Where the dead sleep, and where the living visit, a tree with purple flowers violently bloomed. Its trunk and roots burrowed through the brown of earth, its boughs parted the particulate brown of dust and smog, all while shielding death itself from the unyielding gaze of denuded brown mountains. My host mother and her daughter carried red flowers to the cubby hole bearing the remains of their recently departed husband and father.
My dad wasn't placed in a cemetery. He was burned and then collected into a box. Mom and I rationed him to friends and family so that each could say goodbye in his or her own way. We can no longer visit Dad. I don't remember precisely where I scattered him, though I know many places where I might have.
Dad died soon before turning 58. Since I must place him in terms I can more readily understand, he died when I was 24, nearly five years ago now. Mom was 53. Her hair was slightly less white than it is now. Dad wouldn't have minded.
Strangely, death doesn't stagnate the departed's influence on the living, but rather provokes it. For in place of definite reactions, uttered words, and recordable moments lives an imagined world. Certainly, I know my dad from childhood and adolescence--even as a semi-adult visitor. I know his guffaw and the scowl that his forehead wore so unnaturally for such a gentle-hearted man. I remember his interest in beginnings, be it our family or whatever town we happened to live in. I see his stuffed pockets and bulging backpacks and filled car-trunks, always prepared with first-aid kits, binoculars, compasses, flashlights, space blankets, hand warmers, and spare food. He always seemed to be rummaging. And, I hear both his frustrated words for a recalcitrant computer and his sweetly sung "Swing Lo."
However, my knowledge of myself outpaces my knowledge of my father. What would he think of my current trip? Would he laugh if he found out that I've come to love Gordon Lightfoot, the folk singer I so often teased him about? Would he have enjoyed the food I cooked, and, if not, could I at least rely on the non-finicky nature that so benefitted Mom to make me think he did? What would he have looked like after finally losing the hair that still allowed him a part on the left side, as I often wear my own? Would he have been as thrilled as I was during Obama's campaign? Could he still throw a baseball well? Could he have ever explained to me his unyielding joy in birdwatching?
I want to know more than the one thing I do--that he would have been loving and supportive and proud. I want to know details, not themes. Mostly, I invent them. Sometimes, though, through means I cannot control, I stumble upon Dad.
I did so on Saturday. While circling an unheated pool at a nearby restaurant/resort getaway in the comfortable air of a Cochabamba winter, I saw first his blindingly white legs, with their hair patterned more after a high-mountain meadow than his more forest-like chest. I saw his left hand and the gold band, perhaps a centimeter wide, that never came off a finger more man-like than my own. I saw his pacing gait, waiting to discern the right moment and place to make his leap from the side. And, when I most needed a bit of courage to take the swim I so wanted to take, I saw his goofy smile generating enough force to compel his unsculpted body forward into a splash bursting in firework form. I leapt after him and, finally rising from the jump, let out a scream of shock that he never did. We laughed together. I played. Getting out and drying my head with my old tattered towel featuring the logo of a football team I once fanatically cheered with his parents, I felt my dad's fingers rubbing my head in his so-happy-to-be-a-dad way.
The trickle of tears started soon thereafter, though the presence of relative strangers shut the water off at the faucet, if not at the main. I used to cry mostly when I imagined my mom dying; now I also cry when I realize Dad is dead.
Neither myself, nor my host mother, nor her daughter shed any tears at the cemetery today. Their relatively easy-going demeanor clashed with the air of solemnity I had adopted to display respect in this foreign situation. They simply changed the flowers (though the mother thought the daughter cut the stems too short), talked a little bit about other acquaintances residing there, and even chuckled some at statements I paid little attention to. On the way out, lagging just a bit behind my companions, I looked again at the purple-blossom tree and noticed that there were no birds in it. So, I placed some there--not paying much attention to their species or characteristics--hoping that Dad might spot them.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Hey! Whatever Happened to the MCs? (Time done changed for the MCs...)
Though urban poverty is known the world around, the 1970's New York version of it spawned what is now known as Hip Hop culture. Starting as block parties in neighborhoods facing poverty, domestic fallout from the Vietnam War, loss of blue collar jobs from deindustrialization (and the economic crisis of the early 70's), limited realization of promises of the Civil Rights Movement, backlash against the Black Power movement, and a popular music culture increasingly glitzy, Hip Hop would be put on record, promoted, popularized, and exported as both culture and music to other parts of the world. Its international reach seems amazing. Many rappers who are relatively obscure ("underground") here testify to the ability of Japanese audiences to recite every word of their songs. South African cab drivers from rival syndicates used to identify themselves with 2Pac and Notorious BIG. A friend was doing doctoral research on Hip Hop in Cuba. Far too often reduced to mere music--the most popular of which is often thought vulgar and limited--Hip Hop seems more a way of seeing the world. It involves listening to the stories of the folks that, for one reason or another (though often those reasons are race or poverty), reside on the margins of society. Hip Hop centralizes, through words, dress, sound, murals, dance, film, attitude, and politics, segments of worlds that are popularly ignored.
While I may have internalized this centralizing tendency of Hip Hop culture, the music does not play a central role in my social life anymore. I used to spend several hours a week either improvising or writing rhymes. Now, I don't. I used to spend hours talking about lyrics and beats and engaging in silly arguments and discussion with friends. Now, with only one or two people I can really talk about it with in law school, I talk mostly with myself, pondering the music on my nightly walks, one thing amongst many. I grow excited for the latest release from a favorite artist in a bubble. I haven't had enough moxy, motivation, or time to create my own little Hip Hop zone in Seattle. It, like the best friend (not a Hip Hop head) who is busy and lives elsewhere, is influential, but peripheral, and thus so dearly missed.
Thankfully and surprisingly, I found a couple of American Hip Hop heads with me on the program, and we'd trade occasional thoughts. But, I didn't encounter any Brazilian heads. Those that knew or liked Hip Hop were only familiar with the most commercially successful artists who, while not necessarily bad, don't well represent the depth of the music or breadth of styles. Their familiarity with Brazilian Hip Hop was limited. I, of course, had the relatively stale route of asking for good Brazilian Hip Hop in a music store. There, too, I was given a name or two, but not any enthusiasm for the music.
I arrived in Salvador in the middle of a huge, week-long festival celebrating John the Baptist. I do not know if heavy drinking and empassioned dancing were part of the ancient baptism rituals, but I'll assume they were and thereby see this festival as a conservative rebellion to overthrow sanitized tenets of modern religion and restore those of an exalted past. Whatever the meaning of the festival, I grew accustomed to the varied rhythms of forro, axe, and samba. One night--Wednesday--tired of both partying and trying to acclimate to foreign sounds, I relaxed in my hostel bed and read of the coming of the Third Reich, enraptured by the tale. At some point, I noticed that I was bobbing my head slightly, rhythmically, without thinking. My mind left my eyes and arrived at my ears. Sure enough, not 100 feet from me, speakers were blasting some Hip Hop. Disregarding my style-less clothes, I threw on my shoes and went out to find the music. A Brazilian Hip Hop trio (two MCs and one DJ) was rocking the crowd. I didn't understand a damn word, but I knew the beats were dope, and I could follow the universal command to "throw your hands in the air" (in Portuguese, it's "ao cima," e.g. up, or to the top). My body went into dope-concert-mode, not quite dancing, but definitely gesticulating. The show ended with the group inviting up a lot of the Bahian (the state where Salvador is located) Hip Hop community who was in the crowd up on stage for the last song. The crowd appropriately showed its love and dispersed.
I killed a few minutes while the performers and their friends were backstage. Then, I saw a couple of the dudes who were on-stage for the last song--they weren't performing, but they had been called up there by the performers. So, I figured they were part of the local scene. I approached them and in a limited but oh-so-enthusiastic Portuguese, introduced myself, told them I was American and was a huge Hip Hop fan and wanted to get to know the Brazilian scene. They were real cool and responded well. They started telling me how Hip Hop is really a niche genre in Brazil and that a lot of folks don't really know anything about it. One guy told me some of his favorite artists. When he mentioned Common, I told him (again, in broken Portuguese) about the time I got to rhyme on stage with Common in front of 10,000 people at the Greek Theatre at Cal. We all chatted for a few minutes. Two of the guys, both MCs, gave me their phone numbers and told me to call them tomorrow. I left giddy and roamed around trying to burn off the excitement. I shared the story with any hostel-mate kind enough to listen.
After a day or two of telephone wrangling (not having a cell makes it difficult to get in touch; then, when in touch, it's really difficult to understand what someone is saying), I was invited to come out to the home of one MC, Calibre. He waited for me at the point the bus dropped me off, a solid 35 minute ride from the tourist area. The area looked like favela, which doesn't necessarily mean danger, but it does mean poverty. The nicest building in the area was the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a beige building undramatically steepled with the proud distinction of being fully painted without having any paint visibly peeling. (much love to my Mormon friends reading this).
He took me to a friend's place, where they all smoked (I always "just say no," a lesson for which I must undoubtedly thank the committed efforts of Nancy Reagan and the irrefutably successful War on Drugs, which has helped the U.S. achieve the enviable position of having the highest incarceration rate in the world), and soon thereafter we left and chopped it up about music and life.
Unlike me, who had a friend's older brother around to introduce me to the music, Calibre had only the relatively slow trickle of American Hip Hop provided by Brazilian MTV and radio. Liking the style, sound, and attitude of artists like Jay Z, DMX, and Dr. Dre, he started rhyming and making beats around 1997 or 1999, at about the age of 15 or 17. After a few years, he started performing and has been doing so off and on since. His next show was to be a week after I left Salvador. However, here, Hip Hop is mostly a hobby, with very little chance (even less than in the U.S.) of making a full career from music. Thus, he is committed to his regular job of being a capoeira (a Brazilian martial art) instructor. The two interests merged nicely when he was invited to Italy to teach capoeira and made a cool, if basic, music video out there.
I wanted to hear some of his music--and he wanted to play it for me-- so we went to his place and he started playing me his recorded stuff, all made on Fruity Loops or a similar program. He was particularly excited because he had made a beat that incorporated Brazilian musical styles (pagode and axe) into a Hip Hop context. He said nobody had done anything quite like this and that this would be the way to break Hip Hop to a wider Brazilian audience. The percussion on the song was crazy and unlike anything I had heard before. I recommended listening to some Timberland for crazy drum patterns. Other than this song, most of his music was heavily influenced by the recent years of the South. The beats sounded like Lil' Jon or T.I. or Ludacris might rhyme over them. He kept them interesting by changing up the beats in little ways. There were a couple beats that were really dope and I could imagine myself rhyming over (that is, if I still wrote rhymes…). The lyrics, to the extent I could understand his explanations, were varied, with songs ranging from heartfelt stories about favela life to some catchy joints about money and women.
Music shared, we went to the local beach, a narrow strand of sand with kids playing, a middle-aged guy swimming, and older folks walking by. One of Calibre's friends, Guido, is a vocal instrumentalist (i.e. he can play a trumpet sound with just his mouth), and played some music live for me. He also sweetly sang me the lyrics to his most recent Reggae song, a nice little bit about children renewing the world. With that in mind, and the beach positioned on the bay to allow the sun to set over water (because Rio and Salvador are situated on the east coast, the sun rises over water and sets over the land in the west), we watched the day die. They then took me to the bus stop and waited with me. We traded hugs and thanks, and I hopped the bus back to my headphone world.
While I may have internalized this centralizing tendency of Hip Hop culture, the music does not play a central role in my social life anymore. I used to spend several hours a week either improvising or writing rhymes. Now, I don't. I used to spend hours talking about lyrics and beats and engaging in silly arguments and discussion with friends. Now, with only one or two people I can really talk about it with in law school, I talk mostly with myself, pondering the music on my nightly walks, one thing amongst many. I grow excited for the latest release from a favorite artist in a bubble. I haven't had enough moxy, motivation, or time to create my own little Hip Hop zone in Seattle. It, like the best friend (not a Hip Hop head) who is busy and lives elsewhere, is influential, but peripheral, and thus so dearly missed.
Thankfully and surprisingly, I found a couple of American Hip Hop heads with me on the program, and we'd trade occasional thoughts. But, I didn't encounter any Brazilian heads. Those that knew or liked Hip Hop were only familiar with the most commercially successful artists who, while not necessarily bad, don't well represent the depth of the music or breadth of styles. Their familiarity with Brazilian Hip Hop was limited. I, of course, had the relatively stale route of asking for good Brazilian Hip Hop in a music store. There, too, I was given a name or two, but not any enthusiasm for the music.
I arrived in Salvador in the middle of a huge, week-long festival celebrating John the Baptist. I do not know if heavy drinking and empassioned dancing were part of the ancient baptism rituals, but I'll assume they were and thereby see this festival as a conservative rebellion to overthrow sanitized tenets of modern religion and restore those of an exalted past. Whatever the meaning of the festival, I grew accustomed to the varied rhythms of forro, axe, and samba. One night--Wednesday--tired of both partying and trying to acclimate to foreign sounds, I relaxed in my hostel bed and read of the coming of the Third Reich, enraptured by the tale. At some point, I noticed that I was bobbing my head slightly, rhythmically, without thinking. My mind left my eyes and arrived at my ears. Sure enough, not 100 feet from me, speakers were blasting some Hip Hop. Disregarding my style-less clothes, I threw on my shoes and went out to find the music. A Brazilian Hip Hop trio (two MCs and one DJ) was rocking the crowd. I didn't understand a damn word, but I knew the beats were dope, and I could follow the universal command to "throw your hands in the air" (in Portuguese, it's "ao cima," e.g. up, or to the top). My body went into dope-concert-mode, not quite dancing, but definitely gesticulating. The show ended with the group inviting up a lot of the Bahian (the state where Salvador is located) Hip Hop community who was in the crowd up on stage for the last song. The crowd appropriately showed its love and dispersed.
I killed a few minutes while the performers and their friends were backstage. Then, I saw a couple of the dudes who were on-stage for the last song--they weren't performing, but they had been called up there by the performers. So, I figured they were part of the local scene. I approached them and in a limited but oh-so-enthusiastic Portuguese, introduced myself, told them I was American and was a huge Hip Hop fan and wanted to get to know the Brazilian scene. They were real cool and responded well. They started telling me how Hip Hop is really a niche genre in Brazil and that a lot of folks don't really know anything about it. One guy told me some of his favorite artists. When he mentioned Common, I told him (again, in broken Portuguese) about the time I got to rhyme on stage with Common in front of 10,000 people at the Greek Theatre at Cal. We all chatted for a few minutes. Two of the guys, both MCs, gave me their phone numbers and told me to call them tomorrow. I left giddy and roamed around trying to burn off the excitement. I shared the story with any hostel-mate kind enough to listen.
After a day or two of telephone wrangling (not having a cell makes it difficult to get in touch; then, when in touch, it's really difficult to understand what someone is saying), I was invited to come out to the home of one MC, Calibre. He waited for me at the point the bus dropped me off, a solid 35 minute ride from the tourist area. The area looked like favela, which doesn't necessarily mean danger, but it does mean poverty. The nicest building in the area was the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a beige building undramatically steepled with the proud distinction of being fully painted without having any paint visibly peeling. (much love to my Mormon friends reading this).
He took me to a friend's place, where they all smoked (I always "just say no," a lesson for which I must undoubtedly thank the committed efforts of Nancy Reagan and the irrefutably successful War on Drugs, which has helped the U.S. achieve the enviable position of having the highest incarceration rate in the world), and soon thereafter we left and chopped it up about music and life.
Unlike me, who had a friend's older brother around to introduce me to the music, Calibre had only the relatively slow trickle of American Hip Hop provided by Brazilian MTV and radio. Liking the style, sound, and attitude of artists like Jay Z, DMX, and Dr. Dre, he started rhyming and making beats around 1997 or 1999, at about the age of 15 or 17. After a few years, he started performing and has been doing so off and on since. His next show was to be a week after I left Salvador. However, here, Hip Hop is mostly a hobby, with very little chance (even less than in the U.S.) of making a full career from music. Thus, he is committed to his regular job of being a capoeira (a Brazilian martial art) instructor. The two interests merged nicely when he was invited to Italy to teach capoeira and made a cool, if basic, music video out there.
I wanted to hear some of his music--and he wanted to play it for me-- so we went to his place and he started playing me his recorded stuff, all made on Fruity Loops or a similar program. He was particularly excited because he had made a beat that incorporated Brazilian musical styles (pagode and axe) into a Hip Hop context. He said nobody had done anything quite like this and that this would be the way to break Hip Hop to a wider Brazilian audience. The percussion on the song was crazy and unlike anything I had heard before. I recommended listening to some Timberland for crazy drum patterns. Other than this song, most of his music was heavily influenced by the recent years of the South. The beats sounded like Lil' Jon or T.I. or Ludacris might rhyme over them. He kept them interesting by changing up the beats in little ways. There were a couple beats that were really dope and I could imagine myself rhyming over (that is, if I still wrote rhymes…). The lyrics, to the extent I could understand his explanations, were varied, with songs ranging from heartfelt stories about favela life to some catchy joints about money and women.
Music shared, we went to the local beach, a narrow strand of sand with kids playing, a middle-aged guy swimming, and older folks walking by. One of Calibre's friends, Guido, is a vocal instrumentalist (i.e. he can play a trumpet sound with just his mouth), and played some music live for me. He also sweetly sang me the lyrics to his most recent Reggae song, a nice little bit about children renewing the world. With that in mind, and the beach positioned on the bay to allow the sun to set over water (because Rio and Salvador are situated on the east coast, the sun rises over water and sets over the land in the west), we watched the day die. They then took me to the bus stop and waited with me. We traded hugs and thanks, and I hopped the bus back to my headphone world.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A Penny for Your Thoughts, A Dollar for Your Blessing?
The evening Tuscan sun rises on this Bahian city, irreverently making the old whipping post the most lovely place to endure the slight sting of this last nightfall here. It is a testament to this city that I have done so little. Prominent churches were left unvisited, day trips unmade, beaches uncombed--all without regret. Something here bespoke comfort and welcome, inviting me every few steps to listen to a good story and share some moments in the unique bonds of gringo and Bahiano, branco and negro, buyer and seller, patron and beggar, and grieving Michael Jackson fans. Except with one hostel-mate, I don´t think I ever got beyond these nascent relationships and into the realm of friendship, but my sentiment is that I would have, given a bit more time.
There may be too much sun to brood very well here, but I encountered enough feelings ofpowerlimited-ness (because I´m not necessarily powerless) to substitute nicely for the Seattle clouds. My hostel manager labors from 8 a.m. until at least 11 p.m., attending too few guests for his boss to approve some help, but too many guests to allow him any uninterrupted period of calm or rest, let alone a day off. My beggar patronees roam and once fixated, ask, plea, beg, kiss to get someone to buy them food, but they quite realistically refrain from mentioning the longer-term improvement. My bartender doesn´t know how he can raise the extra $75 per month (that´s a lot of money here; just for reference, the minimum wage is about $230 per month...and the necessities of life aren´t that cheap) needed for the lowest quality English classes that might enhance his employability. My coconut seller wonders about migrating to the U.S., but is discouraged by the idea that he has to do it illegally. My aluminum-can collector, one of many so engaged, is paid 50 cents for 2.2 pounds (1 kg) of cans, a weight which requires about 70 empty sodas or beers (that go uncollected by others), an amount which requires lots of thirsty people who are often lacking in the low season.
The feeling of powerlimited-ness is not, and indeed should not, be new or depressing to a former social worker, tutor, mentor, dementia-care activity worker, and bureaucrat. Yet, the feeling can and should be striking and recurrent and vexing. For, it questions our responsibility toward others. The nature of such responsibility, as best as I can tell, is the most compelling question in my life (it implicates history, economics, law, religion, ethics, psychology, science, etc., etc.). Obviously, I lack the means to answer in any comprehensive way (I imagine a religion might help...not blaming you, Mom). Thus overwhelmed, I get to experiment in little ways (I´m leaving aside systemic issues here).
Often, I give money to beggars who ask and don´t think it a noteworthy deal. Last night, however, I sought out the beggars and just offered them some money without them asking or approaching me. It caught two kids (ages 12 and, I think, 13), at different times, off-guard enough that they each released a toothy smile and extended their hands to give me daps. Of course that made me feel good, and feeling good is cause for some alarm in my line of work. Seeking the good feeling is most definitely not the primary way to go about do-gooding, for it elevates the do-gooder´s satisfaction too basely above the desires and goals of the person being ´´helped.´´ And, yes, the do-gooder´s satisfaction is often different from that of the person being helped. Here, though, my own satisfacation seemed to align with that of the kids, and I allowed myself to enjoy the happiness.
After I had given away the planned amount of money, I refused many others who asked. And I did so with much less regret than if I had given nothing at all or than if I had given after being asked. I guess I bought myself some peace of mind. The peace, like most things, came for much cheaper here--$1 per head--enough for a salty pastry that not would not serve as anything more than a snack for me.
(P.S. I know that you are a whole bunch of thoughtful people concerned with such questions...chime in with ideas and stories...)
(P.P.S. I´m sure this piece reveals some arrogance, ungrounded assumptions, and ego-centric holding-forth. Please feel free to criticize and point all this out--the whole point of this blog/trip is for me to think...you all help me do it)
(P.P.P.S What am I ignoring???? That I´m profiting from partaking in an economic system that works for some and now feel guilt at the visceral and undeniable realization that it doesn´t work for--even exploits--others and am buying my peace with the cheap sentiments expressed above? Is it the whole question of do-gooding that is a problem?)
There may be too much sun to brood very well here, but I encountered enough feelings ofpowerlimited-ness (because I´m not necessarily powerless) to substitute nicely for the Seattle clouds. My hostel manager labors from 8 a.m. until at least 11 p.m., attending too few guests for his boss to approve some help, but too many guests to allow him any uninterrupted period of calm or rest, let alone a day off. My beggar patronees roam and once fixated, ask, plea, beg, kiss to get someone to buy them food, but they quite realistically refrain from mentioning the longer-term improvement. My bartender doesn´t know how he can raise the extra $75 per month (that´s a lot of money here; just for reference, the minimum wage is about $230 per month...and the necessities of life aren´t that cheap) needed for the lowest quality English classes that might enhance his employability. My coconut seller wonders about migrating to the U.S., but is discouraged by the idea that he has to do it illegally. My aluminum-can collector, one of many so engaged, is paid 50 cents for 2.2 pounds (1 kg) of cans, a weight which requires about 70 empty sodas or beers (that go uncollected by others), an amount which requires lots of thirsty people who are often lacking in the low season.
The feeling of powerlimited-ness is not, and indeed should not, be new or depressing to a former social worker, tutor, mentor, dementia-care activity worker, and bureaucrat. Yet, the feeling can and should be striking and recurrent and vexing. For, it questions our responsibility toward others. The nature of such responsibility, as best as I can tell, is the most compelling question in my life (it implicates history, economics, law, religion, ethics, psychology, science, etc., etc.). Obviously, I lack the means to answer in any comprehensive way (I imagine a religion might help...not blaming you, Mom). Thus overwhelmed, I get to experiment in little ways (I´m leaving aside systemic issues here).
Often, I give money to beggars who ask and don´t think it a noteworthy deal. Last night, however, I sought out the beggars and just offered them some money without them asking or approaching me. It caught two kids (ages 12 and, I think, 13), at different times, off-guard enough that they each released a toothy smile and extended their hands to give me daps. Of course that made me feel good, and feeling good is cause for some alarm in my line of work. Seeking the good feeling is most definitely not the primary way to go about do-gooding, for it elevates the do-gooder´s satisfaction too basely above the desires and goals of the person being ´´helped.´´ And, yes, the do-gooder´s satisfaction is often different from that of the person being helped. Here, though, my own satisfacation seemed to align with that of the kids, and I allowed myself to enjoy the happiness.
After I had given away the planned amount of money, I refused many others who asked. And I did so with much less regret than if I had given nothing at all or than if I had given after being asked. I guess I bought myself some peace of mind. The peace, like most things, came for much cheaper here--$1 per head--enough for a salty pastry that not would not serve as anything more than a snack for me.
(P.S. I know that you are a whole bunch of thoughtful people concerned with such questions...chime in with ideas and stories...)
(P.P.S. I´m sure this piece reveals some arrogance, ungrounded assumptions, and ego-centric holding-forth. Please feel free to criticize and point all this out--the whole point of this blog/trip is for me to think...you all help me do it)
(P.P.P.S What am I ignoring???? That I´m profiting from partaking in an economic system that works for some and now feel guilt at the visceral and undeniable realization that it doesn´t work for--even exploits--others and am buying my peace with the cheap sentiments expressed above? Is it the whole question of do-gooding that is a problem?)
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