A day to be what you are not

So, while all my American compatriots are dressing up their kids, and going house to house feeding the cavities and ADD energy of their children, I too, am celebrating on of the traditions of Halloween here in Panama, even though it is not a "sponsered" event: the catholic church of Panama made a statement banning it early this morning.

We put on costumes and as Garrison Keeler pointed out today is the only day you can dress as the opposite sex, a convicted murderer, a non existent species and get away with it. Basically, it is the only day of the year when we are taught, from our early childhood, that we can be someone or something that we are not. And what kind of aspirations come out in kids' costumes; and I am talking about good costumes, none of this "I want to be Buzz Lightyear or some other over-commercilized Disney character", but rather the old time costumes that never die out. I wanted to be a doctor one year, and a military man the next. Maybe becuase that was what I wanted to be in my life at that point in time, or maybe simply becuase it was the exact opposite of who I really was. I couldnt stand the sight of blood, so getting to wear a surgeons mask was the manifestation of pure speculation. I have never held a gun and dont think I could bring myself to kill someone, but the idea of hiding those "insufficinces" behind some camouflauge suit and face paint was the uncovering of beautiful possibility. I mean, honestly, who says, "I want to be me for Halloween", when the very point is to be something that others wouldnt recognize us as.

I carry on that tradition today. No, I didnt cut armholes in my sheets and draw a ghost's face on them, rather, today a hole was cut in the proverbial sheet of my cultural identity. Today, as I was walking around the office, the Panamanian that I have hidden under the sheet of my American ghost, started to stick his arms out. I was told three times today that I sounded particularly Panamanian, and while it might have only been a couple phrases, so I wont get too big-headed about it, today seems like an ironic day to hear so many compliments. While I have come to grisps with the fact that I will never be "Panamanian" (one of my big, unrealistic goals when I first came here), today was the day to see that I too, can be something that I will never be.

And while some might say that that is a rather fatalistic thought, just resigning myself to the fact that I will never completly be the thing I am trying to be, today it makes me happy. If I may never be exactly what I want to be, or fit in exactly like I thought I would, at least my costume is convincable enough to sometimes fool even Panamanians.

Happy Halloween!

Falling in love again...

So, we learned that culture shock is like a roller coaster. Theres a vertible "honeymoon" period, where everything is new and great and excting. Then, invariably, there comes the "down" period, where all the little things really start to drive you nuts. Then another "honeymoon period" and another downfall. Thats about it. And this continues.

I am definatly on the up bound. We have a friend from the States here, so I get to see all the sites that once captured my attention and my heart. I am falling in love with those same sights, and the small things that make me mad or drive me nuts seem like little blips on the radar. The palm trees, the fact that I live a block and a half from the ocean, the history that I live among, and the weather that lets me go to the pool every weekend are all things that are making me feel that the honeymoon has not ended.

And we are entering November...mes de la patria...when Panama celebrates all the holidays that we have not had for the past six months, making for one long working stretch with no free days. The city comes alive with red white and blue, and Panamanians all over hang flags out their windows! Its a great time to be in love with the place I live in! And this weekend is the first of three three days weekends so that means...ROADTRIP!!!!

life is good!

What might have been...

So, Panama is a small country. And things get around. Despite best efforts, people recognize you as the gringo that always carries his black messenger bag, and always is dressed super nice, and you can never seem to avoid running into someone you know at the store, or on the street, or in some obscure restaurant. I was at a restuarant the other day and ran into an old employee. Let me tell you, wierd to see someone whose boss I used to be. He informed me that at my former employer, the head boss just left or is in the process of leaving. That made me think.

If I would have stayed there, I would have been the next on the step ladder to take her position.

I cant say that that realization doesnt come with a sting of regret. I mean, we are talking about Berlitz, a pretty well known international company. And I could have been a fairly important person in that organization (at least in Panama). I could of had quite a bit of power. There is plenty of room for growth in that company, I think that just the current adminstration didnt really let anyone see those chances.

Then I think of all the reasons I left that job: the endless hours, working without ever really getting ahead, not feeling very supported by those I needed support from, and how I thought about this position that is now open as a dead end stop on the ladder. How it would take me almost completely out of the class.

I did a good job at that job, and no just cant help and wonder what might have been: I can think of two alternatives. One is frustrating and brings to mind pictures of apocolyptic downfall, and the other is having found a place where I might have done what I was supposed to be doing.

Oh well, life goes on.

Supermarket Games Explained

So no, this is not some new extreme sport, just my daily life. There is one thing that has always bugged me. As I think any person who has lived abroad will tell you, it is not the big things that drive you nuts (different language, different religious beleifs), no you resign yourself to these things even before you leave your home country. Its the small things that bug you, (the way people just stare at you, the way they talk, and even the way they carry themselves) that make you wonder if human decency and consideration is part of this new culture, or at least human deceny and consideration the way you have learned it to be. It is one of these little things I want to write about, as I learned a new cultural congruency that helps me not get so worked up about this.



So heres the little thing: Panamanians have this bad habit of just stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, leaving their cart positioned perfectly in the aisle that you cant get past them. Everytime this little pet peeve occured, I just always wrote it off as culture flaws and self-centered-ness.

But here I come to find out that its not just that. It is this insasatiable need to "pasear". This verb doesnt really exist common English use, becuase the action really isnt all that common in Anglo-Saxon cultures: the act of taking a stroll, of promenading. Of leavivng your house and going out to the street to see what you can see.

I was talking to a friend who says that A large part of latin culture is "pasear": going for a walk, not to excercise, but to see who you can see. He told me that when he was in the United States, he felt this void, this emptyness becuase nobody was "paseando", whats more, there was no place to go strolling. He said, strolling in the suburbs was like hiking for him: seeing nature, but not really seeing people. He siad, he jumped at the chance to just walk around when his other latin friends were going out. He didnt realize how important it was in their culture until he wasnt able to do it.

I think this idea, coupled with latin's innate ability to make relationships and their perpetual personal interactions, and supermarket jams and sidewalk stoppers dont seem so bad. Its not some offense to me that they dont let me through, they are just talking with a neighbor, or observing the person who they see everyday selling fruit at the stand on the other side of the street. They are just fulfilling their need to "pasear".

Two years here and still learning.

A little wierd and more kitsch

Confession: I haven't been to church in a while. We decided to go to a "bible" church this last weekend to get back into the whole swing of it. The service was in English, which was great, and the church was ful of expats who live in Panama, yet the whole experience was just a little wierd (and not becuase it wasnt lutheran enough, or if they didnt have a liturgy, or we didnt follow the lectionary series A, B, or C, or any other ridiculous LCMS thing) but more just becuase it was like a step into American Evangelicalism: like stepping into a little bubble, safe from the tucans and the rampant catholisicm that run amuck outside those church walls; like what we were doing (singing in English and raising hands and praying to the Lord Almighty) just ran in contrary of everything that seems normal (silently whispering the rosary, and fumbling through the liturgy) in this culture.

Yet it is not the wierdness of the situation that I want to write about. Its about the world outside that bubble that the sermon was about and what I want to write about. We had the priveldge to hear a sermon on Romans 16: not really a privledge. Like I said earlier, its not "faith" that I have a problem with, its "kitsch" (remember that kitsch is a philosophy that excludes, let us say, all the crap that we experience in reality), and this sermon was kitsch-y. First, we were told that we must greet each other with Christian love, and that there is no reason that people should not welcome others to church. (Side note: when the pastor said this, I felt all eyes hone in on the back of my head, being a visitor to the church. I just found myself wanting to slip down the pew and out the aisle, avoiding any "welcome" that was being formulated for after the service.) Here in lays Kitsch Number 1: Being a Christian means being happy and kissing in brotherly love all who pass through those doors. The truth behind this kitsch is: Even if you arent happy, dont want to greet people, that doesn't matter: be false, and that gives a good impression of Christian love.

He also said, that realtionships are important to the Gospel. Agreed. He went on to claim that you can tell if relationships are important to you if you spend time with people. Not quite as stong, but agreed. Finally, you are a good Christian when you are around other people, when you help other people. The lapse in logic is just a little to much for me. Being around people makes you a "good Christian" as much as being in a pharmacy makes you a pharmacist. This kitsch: Help those around you, even if you dont know why or dont feel like it, and of course, with a smile, becuase within the Christian community, it all works out for the best. Oh Smile and Joy! The truth behind this kitsch: Be insincere in your actions, just so others keep their high image of you and your Chrisitanity.

The pastor then went on to say, that we are encouraged not to let an evil into the community, staying away from those who are divisive, and for those who might teach "wrong doctrines". Not a bad teaching, but here was the kitsch number 3: Not letting in wrong teachings means that you are not supposed to look at billboards with girls in bikinis on them, and other "pornographic" things. Not letting the outside world "betray" our pure lives. And that, and I qoute: "Curiosity is not acceptable." The truth behind this kitsch: Thinking is not acceptable, and reconciling the world we live in to the subcultured world of Christianity we are encouraged to live in is impossible: they are mutaully exclusive.

This was the kitsch where I lost it. As a friend of mine says "Faith does not exclude thought", but in our world they are placed at too ends of the spectrum. How do we reconcile them? If, coming from the pulpit we are told to "go with the flow" and just "do as you are told", "avoid evil, and evil according to the gospel of Peter So and So, or John Whats his face is such and such thing and thought", but the intellectual side of me says "Where is the logic in that?", "Make a wise decision about this", "thinking it through is the only way to make a sound decision", how do we reconcile that? How do we answer the question "you think abortion is okay?" and "you mean, you think evoulotion might be a possibility?" without compromising what we believe into some cafeteria theology that looks like we just picked and chose? Can a serious Christian be a truly independently thinking Christian? How do we answer these questions?

I think the answer lies in Kitsch, and deconstructing it. That a Christian can be a part of the world, can even think about the world, and still be a Christian. That a Christian can be politcally active and not just with Focus on the Family. That a Christian can read works of literature, admire works of art, and learn phiosophy without bringing wrath upon themselves. That a Christian can still be a human and not be a part of the Christian sub-culture, dedicating themselves to the evanglelical zealotism and fundamentalism that runs rampant in mainstream beleif. That a Christian can still have a life that doesn't revolve around the intrepretation of the word "it", or when someone is "best suited" to be baptized, and can make their own decisions with out being pushed out if the community of beleivers. That a Christian can just show up on Sunday and not have anything else to do with the church for the rest of the week. That a Christian doesnt have to live up to the kitsch that we place upon all beleivers and still be considered a Christian.

Its not faith I have a problem with, its kitsch.

Happy Columbus Day, Dia de la Hispanidad, Dia de la Raza and any other name you want...

Is Columbus Day even celebrated anymore in the United States? Well today is the hispanic equivalent. Today, the hispanic world celebrates the arrival of Columbus to the Americas. The arrival of Columbus marked the beginning of an era of "gold" in Spain. The unification of two kingdoms (Castilla and Aragon), the expulsion of the jews and islams from the peninsula (under the banner of Christianity, later leading to the inquisition) and the arrival of Columbus all make 1492 an epic year for Spain. For many Spanish, today is a day of pride and a day of rememberance for those who have given their lives in the name of their country. For many in America, today is a day of anger, a day of rememberance of all the lives lost at the hands of another nation.

And even Iberoamerica did not escape from the whole "Was Columbus really the discoverer of America?" debate. Some call it "Dia de la Raza" (Day of the "Race"), citing that the word hispanidad doesnt include any of the other culture groups (both within Spain and throughout the world) that speak Spanish but are not Spanish. That being part of the hispanic race shouldnt be limited to just hispanidad (a classic Spanish word not really used any more with connotations of being strictly Spanish). Even leaders from ethnic-politcal groups in Spain refuse to attend festivities, understanding them as "not their national festival." And when I ask my coworkers what they think "Dia de La Raza" means to them, they say "A celebration of Columbus' arrival." Now whether they say it with a resentful or proud tone is where the difference lies.

So here we see reconciled two adages: Bueaty is in the eye of the beholder and a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Kitsch

In his book, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being", Milan Kundera writes about the notion of "kitsch". And while it might conjure up images of all the little crappy souvenirs or commenplace art that many a pack-rat collects, Kundera says that the original word has lost its meaning. Kitsch, he claims, is the sentiment that "excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existance."

He goes on to say that there are many versions of kitsch: American, French, Catholic, Protestant, Modernist, Traditional. We could put any word here really, any group that shares a set of ideals that defines what is acceptable and unacceptable. Kitsch is the cover-up of anything "heavy" or negative. The whole "Smile and be chipper even if you feel like shit" happiness queens, who dot their "i"s with hearts, are the epitome of kitsch. Since his book is set in and around the time of Prauge Spring and the ensuing communistic onslaught, Kundera talks about an interesting kind of kitsch: totalitarian kitsch.

The minute I read the word I happened to think about Concordia (a sad assosciation: Facism=Concordia). Totalitarian kitsch is that which infringes on kitsch itself. These infringements must be "banished". Individuality, doubt, irony, anything that can be considered "spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood."

Concordia Kitsch is composed of the following:

1. A need to express your faith.
2. A need to relate everything in your experience to your faith.
3. A need to have your choices justified before a "holy" community.
4. A need to be a servant-leader, aka to feel good about yourself helping others.
5. A need to feel protected from the "world" , aka belonging to a mutally sheltering community.

While these tenants in themselves are not bad things, it is when Concordia Kitsch becomes totalitarian Concordia kitsch when things go awfully wrong. A person who expresses doubts about the bible becomes a traitor. A person who decides to watch foreign films, or worse those that are controversial, becomes a hinderance to the whole community. And a person who thinks on their own, they spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood of ignorance. Anything that would take away from the fake smile and cheery "hello" emited from every one who passes by is just simply denied. This cheery attitude is one thing that binds all Concordians, a comforting sentiment, until kitsch becomes the definition of the group. When kitsch begins to replace the real feelings and the real thoughts.

Kitsch is by no means real.

And as Sabine in the novel wants to yell "Its not communism I have a problem with, its kitsch!" I second her sentiments. Its not faith I have a problem with, its kitsch!

Do I live in Macondo? Or Riohacha?

I see Gabriel Garcia Marquez characters everywhere. I chose to believe that it means that I have adapted so well, and know all the Panamanian qwirks so well that I can superimpose literary characters on the people whose paths I cross in my everyday life. Well, not really. Its just that Gabriel Garcia Marquez is such a great writer and knows, above all, how to tell a story so that it comes to life, and me with my overactive imagination, well, I just run with it. (And upon editing this I realized that it might seem quite erratic for those who have not read Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Consider yourself warned. If this serves as anything other than a pretentious blog entry, well, maybe its homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez will spark some literary interest. And since I just literally translated each title, I also left each one in their original Spanish so that if such inspiration abounds, you will know what to look for.)

The other night I saw Jeremiah de Saint-Amour, (Love in the Time of Colera, Amor los tiempos de cólera) walking down my street, his white hair glowing in the moon. An older man, he was walking, with chess board under his arm I might add, shuffling along slowly with the finality that looked like he had just decided that tonight he would play his last chess game and ask his lover to pour him some cyanide. While he slowly plowed forward to his own destiny or to the destiny of ardent, self imposed death that was Jeromie Saint Amour’s, I thought if I stood and watched, would he turn into someone’s house, a happy guest, or if he would just continue walking through the novel of this world, until someone turned the page and he disappeared into literary non-being?

When I was traveling back to the United States, upon entering in Houston, standing in line to show that I actually am an American citizen, I saw Sra. Rachel (A Day after Saturday, Un día después del sábado), being pushed in a wheel chair, confused by the English speaking customs agent. Struck by the look of utter confusion (mixed with a sting of indignation and bitterness) I was compelled to help. Only was it after I explained what the agent was trying to do, did I realize that she was puzzled why this stranger with whom she could not communicate wanted to come into to her personal life, just like Sra. Rachel was perplexed, and slightly enraged at why there were so many dead birds in her house, and why they were killing themselves trying to get in through the screens of her windows.

My coworker, who just left for her maternity leave (here in Panama your maternity leave starts a month before you give birth), is Ana (In this town there are no theifs, En este pueblo no hay ladrones), and I can see her, laying in her bed, arms at her side, exhausted yet unable to sleep, her head propped level with the height of her stomach, waiting up at night for her husband to come back with the billiard ball he stole. Her eyes held open by her own anxiousness, the whites exposed and as spotted as the ravished cue ball is spotted with indentations of pulverized chalk, she walks into the office everyday, the weight of her conscious—burgeoning under her husband’s mistakes—apparent in the defeatist manner in which she walks; not really walking, but merely pushing one foot in front of the other. She mutters what she wants her employees to do, just as told her husband to stop smoking or to just return the raptured ball, defeated, knowing her pleas were useless.

The cashier at the grocery store close to my house is the Lady that arrived at six (The Lady that arrived at six, La mujer que llegaba a las seis), so schizophrenic in her “Do you have a frequent shopper card?” that one day it is a flirtatious, the next it's direct interrogation, and then even pure desperation some days, just as if she was flirting, brainwashing and even scaring her customers into collaborating in her alibi: her constant twitch and shiver every time her cash register scans new merchandise is the twitch of a women checking the clock and the passing traffic outside the bar making sure there was no way the man dead in her apartment could have been identified as having been killed by her.

Perhaps I live in Riohacha or Macando, who knows. Like in Blue Dog Eyes, maybe it will be a truth that will always call from me in my dreams, and I will not know what world I live until I find some who knows how to answer my question with the phrase “Blue Dog Eyes”. Until I read that phrase written on the walls of the city, and thereby confirm that this is a world formed by magical realism, I will walk around the city screaming “Blue Dog Eyes”, I will keep superimposing my favorite images from Marquez’ books on those who I see in my daily life living out the culture he wrote about. Maybe my conclusions are wrong, and maybe some sorted destiny awaits the identities I place on others, maybe this mixing of identies is dangerous (for who knows if the idenity I chose to place on someone is actually who they are, and if so, the reverse must be true, that others place identities on me that I am not. To them, I might be a Jimmy Carter, or a Johnny Appleseed, but then who really knows if the identities we identiufy ourselves with are really our identities.) But I will continue in my life like Santiago Nasar (Chronicle of an announced death, Crónica de una muerte anunciada), nobody advising me of the danger that is in front of me, everyone wondering if I know what is going to happen and should warn me, or if they should just let the enevitable come to pass.

New Job

In my new job, I have alot of functions (although none of them are really clear, and I lack direction in all my functions). My clearest and most straight forward job is English teacher, which has its job description in the job title. I really enjoy this part of my job, and have found that no matter how much I have to drag myself out of bed in the morning to get in a taxi or cram onto a bus, I always feel content after teaching. It doesnt even matter if my students dont seem to grasp the concept (although my level of contentness can vary depending on this factor), deseminating information is what I feel that I have, to put it tritely, been put on this earth to do.

Unfortunately, that is not what the majority of my job is, and I am starting to suffer from it. My days are spent translating, which in itself is fun, like one giant 82 page puzzle, but to what does it contribute? I always thought that my occupation would be some good versus evil battle, and that every day I could feel good about contributing to the greater good. Thats, I think, why I went to Concordia. Thats why I decided to volunteer as an English teacher. That I was helping the forces of good spread knowledge, love, kindness and all those other overly romantic tenants to a dark and broken world. Translating financial statements and searching, fruitlessly I might add, for the meaning of words like "fideicomisos" and "gravemanes" hardly feels like contributing the forces of good in this world. (I mean if looking up absurd financial words can be assigned any esoterical value, well someone already contributed that value when they made a Spanish-English Accounting Dictionary.)

Maybe this romantic notion (becuase I really am a lost romantic at heart) of taking up arms and fight for the overall good, is maybe why I like teaching so much. Becuase when I am teaching, to see my student's face illumnate when they finally understand that it is stood and not standed, is like seeing an old enemy fall, to be victorious over the darkness of ignorance. To see my students be victorious and know I was the one that prepared them for that, well it gives me hope that I am contributing, even if it is just the finer points of English Grammar.

So all this has lead me to beleive that being an educator is what I am supposed to be doing.

Bus Revelations...Part Deux

I was once again on the bus, and having just read a book about American Politics, I was inclined to thinking about my own country. I had just come from immigration (which like taxis, is another blog entry in itself.) so I was not particularly in a good mood, and even more inclined to being very critical about the culture I am starting to call my own.

I was deep in thought about how Panamanians are different from Americans, and though, how I love being here, I cant stand the qwuirks and the tweaks they possess that always make me stand out as the tourist. And since I have been realizing, in a slow and painful way, that my goals of fulling adapting to be a "Panamanian" are just romantic fantasies, these qwuirks were even more poingnant, and not so much that at this particular moment I felt out of place (although walking onto a bus is much like walking down a catwalk), but becuase our differences were very forward in my mind.

I sat on the bus, and when someone (a women, to be exact: women here, going along with their "princess complex", have this tendency of just attacking the aisles of busses head on. They dont politely turn to one side and try to make the best of pushing through a crowd of seven hundred commuters. No, not so much.) pushed by me and hit my head with her purse. Not surprised, I found myself pensive on this push, and even more the lack of an "I'm sorry" or "Excuse me". Sometime, in certain situations, normal rules of courtesy, morals and sometimes existence, just seem to suspend. There are no lines, except for the ever incessant pushing to the counter to get some one to help you. People seem to forget how to count too, since my ticket says number 55 and yours is 93 and you are trying to push in front of me. Then when it is your turn, you actually dont exist if you dont call the worker "mami" or "mi amor" or something equally flattering. I have found playing the "stupid gringo" card is really the only to get ahead, turning into the metaphorically equivalent of a jaw-smacking, gum-chewing, hair-twisiting sorority queen ("Like, um, I dont understand, mi amor. (bubble popping here) Like, um. wh-hhat?") And Panamanians, who are usually very preoccupied about "education" (not education education, becuase there is a serious lack of books here, but here education refers to your "politeness") seem to not care even about this, as elbowing and shoving and name-calling all seem fair play.

So, I wondered, why does this happen? Why does this frustrate me so? Such affronts to personal space and everyone personally, dont seem to bother anyone but me. And when others are affronted, they seem to not be bothered in the way that I am. What is so different about our cultures that these little twirks urk me so? Why cant I just push and shove on a bus, or step on someone's toe and then just continue on with my life? Why do I feel I have to apoligize for every stumble I make, and for every stander-by I nudge into?

I think it is that, here, there is no commitment to the greater good. And when I think about, America may the one places where this might still be true. People look out for each other, maybe not so much in the "neighborhood watch" sort of way anymore, but people stop for you to cross the street. People move out of the way when they are an obstacle between you passing between them, their shopping cart and a display of cereal. People apologize when they bump into you, and they actually try to prevent bumping into others. They dont block intersections with their cars as the light changes, and they see that if someone behind them is in a hurry, they kindly move out of the way. One of my Panamanian friends says that we have that luxary, becuase we, as a country have had to fight wars, we had to know who we were, and we had to pull each other up. We-va had leaders who know how to rally a people divided into one body of supporters. Panama lacks such experience. And another friend whould add that in a country with so much inequality, they only option is to look out for yourself.

That said, I think there is more of a commitment here to those you do know. While Panamanians might not apoligze for bumping into you, or they might not work to make life in this country easier for everyone, they would give their friend the shirt off their back. They talk to their balck sheep brother when he gets released from prison, to their duaghter who got pregenant before she got married. Unfortunately, I think this is being lost. We see children wanting to be more independent and families split beyond the point of recovery. So, here there is a commitment to good. ITs just different from the good that I am used to being committed to. And that makes me wonder which one is better, if in fact superiority can be claimed.