Yes, Who Watches The Watchmen?

This is what happens when I wait forever to post something…it loses momentum, or is no longer relevant. Oh well, I am posting this anyway. I was not done with all of my thoughts.

I think it would really be wonderful if attention were taken away from Dr.  Manhattan’s penis and maybe focus were given to I don’t know…the movie. As Kim Voyner points out in “The Big Blue Elephant in the Corner of the Room” why is there such an outcry over Dr. Manhattan’s genitals and not the barely dressed female characters, or the rape scene, or the gruesome blood and broken bones? Apparently naked women is totally fine and expected, but a blue penis, woah! Not that this is news.

I do not want to focus on the need to steer clear of the penis, rather I want to focus on the movie, as an adaptation, as a piece of stand alone art independent of the graphic novel, its politics, social commentary, cinematography, and all of the other things that it has to offer aside from or in addition to a blue penis.

As an adaptation I have to give Zack Snyder serious credit for doing an amazing job of translating the graphic novel to screen. I know, I know, Alan Moore does not approve, but as much as I like him, I do not always agree with Alan Moore, and does he ever give his approval?

Snyder took a complicated story with multiple layers and multi-dimensional characters and created a beautifully sculpted piece of art. The opening credits serve as a background story of who the Watchmen are and how history has played out, including the endless presidency of Richard Nixon and a US victory in Vietnam.

The Watchmen are a group of people who over the years took it upon themselves to serve as protectors, enforcers of order, bringers of justice. Some retired, some were killed, some went crazy. Finally, their vigilante justice was stopped by the US government. The idea of a “regular” person, that is someone without powers like Superman or Spiderman, doing heroic acts and fighting injustice, is not foreign to the world of comics. And Moore seems to have a dislike for vigilantes like Batman, regular folks who take it upon themselves to enforce order, or what they know to be order. Now, I am a huge Batman fan. I have been since childhood, sucked into the Adam West series early on, and I do not know that Moore has a dislike for all regular folks fighting crime, so to speak, but in general finds it to be a bad idea.

After all, it is only people so ego-maniacal, so self- righteous who could possibly think that they alone, or even as a collective – even then this collective is so shattered and often times the Watchmen are left working in isolation – could take it upon him or herself to be a saviour. The only non-crazy member, Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley), is the craziest member, and the hero and narrator of the story. It is through Rorschach’s memories and present experiences that the majority of the story is told. Rorschach is not so stuck on himself, what he does is not about him, but about everyone. Ozymandias (Matthew Goode) and The Comedian (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) are certainly self-serving characters. Okay, Ozymandias thinks he is working for the greater good, but George Bush thought attacking Iraq and Afghanistan were for the greater good too. And that is Moore’s point, well one point anyway. Who determines what the greater good is, and why do some people think that they have the right to enforce certain actions, thoughts, and behaviours? And why do we stand by and allow them to? The Watchmen are a complicated group. They fight for what they believe in, but often what they believe in is in alignment with the very system and enforcers who have created chaos. The Comedian and Dr. Manhattan use their power, strength, abilities and so on to help the US government. There is no question from either of them on whether or not that is right, and in the case of The Comedian, his assistance is for wealth and celebrity. Rorschach, on the other hand, sees an injustice, such as rape or murder and acts accordingly. He does not do this for the US or any other larger system. He does it because it is right.

As I watched the movie it struck me that yet again, here are heroes who are all white. The only black character is the psychiatrist Malcolm Long, whose screen time is minimal (and I could not locate the name of the actor who portrayed him), and frankly, he is a somewhat obnoxious and particularly cowardly and ignorant character. Then it got me to thinking – mind you, this in no way justifies the lack of people of color in this movie – only folks in places of privilege would think that they literally and figuratively have the power to save others. So, here are these white characters, several of whom are wealthy, and they have taken it upon themselves to save the world…or at least the United States. And people want to talk about a blue penis! Really? Come on. Here is not one great white hope, but many. They represent the idea of spreading democracy and liberty to people who apparently do not have it, that is anyone who is not from the US and especially everyone who is poor and brown. And those folks being liberated are supposed to be eternally grateful. The fact that the Watchmen are not these unquestioned heroes is what makes it so complex. Yes, Spiderman is questioned, as is Batman, but this story takes things to a whole new level. Batman/Bruce Wayne has his darker moments, but at least as far as the film adaptations are concerned, until Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, Batman was presented primarily as a hero, the good guy. I for one, want my good guys and my bad guys to be complex. I want to question their motives. This is why I cannot stand Superman. He is too perfect.

I like my Bruce Wayne with a side of guilt and a pinch of remorse topped off with some revenge.

It’s the 80’s and Nixon is still president. That is just depressing. Almost as depressing as the reality of George Bush Jr. taking office without the majority of votes. The actor playing Nixon (Robert Wisdon) looks like a man in a mask. The make-up is so obvious. Nixon did look like a guy in a mask after all. And the fact that so much attention was paid to every last detail of the film, from the costumes to the make-up to the opening credits, I cannot imagine that Nixon looking so superficial was a mistake. So here it is, the 80’s, an alternative 80’s to what we know, nevertheless a significant mirror for today. Just because there is a new body in the White House does not mean that the US is far from a colonizing empire. Why are we in Iraq and Afghanistan, again? (I say “we” because while I am not there and you are not there, we sure as hell are a part of the system that is there, whether we like it or not). Why does the US have bases around the world? Oh right, protection. Democracy. Homeland security.

Watchmen, like other futuristic or alternative history tales is a reflection of current states and future issues, that is when change does not occur. The 80’s were not exactly as Orwell or Moore imagined them, but that does not mean they were perfect. And that does not mean the current state of the world is perfect either. I think it is easy to see works like 1984 or Watchmen and view them as strictly fiction. The fact that they are not banned proves that the powers that be, or “they,” think “we” are too dumb to realize the truth, that these works of art are not only art but truth. These are not just imaginative worlds and words, but based on fact. Voltaire, Swift, and other satirists got away with their work because it was viewed as humourous and harmless, unable to incite deep thought or riots. That fact of the matter is, there are plenty of us who can see the parallels between the realities we live in the imaginations of artists.

Zack Snyder is not an idiot, nor are his producers and distributors. 300was released at a critical time, when Iran and the US were at each other’s throats. Watchmenis a part of that same world. So, Iran is not the focus, nor is the Middle East, but there is still this supposedly unstoppable EVIL out there (and really, Russia has been getting it bad since the 50’s). The US cannot see its own evil, the Watchmen cannot see their own flaws. Every superpower, whether individual person or government, views itself/himself/herself as on the side of good. Ok, fine, some admit to having purely villainous motives.

I was intrigued by the commonalities between the Watchmen and the government that banned their activities. On the one hand, the Watchmen help people who cannot wait fora  fire truck to show up or a slow police investigation. On the other hand the Watchmen, at least some of them, are employed by a tyrannical government.

I am publishing this. I can’t keep putting it off then coming back.

Yet Again

I keep thinking about Slumdog Millionaire, trying to understand my dislike for the film. It started out as an inability to see the magnificence that had been thrust upon the film, and now I simply do not like it. I am tired of thinking about it and talking about it and trying to place words to my feelings. I decided writing about it once more should help clear the air.

I have been conversing with different people while reading about the awards piling on and both praise and annoyance over this movie. Without having seen it Sadiqeh observed that in her experience white folk often enjoy movies about people of color they can relate to or where there is some sort of triumph over hardship; in other words yet another opportunity to pity.

While watching Slumdog I could not help but feel a colonial gaze over the entire thing. After all, the director, at least the one who is getting all the praise and taking all the credit, is Danny Boyle. The co-director, Loveleen Tandan has, with much protest from onlookers, not been nominated for the same awards Boyle has. That’s ok, too many women have received Oscars for directing anyway.

A friend passed on what I found to be an insightful observation of the film’s colonial lense, while also talking about enjoying the production: http://diaryofananxiousblackwoman.blogspot.com/2009/01/bollywood-meets-national-geographic-my.html

The author talks specifically about the imagery of a young Jamal covered in shit as reminiscent of comparisons made by whites of darker peoples’ skin to feces. She also mentions the use of the word “dog” in the title (the booked upon which it is based is titled Q & A) as being questioned due to the fact that dog was a term used by the English in reference to Indians. This author has also helped put into words or clarify for me some of my aversion to the film, that there is no context for the disturbing things viewers see, except that it all takes place in India. The child beggars and prostitutes, the evil adults, the rioting, the cheating, it all is part of the slum country where anyone can pull themselves up by their bootstraps – or in this case, the shoes the poor kid has to steal from Taj Mahal tourists! – and win millions just to show his love, not prove it.

I am reminded of my lack of interest in Kiterunner. I have never read nor seen the movie, and the main reason was that I did not trust the fact that the majority of people who praised it were white. I could not help but feel that this meant there must be something off about the story, or something to make “them” feel sorry for “us.” (And now that I know about a certain incident in the story I have no intention of ever reading or seeing it.)

I could not help but wonder how much praise Slumdog would receive if the director were Indian. But I guess who knows Indians better than the Brits!

All this aside, I have a problem with rags to riches stories. I find them ridiculous and providers of false hope. And in this case this Indian boy gains his new riches because of colonization through media. If it were not for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire he would still be serving tea.

And despite my political and social observations, I still remain clueless as to how this film is deserving of a best picture nomination, and not just from the Oscars. What is so brilliant about it? Yes, the cinematography is good, the music is great, the sets design, and costumes, but really? This is one of the top five? I would not say that the editing is anything worth raving about. Let’s just be honest and admit that when a movie makes this much money it has to get recognition. Titanic, anyone! Forrest Gump. Hell, Return of the Kingis not the best LOTR movie, but they had to give one of them Best Picture at the Oscars after three years and millions upon millions of dollars. Or maybe the Oscars folks feared some sort of Elfish riot from crazed fans.

Even if this film were brilliant in terms of production I still cannot get passed the colonial lense through which it is told. I admit to enjoying the dancing at the end, but even that seems random and insulting. Is this supposed to be some sort of shout out to Bollywood movies? Is this supposed to remind us that this is an Indian film, or take my attention away from the fact that Danny Boyle is behind the camera?

If this movie wins Best Picture it will be yet another reminder for me of why I hate the Oscars and as far as I am concerned can join the craptastic wins given to The English Patient, Crash, and others listed above.

Oscars

Here are the nominees for best Motion Picture:

* The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

* Frost/Nixon

* Milk

* The Reader
* Slumdog Millionaire

I have yet to see Frost/Nixon or The Reader, so no comment.

I liked Benjamin Button, but best picture seems like a stretch. It was enjoyable, the acting was good, I liked Brad Pitt despite thinking I would not, the make-up was incredible…but really? Overall, best picture? Benjamin Button was actually better than, say, Revolutionary Road? I have not seen that, mind you, but considering the praise it has received, I am surprised.

I agree with Milk. I think that Gus Van Sant may have finally figured out how to bring his knowledge of art and make it mainstream compatible. I like art house movies, I always felt like Van Sant was trying too hard. My Own Private Idaho is hard to watch, and not because it deals with difficult subject matter or because watching River Phoenix has a bitter sweetness to it, but because the Shakespearean melodrama is pushed a little too forcefully down my throat. It is possible I lied to myself about liking Gerry. Maybe I should see it again.

So, Slumdog Millionaire…I anticipate anger from whoever the hell may read this, if anyone does. I don’t get what the big deal is. The imagery was good, I loved the music, and Danny Boyle knows how to set music to images and images to music. I felt absolutely no emotional connection to the characters. Watching children being abused is hard enough to stomach, and I feel as if that is supposed to create some sort of automatic sympathy on my part or feelings for the hero. Ok, I found that not easy to watch and felt terrible at the knowledge that that kind of abuse was not made up for the sake of the film, but children are abused every day, etc. So how come I could not connect with those characters? I have been thinking about this since I saw the movie on Monday. I wondered if I missed something, but no I do not think so. I recognize the elements of what makes a good story and what makes a good film, but somehow those elements did not come together in the amazing fashion everyone claimed.

And let’s not kid ourselves, I wanted The Dark Knight to at least get nominated.

oh, and I still think Into the Wild needs and Oscar, can’t it get nominated twice?

At least Gran Shithead wasn’t nominated.

But seriously, if Forrest Dump and Shitanic can get so many Oscars how come The Dark Knight isn’t worthy?

09 jan 09

I tend to avoid resolutions. I like to make changes during Ramadan and Lent. I find a new year placed in the midst of a dead season strange, and prefer the Iranian New Year at the beginning of Spring. But why not celebrate both? And why not embrace changes or amendments that need to take place. I decided that I am going to be more open and honest with myself as well others around me. (I also decided to keep better contact with people and see more movies).

After learning some things this winter break and getting angry about secrets, it occurred to me that I am just as guilty of maintaining that status quo and not opening up about things. And this does not mean I need to be exposed or without the safety of my own intuition, but it is time for me to cultivate my emotions, to be completely honest with myself, and to know how to take steps forward, how to sometimes remain silent, and how to embrace the fear and hesitation that often times accompanies speaking out.

The first few days in California I felt for certain that I am an East Coast person, that CA is not a place for me. I did not see the need to carry a conversation with anyone other than those I was there to see. As I spent time in California I acknowledged that while NY has its merits emotionally, mentally, physically, and that I often feel completely at home, it has also provided me with an excuse to retreat into a former self and to act out in ways that are easily excused because of my geographical location. This is not about completely denying who I am, because NY also helped me learn that I had suppressed a true part of myself. This is, however, about learning and growing and developing…and I will not stifle myself. I cannot.

I need to use the time that have, the time not occupied by work, to continue working on creations. I need to focus on myself and what my personal expectations are and not be so concerned if I do not always meet them.

I can see myself in California. I can see myself wandering. I can feel myself losing some of the daring I had even last year. I do not like that. Traveling always puts things into perspective for me. I can see, from far away, what was there, already in front of me.

I felt a NY promise had been made, but that is not the case. It was a promise to myself. And things change. They evolve.

I am learning to be open with my emotions. I am more willing to allow myself to show how I truly feel, especially if my feelings are related to sorrow and sometimes accompanied by tears.  I am open to allowing myself to feel, and to not keep those feelings in isolation.

Let’s Talk H8

It has been over one month since Barack Obama won the presidential election and Proposition 8 was passed in California.

First, I want to congratulate those Californians who voted for the passing of this bill, which constitutionally bans gay marriage, on their victory. You did it! You took your hate and had it written into law. I bet there are some Obama haters who wish they had the same amount of sway.

Ahhhh, so much to say.

Let me just say it, maybe it will ramble, maybe it will flow out perfectly into coherent thoughts. Maybe I can go back and edit.

I am constantly amazed by the amount of energy some people put into hatred. Why does it matter to me or anyone else who another person chooses to love and/or marry? Even for those people who claim that their opposition is based on religious beliefs, fine, then join religious institutions that don’t allow gay marriage. Why does it have to be written into law that gay marriage is forbidden?

Now, let’s talk about the backlash from the gay community. Certain statistics claimed that Proposition 8 passed because of the high number of black voters who turned out this year due to Obama running. Hooray, a black man is president, now we can make racist claims while claiming we aren’t racist…after all, there is a black man in the white house. For starters, only 12% of the entire US population is black. Secondly, isn’t it convenient to go and blame one group for the passing of this bill instead of looking at the overall picture, like the fact that this country was built on hatred, enslavement, and genocide, and that gay rights are something that have been consistently denied? Here is a wonderful breakdown from Tara’s blog: http://bias-cut.livejournal.com/610141.html (Because I cannot seem to figure out how to hyperlink…awesome).

So first black voters were blamed, then Mormons. Ok, ok, so the Mormon church donated large amounts of money to Proposition 8, I understand that, but again, attacking Mormons for something that the church did is completely ludicrous. As if there are not gay Mormons and gay black folk! Black folk who showed up to protests against the passage of Proposition 8 had racial slurs yelled at them by other gay folk. Great job queers, way to show support and way to gain favour for your fight. But hey, at least those black gays and Mormon gays know where you stand now. Isn’t it interesting too, that so many queer folk compare gay rights to the civil rights movement in the 60’s, yet here they are, throwing racial slurs out? Maybe they have that right since the struggles are so close…yeah, that must be it.

What I see coming from this is an opportunity for the queer community to come together and fight not for the right to marry, but for civil rights overall. Suicide is insanely high in the queer community, particularly amongst teenagers. Homelessness, sex education, poverty, these are all things that impact the community, and yet, marriage is at the top of the list!? People wanting to get married is fine. I see no reason for that right to be denied. However, I do see a problem with it being the focal point of a community that is riddled with so many other issues, not to mention blatant discrimination from its own government.

And there are those in the queer community who fight for things like better medical care, education, and anti-hate crime laws. There are people in the community who do not see marriage as the number one issue. But like everything else, when the elite and the privileged have the ability to speak up, have access to all the resources, then it is their issues that are heard. And what else do queers who are privileged need? Marriage, that is it. Queer people of color do not just deal with homophobia, but racism outside of and within the queer community. Queer women deal with sexism out of and within the community. Why should marriage be the number one issue for people who are fighting against racism and sexism? (And these are only two examples of those not in the privileged class).

The queer community as a whole needs to really step back and take a look at what is needed and what is wanted, and doors need not be shut in the faces of those who do not fit the desired profile. Barack Obama winning the election is by no means an end to racism, it is only a great way for racists to get away with a lot more. But it is also an opportunity for people to prove their loyalty and dedication to the elimination of discrimination.

This is a chance for the elite, the white queers, to examine how their privilege impacts not only their entire community, but themselves. What are they missing or denying themselves by focusing on the right to marry whilst ignoring the fact that there is a lot of work to be done in regard to racism, poverty, sexism, and homophobia overall, to name a few?

And this is a chance for all allies to stand together and command and demand equality. If this really is a country formed with the intent to support freedom, then let’s prove that to ourselves. Let’s take it. No one can give it to us, but ourselves.

I waited to write this one, because I was lazy; two, I needed to gather my thoughts; three, it is still important, and until discrimination is squashed, it will remain important.

You can’t shut me up.

Palin, Biden, Obama, McCain…

I do not have television, nor have watched DNC and RNC speeches online. I have read the transcripts. Palin definitely knows what to say and based on the words, how to say. They all do, let’s be honest.

This is like casting for a giant blockbuster film. Put your make up on. Memorize your lines. Lure people in, not with what you say, but HOW you say it. The Bush blockbuster has been a major action film with some serious comedic and tragic moments. Sometimes the tragedy has been comedy and vice versa. But it’s not just Bush. It’s the US blockbuster. It’s not as if Clinton refrained from dropping bombs. He was bombing Iraq too. Oh, but he gave them a break in Ramadhan. I mean, they’re fasting anyway, why kill them. Maybe with all the sanctions against them, Iraqis will starve quicker during that holy month.

Obama and McCain are not talking about ending war. Sure, sure Obama talks about pulling troops from Iraq, but within the same breath he mentions the “issue” of Iran and protecting Israel. Do listeners not ask: Why protect Israel specifically? What is the deal here? Apparently not. Apparently protecting Israel is just part of “our” (the US’s) job. And Obama did not elaborate on the “issue” of Iran, nor did Palin, nor has anyone.

Does Obama mean to pull troops from Iraq and then send them to Iran? Does McCain mean to send troops to Iran with those still in Iraq?

A friend once told me, when I said that Kerry would instill the draft, that there already is a draft; the poor draft. This is true. What options are given to people? None. Joining the military is not a choice. Not when death is part of that choice.

And I am still not voting. I refuse to select the lesser of two evils. Listen, it’s not two evils anyway, it’s all one giant evil with two heads. And voting did not matter when Bush was running either. There has been extnsive research done and some documentaries made on the “elections” of George Bush. The decision has already been made. If Obama is to be president, or McCain, that vote does not matter. Whoever has been selected as the next leader will be in that office, dropping bombs and serving the elite and ignoring the poor and spreading democracy one death at a time, whether they got the majority of votes or not.

And I will be one of the first to admit that I have not been out there protesting. I was not by Amy Goodman when she was arrested. I was not with those at the RNC who were attacked by police. I was not at the DNC demanding truth. Silence speaks volumes, and my lack of protest and the overall lack of protest from those of us who are in a state of terror as a result of this government, is our compliance. The only good that would come from the draft is that suddenly those who have been silent or too afraid to speak or too busy or too whatever, will fight back. And maybe that is why it won’t happen.

I am amazed at the inability to see through the illusions and allusions presented by these candidates, by these supposed “everyday” people. I am not like Obama or McCain or Palin or Biden. Trying to sell me your childhood or your marriage or whatever aspect of you and make it seem like we have something in common is not going to work. Maybe all we have in common is that we breathe the same air and are made of the same matter. I cannot relate to a woman who calls herself a dog or a man who uses his pain and suffering to win the votes of people, or a man who has counted himself among the elite at a university. I cannot relate to their privilege or their distance from reality. Maybe theirs is reality. Maybe I am living the lie. Maybe I am taking this deeper than I intended.

Ireland Pt. 2 – You don’t win friends with salad

So, we got Rebecca to watch The Big Lebowski. Well, half of it. It was late and she had to leave the next morning. We woke up early Friday morning to make sure she got to the airport with plenty of time to go through security and customs, which they ended up doing in the US anyway, I left Rebecca at the security entrance and headed back into City Center where I took the train to Booterstown, where Bashir works. We had agreed to meet for lunch, but as I had several hours until then I walked along a footpath near the beach to Black Rock, where we were to meet. I stopped at one point, went up some stairs and down to the other side to dip my feet in the cold water. I had wanted to do so since our arrival in Ireland. I love the feeling of sand beneath my feet, between my toes, soft and grainy, molding to each step. I was completely alone too. I had passed maybe 3 people along the path, and no one was here. I enjoyed the solitude. The only sound was the wind lapping slowly against the water, and the water in turn creeping up the sand. I enjoyed the wind against my face, blowing my hair lightly from side to side. I enjoyed the water momentarily freezing my ankles. And for a brief moment, I thought, I could die here, and no one would know. The nearest houses were really only a few hundred feet away, just over the wall, and yet, there was complete solitude. I felt separated from everyone and everything. I felt calm. This was not the same feeling of solitude I get in NY, where despite the crowds, the hundreds upon hundreds of people, I still feel alone. And every now and then I want to shriek and scream. I want to yell Fuck you NY!!! But not in Ireland. This was a different alone.
Bashir and I met for lunch in the small town of Black Rock. I think I may have eaten goat cheese every day I was in Ireland. We ate a quick lunch and instead of taking the train back to Booterstown, which was a 20-minute wait, we walked back in about 15. I went up to Orix with him to say bye and passed on my “I’m a Batman Crime fighter” for Katherine to give her son Christopher, who is known as Batman and Batsy. I headed back into Dublin and spent some time relaxing at Bashir’s and getting my stuff together. Not that there was a lot to get together. When Bashir returned we headed to the Ferryman to watch that night’s match, then back to his place to finish The Big Lebowski.
We spent Saturday watching movies. I really did not want to o anywhere because I get anxious before a flight and wanted to make sure I was on time. It’s not even the flight itself that makes me anxious, but airports. Not only am I now used to being treated like a threat, but airports are like hospitals, cold and sterile, uninviting, and filled with supposed experts who can never give a direct or clear answer. Our flight now had to stop in Shannon to pick up people whose plane was experiencing technical difficulties. When I got on the plane and saw just how empty it was, and then saw that everyone in Shannon filled it up right quick, my suspicions were confirmed. They had already planned this stop. How else would they have known to not fill up the Dublin flight?
But compared to Rebecca’s experience, my flight was heaven, even if they did show us Fool’s Gold, a movie so bad I could not even zone out to it, but had to sleep. While Bashir and I were at the Ferryman Friday night Rachel called saying that Rebecca’s flight was listed as canceled online. That, of course, freaked me out. It had been over 10 hours since I left her at Dublin airport and there was no word from her. I tried to not let on to Rachel that I was scared. That was the last thing she needed. I tried calling Aer Lingus and could not get through. Rachel finally called back as she had been told that Rebecca’s flight went to JFK and then she would be getting home from there. Turns out that that Rebecca’s flight, which was scheduled as 12, was delayed for 2 hours. They were told that in 2 hours an update would be given. So around 2 they were told to wait for one more hour. Then at 3 they were told the flight had been canceled and the options were to either wait until the next morning and try to get on a plane to Dulles then, which was no guarantee, or to fly to JFK and get themselves home from there. Rebecca chose to board the JFK flight and purchased herself a ticket back to Dulles. She, smartly, wrote Aer Lingus a letter about their lack of support for customers and that the situation should have been dealt with differently, so they reimbursed her flight. I have to say; I thought they would fight her on that.
I managed to sleep through most of my flight, which is good because I was feeling a panic attack looming and picking up on some serious nervous energy from the guy sitting next to me. This was the first flight where I had ever gotten nauseous. The pilot dove in for the landing and I swear he did it like 3 times. I felt my stomach jump in waves and I thought for sure I would puke. So I decided to lean forward with my head bent down, and take deep breaths. It definitely helped. Finally we landed and did not have to wait on the plane for too long.
The gorgeous non-humid weather of Ireland made me forget how gross the weather in NY was. I also had managed to forget which station to go to for my train. I literally erased the US from my mind while I was away. But, fear not, I was welcomed back in true US style. I was harassed at customs. Apparently it was suspicious that I packed so lightly for a 9-day trip. After all, this is the US; everything should be done in excess. So I was sent from the first agent to the next, who, upon seeing my scarfed head in my passport picture, proceeded to treat me like shite. He spoke to me like I did not k now English even after having just spoken to me. Awesome. Welcome back, I thought. But I stood there silently and obediently, not quite ready to be sent away for vacation in Guantanamo.

So now it has been almost a month since I left for Ireland. It took me over a week to accept the fact that I was not there. The remaining EuroCup matches helped me to stay connected, as Bashir and I texted and emailed, him watching at the Ferryman and me watching either the game or live commentary online.

Being in Ireland was a reminder of how much I love traveling and how badly I want to go to Iran again. I hope that with one year’s time I can be on my way to visiting Iran, and not just Tehran, Isfahan, and Mashad, but Qazvin especially and most of the country. I definitely want to go to the places I am from, where I can trace back. So, County Cork will be visited some day. Every time I have traveled I have evolved, gained some new knowledge of myself, or confirmed things I thought to be true, some I thought to be false, others I merely thought. There are times I feel I could remain completely to myself, as long as I am in motion. And then I think that I do love to share experiences with others. Chris McCandless learned that happiness is greatest when shared, and despite a love for isolation, I do often feel similarly.

I think that even one day away from the things that are familiar can help us to see things differently.

I am not sleeping in white girls’ room either -Raul

So, it hit me even more this weekend how much my social anxiety has kept me from doing things. I have been making an effort, a small one, but never the less an effort to go out and do things, and I knew that what was preventing me from meeting people and from getting out was my social anxiety…and still is, let’s be honest, it’s not as if it disappears over night. But this weekend, when 6 of my friends were up, and one day before 2 other friends were up, I realized that for most activities I have been relying on people visiting me or my own visits back home. I have successfully avoided parties, movies, lunches, dinners, dances, etc and managed to not feel completely isolated because I have gone home enough and had enough visitors to keep myself occupied. Not to mention, I have learned over the years to interpret my anxiety as a dislike for people, in addition to an already existing dislike. I have used it as an excuse to not do things.

But I want to break out of that. There is so much to see and so much to do and there are cool people out there. I have met some truly genuine human beings here in NY, LC specifically comes to mind, and some really amazing, some really fun and funny, some really generous, some really open people.

I had a great weekend. And at the end it was sort of bittersweet when my new realization hit. Not only was it already sad to see everyone off and to have to return to a world completely different from the one we occupied for a few days, but to figure out one more piece of what I have used as an excuse to not get to know anyone new. I have managed for – 2 weeks shy of a year now – to keep a safe distance from all but one person in this city. And this is how I have gone through most of my life. On the one hand I am completely fine with it. I don’t need quantity, rather quality. On the other hand, I am fully aware that Will Hunting my way through life can’t last forever. It won’t.

Ireland Pt. 1 – I Blame the Sadness

I know, I know…it has taken forever to post this. And it is turning into a longer piece than I imagined, so it will be posted in 2 parts. So as not to annoy anyone too much. Mainly, myself.

Black Rock – lunch with Bashir. Dropped Rebecca off at the airport. Got here on the 6th
flew out the 5th. We went to Radiohead at Malahide Castle the 6th. Beautiful day mostly, then it started to rain, but it was light and two rainbows appeared in the sky. I learned, and so did Thom Yorke, it does not get dark till after 10 in Ireland at this time of year. They played “How to Disappear,” which made me happy. I remember Life As a House with Ayat, and so I tried to call home to at least leave it on the machine for her to hear. I could not hear if someone had picked up or it went to the machine. Turns out Baba answered the phone and did not know what he was listening to, so he hung up the phone. Awesome. They played “15 Step,” “Weird Fishes,” “There There,” “Paranoid Android.” They played two encores, and I hate encores. When I worked at The Patriot Center and saw band sets I learned that encores were staged, part of the performance, and I was disappointed. Music should be spontaneous. I remember seeing Pearl Jam once and they decided to just play through the encore. I was grateful, because why waste our time. I refuse to scream and clap loudly when I already know you are coming back out on stage. Imagine if everyone remained quiet. Malahide is outside though, so even though we did not want to miss the train and slowly made our way out of the fenced in area, we stood and listened and got a different view of the light show. I was tired and cold and wet, and full of energy from Radiohead. Thom danced like he had never danced before, hips swinging, arms flailing, head spinning. I loved every moment of it.
On Saturday we took the Dart to Bray. I was reminded of Mumbles. We walked along the footpath near the beach and made our way over one mile up a steep hill, at the top of which stood a large cement cross, grafitied. This hike was a reminder that no matter how much I walk in NYC I am out of shape, and it is not uphill, not this steep, not for this long. It was really beautiful up there. I could hear the wind blowing through my stretched ears, which was funny. Everything just seemed so at peace, so slowed down, easy, without expectation. I could sit and enjoy. We ended the day out with some dinner and the Portugal/Turkey match at a local pub.
On Sunday we walked to Phoenix Park, about 5km/3miles from Bashir’s. We stopped at the Irish Film Institute along the way to see what was playing, but either Bashir or I had seen them, or they were of no interest. As much as I love going to the cinema, I was totally cool with not attending any shows. I felt like Bashir wanted to, and it didn’t work out. We did, however, watch a lot of movies at his place.

At Phoenix Park we rented bikes from two rather funny guys with a cute boxer dog Frankie and rode around for 2 hours. It had been nearly 10 years since I rode a bike, so I definitely started out a little wobbly, especially as we rode along the path with cars. Not a good time or place to be wobbly. Almost forgot that along the way to Phoenix Park we met Roger and his two friends and their bunny Jeffrey, for whom they were building a nest. These boys fit the stereotype of hooligan Irish kids in movies, kinda dirty, big blue eyes, football jerseys, and there was something really endearing about three boys making a nest for their shaggy little bunny. And they were not shy about it, or hesitant. In the park we met a horse named Harvey at the polo fields, definitely a rich man’s sport, and several magpies, all of whom we saluted.
1 for sorrow
2 for joy
3 for girl
4 for boy
5 for silver
6 for gold
7 for a secret never to be told
That night we watched Germany/Poland at the Ferryman, Bashir’s local pub. That was especially enjoyable because there were 2 young men, an older woman, and an older man there speaking German, Polish, and English, all watching the match as well. One of the young guys rooted for Germany, and the other for Poland. They were really fun and good-natured people to watch the match with, teasing each other at times, but not maliciously, and cheering with us sometimes.
A group of older white ladies from the US came in and we tried to make sure none of them realized we are from the states as well. At one point one lady asked the barkeep – a really friendly guy who asked me from that point forward who I was cheering for each night we came to view a match – who was playing, and when he replied Germany v. Poland she hooted “Go Germany.” The young man rooting for Germany gave her a strange look, as did we. I was annoyed because she clearly was not a fan of football or the German team, but said it with a definite dislike for Poland, which of course prompted the three of us to talk about US ignorance towards Poland and Polish people. There is an historical significance to the match seeing as how Germany invaded Poland over 50 years ago, and this woman clearly did not think before speaking. My dream games – and I am speaking World Cup finals – Ireland defeats the Brits and Iran defeats the US. Iran beat the US in a ’98 World Cup match and I remember my cousin jumping up and down with joy. It is a small victory, one could argue, but a significant one, a symbolic one.
Monday we went into Howth, another beach town. I woke up late and felt even more tired. Somehow my sleeping was not letting me feel rested, like my whole body was trying to adjust to the time difference, but failing. We didn’t have much time in Howth, but we did see seals! One seal and I went back and forth making noises at each other, and I called him Boy Cat, since Boy Cat is after all a descendant of the seal, mostly the beached seal. We had to get back in enough time to get ready for dinner with Bashir’s co-workers, Katherine, Sarah, Caroline, Violet, and Lauren. It was a good time, a lot of teasing of Bashir, mention of The Big Lebowski, Bashirisms, and of course Batman. At one point conversation turned to talk of weddings, rings, and other things that Rebecca, Bashir, and I all find boring and pointless. It was interesting to see the conversation shift to that and the three of us have nothing to say. It occurred to me, not long ago, that not only am I opposed to marriage, but if someone were to ask me to marry them, I would be insulted. Why is that “the next step?” Why would an already existing commitment not be enough?
At some point during the weekend we wandered a bit around Grafton St and Temple Bar. We stopped and got a snack at the outdoor market of Temple Bar. I like Temple Bar better than Grafton St. Grafton is all these shops, a lot of designers, US places, fast food, things I wanted to avoid when leaving NY. Temple Bar was mostly restaurants and pubs and small independent shops. Though there was a Hard Rock Café that snuck its way in.
Tuesday morning Bashir had to return to work. Rebecca and I wandered. We went to Hueston Station to get times of trains to Cork, Galway, and Kilkenny. Cork quickly became a no with a cost of 59 Euros. So the choices were narrowed to two and we decided on Galway, after hearing from Bashir and his co-workers that it was a better choice. We had hesitated at the recommendation from his co-workers only because there seemed to be a definite interest in shopping, something neither Rebecca nor I care for. Once Bashir said it was a better choice, and he does not enjoy shopping either – he, Rourke, and I once cleared Tyson’s mall in about 20 minutes searching for a shirt – we agreed to go there. The train was a three hour ride, departing Wednesday at 710am. We spent the rest of Tuesday wandering about, into Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, which is large and old and beautiful. We rested on the lawn outside and watched these young girls blowing bubbles. They had to be between the ages of 5 and 7 and when a younger girl, a toddler, made her way over the girl with the bubbles asked the toddler’s name. I did not hear her reply, but the girl with the bubbles responded, “that’s a lovely name.” Who says that? Irish kids, that’s who.
We also made our way back to Grafton Street so I could go to Tower Records where I purchased The Big Lebowski for Bashir, and for Rebecca’s benefit since she had never seen it and Bashir and I spent a good amount of time quoting it. I had just purchased a soy chocolate shake before entering Tower from a small Starbucks like chain, therefore expensive, yet crap. I should have figured that this place, the name of which now escapes me – something Chocolate and Butler – was going to suck since I had seen so many. I asked the lanky English teller at Tower if he had a trashcan for my now empty cup. He replied, “rubbish bin?” I think he was being a smart-ass. Maybe he thought I was.
Wednesday Rebecca and I rose early and made it just in time to Hueston Station to grab a quick breakfast and get on the train. We saw several cows, sheep, and horses along the way, which did not cease to amuse us. One would think neither of us had ever seen them before, not to mention the fact that I at least have been on several farms and used to work with horses. I eventually fell asleep with my iPod playing a shuffle of Radiohead, Beirut, NIN, Sonic Youth, and others.
When I awoke and we stepped off the train, out of the station, into Galway…it was raining. I HATE rain. It makes me depressed and not want to do anything. Walking around Galway for the next proposed 8 hours was going to be a struggle, and although we cut the trip short by three, it still was, for both of us. We still wandered, first in search of St. Nicholas’ Cathedral. After two bad directors we found the way with the help of an old man in a repair shop. We saw the cathedral after making two rights and a left, crossing over a small bridge, and walking along a narrow path, but we entered at first, the wrong way, toward a monastery. It was a small white building with an encircled patch of grass in front, occupied by five cows. After unsuccessfully trying to pet some of them Rebecca and I approached the monastery door. The first set was open, but the second locked. I turned to look, before leaving for St Nicholas’, at the collection of praying cards and fliers on small table, and then the door was opened by a tiny nun in full habit, Franciscan I think. I was quietly excited and wanted to tell her my mother used to be a Benedictine Sister, but I kept quiet on that and told her we thought we had walked toward the cathedral. She kindly directed us to the actual entrance and returned inside.
St Nicholas’ was beautiful and catholic, unlike St. Patrick’s and most other cathedrals in Dublin. I lit some proper candles and purchased pendants of St Jude for every Agah. On the back of each pendant is a red and white circle. I asked the teller if it was a sticker to be removed, I thought maybe it told him how much they cost. He looked at me as if I were a complete idiot and replied, “They’re relics. These have touched relics of the saint.” He definitely knew I am not Catholic.

Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes and the same saint our grandfather used to light candles to when praying for the family. I had no intentions of getting gifts for anyone but my parents and had already gotten St. Patrick pendants for them, but this was important to me. I plan on getting a St. Jude tattoo with Iranian motifs, one of those traditional icon images, on my right arm.
After five hours in Galway, soaked in rain, with sandwiches in our stomachs, and a Batman Total Film purchase, Rebecca and I called it quits. We were cold and tired and unable to explore properly. We got back to Dublin right outside 6pm and walked home, stopping along the way for a coffee.
Thursday was Rebecca’s last day. We wandered more, this time into Trinity College’s campus, out the other end and into a park. We looped the park and came to a large rock with an Oscar Wilde statue perched on top. We both wanted to try and climb it but people kept walking past and several lingered to take pictures and stare. In retrospect, we probably looked shady, like we planned to do something. But no defacement was planned, just a quick climb into Wilde’s lap, something I imagine he would approve of. We hung about for quite some time hoping people would back off, but they did not, and finally our annoyance led us away to finish a tour of the park.
We happened upon parts of the city we had not been to before, crossing through several poor areas, and a large strip mall. Eventually we found our way back to Grafton St so that I could return The Big Lebowski, which did not work. An observation, Tower Records employees were a lot friendlier and less elite than the ones in Tyson’s and Fairfax. In fact, Rebecca and I noticed that there was such little judgment overall in Ireland in comparison to the US. We first picked up on this at the Radiohead show. Radiohead themselves seemed so relaxed and fun. Generally, audiences in the US – and I say this having just seen REM and Pearl Jam in the last two weeks – no matter what band I have seen, have been so fabricated, so judgmental. I always felt as if I were not cool enough, which was probably a little bit of me, but definitely a lot of them too. And I certainly am not the only one who ever felt that way. But the Radiohead show, and all of Dublin was different. Everyone, despite all the different styles, seemed so chill, so unconcerned with the looks of others. I didn’t know if Radiohead were more relaxed because maybe of where they are at themselves, or maybe if they feel better playing outside the US and so close to home. I’ve heard Yorke say he’s not a fan of the US. I can’t blame him. He’s rock star, and he’s probably not cool enough. Walking around Dublin and Galway was not like walking around certain parts of DC (Dupont and Georgetown come to mind) or NY (Williamsburg anyone?) where you can feel the eyes burn into you. Watch the hipster olympics if you have not. Pretty priceless.
Class really stood out in Ireland. I feel like class is one of those things in the US that is elusive. There are the definite rich and the definite poor, and then there are the numerous that fall in between. We are lied to and lie to ourselves. It seems that hiding class and hiding from class can often be done with ease. We are sold lies. It reminds me that the US is false, an illusion, one that many of us, most of us support, sometimes willingly, sometimes not, sometimes without realization. The US sells itself to the world, and primarily its own residents, as a land of dreams and opportunity, where everyone not only can, but has made it. So why do those of us who live here and know differently, still believe it? Even most of us who know it to be false believe it by our very actions.

If you see something, say something. Something would be me.

I am getting ready to fly out tonight. Maz Jobrani – an Iranian comedian – jokes about how whenever he goes to the airport he suddenly feels paranoid, like maybe he does have a weapon on him or maybe he is a terrorist. I laughed when I first heard him say that, mostly because I always get the same feeling. So, I woke early this morning, around 630 with a heavy pain in my chest and deep rumble in my stomach. Here we go, I thought, panic attack. I sat up slowly. I thought maybe if I could get up and move around, but no, that didn’t help. And I was exhausted. I was too tired to be awake this early, especially without work today. I lay back down finally. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I am not afraid of flying. I never have been.
Airports, on the other hand, terrify me. They always have. I used to associate them with business trips my dad took, long far away places, for long far away months. I used to cry at the gate.
I hate airports because I am randomly searched, hands search my body for threats, eyes stare accusingly.
Agah sets off the red alert.
Now, though, without my scarf, I have managed to breeze through. My last flight was in the US and I was not stopped. I was almost angry. How dare they pass me by? How dare they ignore my blood? My religion?
Today I fly internationally. I have my scarf in my passport picture. I keep thinking I will be pulled aside for questioning. Why did you take it off? Who are you trying to fool? I always have smart-ass remarks in my head. But I shut down at the airport. I follow orders. The last thing I want is to be sitting in some orange jump suit waiting for my next torture session.
I sound paranoid because I am paranoid. And with reason. Anyone who doubts me, calls me crazy, well they can spend one day in my shoes, in my mind, in my heart.
I dreamt about a month ago that when trying to return from Ireland the US would not allow me back into the country. But instead of keeping me in Ireland they detained me at JFK, held me there for 2 weeks, tortured me. But I refused to speak. Not in Farsi, not in English. I remained silent and stone faced for 2 weeks. They will not break me, I thought. They will not make me confess to things I did not do. They will not make me turn on people I love. And all I could think is that they are going to get my family.
I was taught by this government, by this society, by this media, that I am a threat, that my people are threats. I have caught myself staring suspiciously at Muslims and Middle Easterners. I remember as a kid I sometimes thought, maybe Mommy and Baba really do work for the CIA and sometimes I thought maybe my family really is a threat to this country. When 9/11 happened I thought, maybe there is evidence against us, maybe we did do something! I felt so guilty for these thoughts, and feel guilty when I look on my own with suspicion. But do you see? Do you see what this world has done to me, to my people? And we are only one small group. We are only one group of oppressed peoples.
I read those posters in the subway about 1,944 New Yorkers seeing something and saying something and I wonder how many of the things that they saw were associated with Middle Easterners and Muslims and how many of those were actual threats, if any?
I am flying out tonight. I am flying out tonight. I will not be paranoid. I will not hate myself. I will not allow anyone or anything to bring suspicion upon myself. I will not be suspicious of any Muslim or Middle Easterner I see. I will love myself.