more intimate and honest way.

To say we don't have issues in our relationship is to deny a huge reality. I suffer because Erik does not talk about his emotions freely, seeing them as a source of weakness. I depend on him heavily in Vienna because I am so much unhappier, due to having trouble finding friends. But there are so many reasons we get along, so many things we could support each other about, so many places where we could grow together. But competition racks us with stubbornness and a fierce desire to have independent interests, so we don't blend them. We try to preserve that element of independence, or we try to encroach on the other's territory somewhat falsely, when all we have to do is ask for earnest help, care about it, and mean it to engage the other to let us into their little world and to broaden our support and love for each other.

I love him, but I'm trapped in an ugly, scared, and lonely place that is keeping us both apart. He said he wishes he had met me 5 years from now, which I gather means that, because we are so comfortable, and that we could be with each other for a long time, we would be a wonderful marriage- but, because we have slightly different ambitions right now and not a totally overwhelming desire to coordinate (from our obstinateness, or merely from our desires at this point in life?), we are drifting apart from something that has been so good for so long. If we break up mutually because of fear, what kind of break-up is that, really? Are we giving up?

I'm glad the channels of communication are open. That's love and respect- and fear.

Where are the lonely people?

I just read Roger Ebert's post about All the Lonely People.

Dear Internet, I'm Lonely.

I just wrote to my brother that I liked what Ebert wrote about being in a foreign city, where nobody knows you and you can quietly wander around and enjoy a coffee by yourself. I like that, I do- I don't think I would have made it as far as I have if I didn't. But I also like coming home to someone, something, waiting for me. I don't care if it's a puppy, I can't stand the solitude of nothing here but my music. It doesn't make me productive, it makes me melancholy. Depressed. Over.

Leaving This Place

I am, time and time again, overcome with the dramatic ugliness of moving. There you sit, amidst tiny and distinct chaotic piles, each destined for a different box. Things wait for a designated position in the cumbersome packages that you will bring to your new life, wherever that may be, as you pass between fits of overwhelming sadness juxtaposed against the desire to throw everything away. Everything becomes reduced to boxes, garbage, half-deconstructed dressers, dirty clothes waiting for the last possible moment to be washed, and various useful articles that are kept in a separate heap to be passed on to various sentient recipients. And all of this is separate from what is important- you are eventually grated away from your home. You become a shred that is stripped away from the whole to be consumed by something ominously bigger than yourself.

We then reduce our time with others to mere phrases. We write cards, buy presents, think of appropriate thanks for those whose paths converged with ours for some time, trying to think of a way to ease the sadness and to convey perpetual affection mixed with frustration, anxiety, passion, and banality over time with words. When our turn comes to say good-bye, some recycle clichéd phrases and exhaust the energy they need for the next step in overly dramatic emotional storms. For others, the words never cease, but the rights ones never come. Yet others treat this caesura as a simple and formal affair, hands dusted and placed inside pockets alongside the emotions that will be dealt with later, in private. And then, the final act of separation; a hug, a kiss, damp lips searching neck nooks and ear crevices, sad eyes meeting sympathetic warmth or equally melancholy hallows, masks hiding memories and emotions far too numerous to relate, and far too important to discard.

But the moment comes, and someone’s back turns. Someone returns to what they know, and someone else sets off into a lonely horizon. And both, even for a moment, but sure to recur, feel a more or less profound sense of an ending. And for me, I feel weights dragging my feet, a fountain of stone crushing my shoulders, knowing that going back could not ever be the same, that going forward is the only choice left, that the feelings of some will snake behind me for many years yet, and that others will quickly dive beneath the earth.

Youth is wasted on the young.
Who said this? Who condemned me to worry about this simple adage and fear that I am letting the best years of my life slip away from me? Why do these words, each uninteresting on its own, suddenly smush up next to teach other and then threaten me menacingly, telling me to carpe diem and to stop sitting around on my butt waiting for life to happen? It’s a wicked trick to play on people. For, to arrive at old age, one first needs all the stumbling and failings (the triumphs and successes!) of youth, a merciless battle to survive to even be able to sit around once again and think about the youth that preceded it. Why should I feel bad, then, once again examining my “Spectre of Uselessness” as I did so long ago, and wondering if it should not haunt me for the rest of my life?
I booked a spontaneous trip to Istanbul today, just to counteract such listlessness. I had planned, in my way, to back out of it at the last second, having told my roommate and friend that it would be fun to go. I planned to say, suddenly, that the money was too great, that ich habe kein Lust. But, he’s been uttering an equally finicky and judgmental maxim of late, something about it never being the right time and never having enough money, but you may never get free time again. He’s older than me by 6 years, so I’m going to assume that his own youth and experience have influenced this begotten conclusion, and so, I go. I sit in bed and I lament my hastiness, dread asking for money again, wonder how much I will have to transfer from my savings to cover the “damages” and to ward off a money transfer from my parents for another two months.
Put on the Killers- “Everything will be alright.”