Those are, they say, the three types of people you can find living abroad. I’d like to consider myself part of a fourth group; mild-mannered teachers with a healthy passion for understanding the world. Truth be told, I’m not sure we really exist outside of some cross-bred manifestation of one of the three former groups. Besides, adding another category to the mix breaks up a great triumvirate. So I will speak for myself (and for the collective body of expats which by extension, I am a part) as I begin this slightly self-deprecating journey...
Unlike missionaries, teachers don’t have the explicit intention of converting the natives through forced imposition of our own beliefs. However, discrete brainwashing on a subconscious level does occur. Not religious per se, but ideological, laden with subtle cultural values and tacit social codes. This manifests in a “I just don’t understand the way “these people” do things. If only they could do things the way we do them. Not that their way is wrong, our way is simply....more efficient. Productive. Cost-effective. In other words, better.” Even if all these things are true, such an argument precludes the fact that perhaps these are not the values held most dear by the aforementioned society. We are assuming that our way is best for us, and therefore everyone must want to adopt it. And if they don’t then it is safe to assume they’re just plain stupid. While we fool ourselves into thinking we are going abroad to experience another culture to see the value in their ways, we are most often going to reaffirm our own perspectives. I see this in subtle ways, even the most progressive and seemingly open-minded have a colonialist streak.
Like any good mercenaries, one must believe that their risk will result in worth. One would not relinquish the creature comforts of home if they did not feel there was something to be gained on the other end. This might not be in monetary gain: perhaps teachers are more likely to intellectually pillage Istanbul. We talk of its history and charm, absorb its culture and return home with minds globalfied and perspectives broadened without leaving very much in return. We talk about how enriched we are, and now we can just pat ourselves on the back for having survived without electricity or a hard copy of the New Yorker or decent sushi or whatever, and its only upon returning home as we are juxtaposed against others that our lives as glamorous expats come into focus. We love the idea of living abroad, maybe even the truth of it. Denying yourself what you miss does not make you a better person.
As for madmen, it does take a certain amount of gusto, of panache, of verve, of chutzpah (if you will) to brave uncharted territory and make your way in a foreign land (yes, even if there is a Starbucks right around the corner). The rare strain of individuals who are intoxicated with freedom and build life based on keeping it tend to carry traits like unique, risk-taking, and verrrry interesting. On the flipside, this elusive breed of humans also carries mutations and comes in all varieties of wackjobs, nutters and crazies. I mean, I am not a raving lunatic banshee or anything of the sort, but I admit I might possess a certain...proclivity...toward the eccentric end of the spectrum. Anyhoo, to reference the great Janis Joplin, when you’ve got nothing left to loose why not piss a whole bunch of people off? Or something like that. So you take your chances when living abroad, hoping that you find yourself amongst those on the sane side of crazy.
Or perhaps, just maybe, living abroad breeds insanity. When your paradigm for interpreting the world is put in a cultural blender and shaken up a bit and all that’s left is the liquid (but look how fluid and flexible!) version of who you used to be, its a jolting experience to say the least. If you continue to move like a rock skipping across the oceans, you never have to worry about the effect of the ripples on those you’ve left behind. With that gratuitous metaphor, I shall bid you adios.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Visibility
In truth, I am not as concerned with a political decision as I am with its social consequences. I do not think the pressure to annul the amendment to lift the headscarf ban comes exclusively from high ranking officials. Despite orbiting in the same social spheres, the worlds of hijab and non-hijab wearing women at times seem light years apart. When they collide a powerful chain of events is set off.
For example: What if a women arbitrarily decided to talk her headscarf off? Suddenly, would she not be as “pure” in the eyes of her boyfriend? Would he then feel pressure from his friends (whose girlfriends are covered) to find someone more chaste? Would the aforementioned woman then feel pressure to put her headscarf back on if she couldn't find a boyfriend? Or would she then have to date secular men who, despite her free-flowing hair, would probably not find her secular enough? The middle ground keeps shifting until there seems that no one can find a solid stance.
This sort of hypothetical scenario belies the hard facts: that with economic changes and migration from Anatolia to Western Turkey, more religious women are able to enter University. Some feel the message underlying the ban is that if women are going to adhere to religious rules like covering their head, then perhaps they should stick to other traditional female roles – like staying at home.
Of course, I have my opinions. I observe. I listen. But for all this, I have never once heard what a hijab wearing woman thinks about the controversy. What she feels when people assume she is covering her head to make a political statement, or what she wants for her country. So I arranged to speak with three hijab-wearing students on the cusp of their university graduation. They were enrolled in a teacher education program, and therefore confronted with a difficult decision. We sat down in the living room of one of their professors. I immediately learned that all three of the woman I spoke with opted to remove their hijabs during their practice teaching and during courses required by professors, but otherwise they do not take them off in public under any circumstances.
Although the three girls varied in their English speaking abilities and candidness, they were uniformly clear and articulate in their opinions and self-awareness. I asked them point blank why they wore the hijab. The short answer they all gave me is that it is God’s wish according to the Koran. The long answer is that women are created differently than men. We are completely different creatures, they told me. Women are special and sacred, and like precious diamonds they must be protected. Even me? I asked, my unruly curls feeling heavy on my head. Yes, regardless of wearing the hijab, I would still be considered sacred on account of my gender. They all chose to wear the hijab of their own volition post-high school.
We discussed light topics: the “fashion” of the veil. Some, usually older women, wear their scarves tied beneath their neck like a kerchief. Others wear it wrapped around their entire head and secured with a pin, along with a thick black headband underneath to secure the hair in place. The young ladies told me that the difference were a matter of fashion, although the latter look is generally associated with the more observant. Surprisingly, they said some women choose to wear the veil because they believe they look more attractive with their heads covered, not out of religious devotion. This, along with veiled women who wear makeup, seemed ridiculous and contradictory to the women I spoke with.
We discussed heavy topics: the girls were horrified at the thought of Turkey becoming another Saudi Arabia, where women are forcibly made to wear the hijab. They merely want to have the options they believe should be availabe to them in a democracy. "I do not insist that other women wear one, so why should others insist that I take mine off? Is it fair?" One of the girls politely asked me.
Orhan Pamuk wrote that in other countries, it is an act of rebellion to take the headscarf off, but in Turkey, it is an act of radical rebellion to put it on. When I asked the girls why they were willing to go sans headscarves for their practice teaching, they seemed resolute in their answer: Someone needs to be first and make sacrifices, and then down the line maybe girls will be allowed to teach with them on. They insisted they were not wearing the hijab for political purposes, although they understood the political implications of their decision. These women did not see religion as antithetical to progress; rather the two went hand in hand. One girl quoted Mohammad, saying that religion and technological advancements are like two wings of a bird: it cannot fly with only one. They needed to do what they are doing so that perhaps it might be easier for others in the future. They needed to make themselves visible at University, so that in the future, they don't completely disappear.
For example: What if a women arbitrarily decided to talk her headscarf off? Suddenly, would she not be as “pure” in the eyes of her boyfriend? Would he then feel pressure from his friends (whose girlfriends are covered) to find someone more chaste? Would the aforementioned woman then feel pressure to put her headscarf back on if she couldn't find a boyfriend? Or would she then have to date secular men who, despite her free-flowing hair, would probably not find her secular enough? The middle ground keeps shifting until there seems that no one can find a solid stance.
This sort of hypothetical scenario belies the hard facts: that with economic changes and migration from Anatolia to Western Turkey, more religious women are able to enter University. Some feel the message underlying the ban is that if women are going to adhere to religious rules like covering their head, then perhaps they should stick to other traditional female roles – like staying at home.
Of course, I have my opinions. I observe. I listen. But for all this, I have never once heard what a hijab wearing woman thinks about the controversy. What she feels when people assume she is covering her head to make a political statement, or what she wants for her country. So I arranged to speak with three hijab-wearing students on the cusp of their university graduation. They were enrolled in a teacher education program, and therefore confronted with a difficult decision. We sat down in the living room of one of their professors. I immediately learned that all three of the woman I spoke with opted to remove their hijabs during their practice teaching and during courses required by professors, but otherwise they do not take them off in public under any circumstances.
Although the three girls varied in their English speaking abilities and candidness, they were uniformly clear and articulate in their opinions and self-awareness. I asked them point blank why they wore the hijab. The short answer they all gave me is that it is God’s wish according to the Koran. The long answer is that women are created differently than men. We are completely different creatures, they told me. Women are special and sacred, and like precious diamonds they must be protected. Even me? I asked, my unruly curls feeling heavy on my head. Yes, regardless of wearing the hijab, I would still be considered sacred on account of my gender. They all chose to wear the hijab of their own volition post-high school.
We discussed light topics: the “fashion” of the veil. Some, usually older women, wear their scarves tied beneath their neck like a kerchief. Others wear it wrapped around their entire head and secured with a pin, along with a thick black headband underneath to secure the hair in place. The young ladies told me that the difference were a matter of fashion, although the latter look is generally associated with the more observant. Surprisingly, they said some women choose to wear the veil because they believe they look more attractive with their heads covered, not out of religious devotion. This, along with veiled women who wear makeup, seemed ridiculous and contradictory to the women I spoke with.
We discussed heavy topics: the girls were horrified at the thought of Turkey becoming another Saudi Arabia, where women are forcibly made to wear the hijab. They merely want to have the options they believe should be availabe to them in a democracy. "I do not insist that other women wear one, so why should others insist that I take mine off? Is it fair?" One of the girls politely asked me.
Orhan Pamuk wrote that in other countries, it is an act of rebellion to take the headscarf off, but in Turkey, it is an act of radical rebellion to put it on. When I asked the girls why they were willing to go sans headscarves for their practice teaching, they seemed resolute in their answer: Someone needs to be first and make sacrifices, and then down the line maybe girls will be allowed to teach with them on. They insisted they were not wearing the hijab for political purposes, although they understood the political implications of their decision. These women did not see religion as antithetical to progress; rather the two went hand in hand. One girl quoted Mohammad, saying that religion and technological advancements are like two wings of a bird: it cannot fly with only one. They needed to do what they are doing so that perhaps it might be easier for others in the future. They needed to make themselves visible at University, so that in the future, they don't completely disappear.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Express Yourself
I’ve been intrigued by the controversy surrounding the hijab. Short history lesson: Since the formation of the Turkish republic, in all public institutions throughout Turkey headscarves (along with beards and other such religious regalia) are banned. When the AKP government voted in favor of a constitutional admendment to lift the ban, protesters came out in droves. Many feared that the AKP government had a covert agenda and allowing headscarves in school would be the first step down a slippery slope toward Islamic fundamentalism. For many, this change was not just about allowing women to wear the veil at university, but an indication of the slow erosion of the foundations of secularism put in place by Ataturk that would continue AKP leadership until Turkey looked more like Saudia Arabia than the progressive, (mostly) westernized nation that it is. The nation waited with bated breath as the decision was pending. Just recently the Constitutional Courts annulled the amendment, and thus the ban will indeed remain intact.
So that’s what’s happening out there. This is what is happening with me.
I chaperoned a group of students to Athens, where my darling proteges participated in the Harvard Model Congress Conference. Students from international schools around Europe and the Middle East (and perhaps future world leaders) convened to discuss real world issues and learn to deal with crises better than their predecessors in hopes of cultivating global awareness. During our first mixer, one of my students discovered she was paired with a Saudi girl during her committee sessions.
“Ms. Saaaalaaaario,” she said (yes, with that intonation.) I met my partner. She’s closed.”
“What do you mean she’s closed?”
“You know, she wears the turban on her head.”
My student stated this as though we shared some secret, as if I should be able to read an entire social critique into her one statement. I was slightly taken aback, but not surprised. I’ve had students tell me they hate Arabs without a a trace of shame. Although I do not agree with their disdain, I can understand it. Coming from the secular elite of Muslim nation that gets a bad rap merely because of its religious background and geographical location, their fear is legitimate. When you fear that something precious you haven’t always had is going to be taken away from you (democracy and secularism), you hold on all the more tightly.
My student’s translation error was telling. Her partner was covered physically, and therefore she was closed. Closed off. A dead end. Written off. Obfuscated from view. Invisible.
I cannot pretend to know the disdain or animosity some women who wear the hijab may face. I do, however, know the disdain and discomfort from the perspective of someone who is not.
Now. One could argue that if a woman dresses provocatively, men will stare. One could also argue that some men will not just stare, but call, whistle, and grab no matter how a woman is dressed . One could further argue that provocative is a relative term, and depending on the weather, the context, and the season’s fashionable hemline (amongst other factors) one person’s sophisticated might be another’s skanky. Wherever you stand on the provocative continuum, let me make one things clear: a woman’s appearance is never basis for judgement that she is asking for it or that she is a whore (Russian prostitutes not included). In the secular, non-hijab wearing sectors of the city I tend to frequent, fashion sense is very Western but very different (take those god-awful hair extensions and animal prints for instance). Yet in the fluidity of common public spaces – on the busses, in the Uğur center, walking down the street in particular areas of the city, it is hard to escape from the disapproving (or perhaps just curious) gaze of strangers when I am wearing something that might, perhaps , maybe, be construed as provocative. Or, sometimes, even when I’m not. Just when I think I am safe from offending someone, just when I spot a woman in a halter top or leopard skinned hot pants (I kid you not) I find myself uncomfortable. It might be when I am running. It might be when I am wearing a strappy tank top on a boiling day. It might be for no reason at all. Not that I can’t wear whatever I please, and not that there aren’t countless other women in this city who wear tight or revealing clothing. Its just that I noticed the way I am perceived in ways I did not notice before, and sometimes I feel myself withering under the stares of strangers as if I have done something shameful and wrong, and sometimes I find myself very, very uncomfortable.
I tell myself, who cares what other people think? I write these feelings off to extreme self-consciousness and hyper-sensitivity. It is the cultural standards by which I am judged that have changed, not I. So why should I feel anything but secure in how I choose to present myself? And what difference does it make that all this is happening within a society where I coexist peacefully with my headscarved counterparts? I wonder. I wonder if because there is a concentration of women who are covered from head to wrist to ankle, the modestly bar is set higher. What is socially acceptable in a place where covered women are a small minority suddenly becomes slightly risque in a place where they comprise a sizable chunk of the population. So on occasion, if my bra strap is visible (gasp!) or I reveal a few centimeters of cleavage, I can see how it suddenly becomes not okay. And I can see how a teenager in a short dress and a bouncy ponytail might feel uncomfortable if her partner is closed.
So that’s what’s happening out there. This is what is happening with me.
I chaperoned a group of students to Athens, where my darling proteges participated in the Harvard Model Congress Conference. Students from international schools around Europe and the Middle East (and perhaps future world leaders) convened to discuss real world issues and learn to deal with crises better than their predecessors in hopes of cultivating global awareness. During our first mixer, one of my students discovered she was paired with a Saudi girl during her committee sessions.
“Ms. Saaaalaaaario,” she said (yes, with that intonation.) I met my partner. She’s closed.”
“What do you mean she’s closed?”
“You know, she wears the turban on her head.”
My student stated this as though we shared some secret, as if I should be able to read an entire social critique into her one statement. I was slightly taken aback, but not surprised. I’ve had students tell me they hate Arabs without a a trace of shame. Although I do not agree with their disdain, I can understand it. Coming from the secular elite of Muslim nation that gets a bad rap merely because of its religious background and geographical location, their fear is legitimate. When you fear that something precious you haven’t always had is going to be taken away from you (democracy and secularism), you hold on all the more tightly.
My student’s translation error was telling. Her partner was covered physically, and therefore she was closed. Closed off. A dead end. Written off. Obfuscated from view. Invisible.
I cannot pretend to know the disdain or animosity some women who wear the hijab may face. I do, however, know the disdain and discomfort from the perspective of someone who is not.
Now. One could argue that if a woman dresses provocatively, men will stare. One could also argue that some men will not just stare, but call, whistle, and grab no matter how a woman is dressed . One could further argue that provocative is a relative term, and depending on the weather, the context, and the season’s fashionable hemline (amongst other factors) one person’s sophisticated might be another’s skanky. Wherever you stand on the provocative continuum, let me make one things clear: a woman’s appearance is never basis for judgement that she is asking for it or that she is a whore (Russian prostitutes not included). In the secular, non-hijab wearing sectors of the city I tend to frequent, fashion sense is very Western but very different (take those god-awful hair extensions and animal prints for instance). Yet in the fluidity of common public spaces – on the busses, in the Uğur center, walking down the street in particular areas of the city, it is hard to escape from the disapproving (or perhaps just curious) gaze of strangers when I am wearing something that might, perhaps , maybe, be construed as provocative. Or, sometimes, even when I’m not. Just when I think I am safe from offending someone, just when I spot a woman in a halter top or leopard skinned hot pants (I kid you not) I find myself uncomfortable. It might be when I am running. It might be when I am wearing a strappy tank top on a boiling day. It might be for no reason at all. Not that I can’t wear whatever I please, and not that there aren’t countless other women in this city who wear tight or revealing clothing. Its just that I noticed the way I am perceived in ways I did not notice before, and sometimes I feel myself withering under the stares of strangers as if I have done something shameful and wrong, and sometimes I find myself very, very uncomfortable.
I tell myself, who cares what other people think? I write these feelings off to extreme self-consciousness and hyper-sensitivity. It is the cultural standards by which I am judged that have changed, not I. So why should I feel anything but secure in how I choose to present myself? And what difference does it make that all this is happening within a society where I coexist peacefully with my headscarved counterparts? I wonder. I wonder if because there is a concentration of women who are covered from head to wrist to ankle, the modestly bar is set higher. What is socially acceptable in a place where covered women are a small minority suddenly becomes slightly risque in a place where they comprise a sizable chunk of the population. So on occasion, if my bra strap is visible (gasp!) or I reveal a few centimeters of cleavage, I can see how it suddenly becomes not okay. And I can see how a teenager in a short dress and a bouncy ponytail might feel uncomfortable if her partner is closed.
Channeling the third eye
At times it feels like my life is relegated to a narrow moving walkway, the likes of which you find in airports and subways around the world. “Foreigners, please stand on the right hand side and hold onto the guardrail for safety. All others are free to pass on the left.” Technically I am living in Istanbul, working in Istanbul, and moving through the space that is Istanbul, but when I get too close to that ephemeral “it” I bump into the clear protective glass that buffers me from the rest of the world. There is an imperceptible limit to my interaction and integration.
I hate this. I don’t like feeling as though I live life on the silent side of a soundproof wall. My gut instinct is to change it; my mind knows not where to begin. I could frequent more authentic places, find a Turkish boyfriend, learn more of the language and more about the culture. To an extent, I have done all of the above. In and of themselves, these things do not make an “authentic” experience. Its about the organic process of immersion, not checking off a Turkish to-do list. For me, this process is lacking the human interaction aspect. While I wish I had the balls (and the language skills) to approach people Jay Leno Jaywalking style (and perhaps my own camera crew and late night television show to boot), I generally am stricken with shyness and fear. I am left to my own devices to intuit other ways of finding stuff out. The following posts are the result of what happens when I put my devices to goo use.
I hate this. I don’t like feeling as though I live life on the silent side of a soundproof wall. My gut instinct is to change it; my mind knows not where to begin. I could frequent more authentic places, find a Turkish boyfriend, learn more of the language and more about the culture. To an extent, I have done all of the above. In and of themselves, these things do not make an “authentic” experience. Its about the organic process of immersion, not checking off a Turkish to-do list. For me, this process is lacking the human interaction aspect. While I wish I had the balls (and the language skills) to approach people Jay Leno Jaywalking style (and perhaps my own camera crew and late night television show to boot), I generally am stricken with shyness and fear. I am left to my own devices to intuit other ways of finding stuff out. The following posts are the result of what happens when I put my devices to goo use.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Here we go again...
I'll be honest with you. I was afraid to even broach the subject. Something as ethereal and delicate as love can't be tethered down with a few blunt words. So my idea was that if I cast a wide net, I'd somehow be able to capture everything in the vicinity of love. Maybe amidst the kelp and minnows of confusion and he said she said I'd be able to snag something I can serve up for dinner. Or put above my mantel as a testament to all my hard work and say, "See, this is what love looks like. A big smelly fish." I don't really know how to go about it, but I do know I can't hit it straight on. Its kind of like trying to swat a fly. You have to creep up slowly, then pause when you are thisclose, and only when you know you've got it in the bag can you swoop in for the kill.
But I digress. For whatever reason, I have a pressing need to consider matters of the hear these days. I can’t pin it on any one thing, and I suppose it boils down to a number of factors: my own love lost (or, as I prefer to think of it, displaced for the time being), friends in perpetual relationship crisis mode, the feeling that I am getting up there (read: when are you going to get married and have babies?) as I teeter uneasily on the cusp of 27, I’m presently reading Eat, Pray, Love , Cirque du Soleil has that Beatles Love show playing, more than half of my friends, family, and celebrities on my radar have gotten married and/or engaged in the last year (even Ashlee Simpson, for gosh sakes), and gay marriage finally became legal in the state of California (yeah!). It seems like love and marriage are everywhere, and its about time someone other than Oprah, Dr. Phil, the dude who wrote Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, Carrie Bradshaw and the Sex and the City cast, and my mother addressed this question. So, I just figured that person should be me. I’m not going to feign humility and ask, “What would little naive me have to say about something as profound as love?” I’m not claiming to know the answers, but I’ve got something to say about it alright, therefore you should listen. (I think I already mentioned I’m out of stock in the logic department).
So yeah, how can I say this delicately? I don’t really care what anyone else has to say on the subject right now. Oh, except all those couples at the beginning of When Harry Met Sally. They can stay. I like them.
But I digress. For whatever reason, I have a pressing need to consider matters of the hear these days. I can’t pin it on any one thing, and I suppose it boils down to a number of factors: my own love lost (or, as I prefer to think of it, displaced for the time being), friends in perpetual relationship crisis mode, the feeling that I am getting up there (read: when are you going to get married and have babies?) as I teeter uneasily on the cusp of 27, I’m presently reading Eat, Pray, Love , Cirque du Soleil has that Beatles Love show playing, more than half of my friends, family, and celebrities on my radar have gotten married and/or engaged in the last year (even Ashlee Simpson, for gosh sakes), and gay marriage finally became legal in the state of California (yeah!). It seems like love and marriage are everywhere, and its about time someone other than Oprah, Dr. Phil, the dude who wrote Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, Carrie Bradshaw and the Sex and the City cast, and my mother addressed this question. So, I just figured that person should be me. I’m not going to feign humility and ask, “What would little naive me have to say about something as profound as love?” I’m not claiming to know the answers, but I’ve got something to say about it alright, therefore you should listen. (I think I already mentioned I’m out of stock in the logic department).
So yeah, how can I say this delicately? I don’t really care what anyone else has to say on the subject right now. Oh, except all those couples at the beginning of When Harry Met Sally. They can stay. I like them.
Love and Other Indoor Sports
Based on my last blog, you might be wondering: is she just a teensy bit bitter or something?
Um, I’ll get back to you on that. But first, let me flip a u-turn and show you what lies on the other side of cynicism.
Sometimes I think we are in the Golden Age of love. We’ve had a handful of social revolutions, and now slowly but surely we’re moving past the notion that there are those whom we are not allowed to love – whether this distinction be based on race, religion, gender, or any other dividing line. Not that love hasn’t always crossed boundaries (and broken them down) .
Believe you me, I love Love. I identify with Love. I’m almost certain Love and I have the same birthday, or at least Love must a Gemini too. If I had to be any emotion, I’d like to be an inexplicable force that makes no logical sense but opens people up and changes their lives. Love. What else could seem sweet and flirty one minute, callous and fickle the next?
At this point I must note a distinction: while I find the bullshit that seems to come part and parcel with relationships utterly repugnant (and no, I am not advocating free love, bootie calls, friends with benefits, polygamy, or celibacy) love is, without a doubt, the most incredible thing there is.
“But, oracle of love, doesn’t love make us want to be relationships? How can we be willing to die for someone and not want to be committed to them and have their babies?”
Um, I’ll get back to you on that one too.
I say this because I believe that no matter how heartbroken, how devastated, how certain you are that you will never ever ever love again, you have to have faith that you can and you will, even when you don’t.
I say this because that which has the power to eviscerate you even through your invisible chakras and slice you wide upon must, in some upside down cake kinda way, be a damn good thing.
I say this because while the gurus and psychologist are trying to work out some formula for what makes love work (common values + commitment + togetherness=lifelong love?) we all know its best to just listen to your heart.
I say this because that seems to be so utterly, painfully, catastrophically difficult, and I’d like to figure out why.
So dear friends, lovers, and weird strangers skulking around the blogosphere in search of intriguing new online buddies, this brings me in roundabout way to the conclusion, or rather, the beginning, that I’ve been trying to reach for the past two blogs now: How does love work?
Um, I’ll get back to you on that. But first, let me flip a u-turn and show you what lies on the other side of cynicism.
Sometimes I think we are in the Golden Age of love. We’ve had a handful of social revolutions, and now slowly but surely we’re moving past the notion that there are those whom we are not allowed to love – whether this distinction be based on race, religion, gender, or any other dividing line. Not that love hasn’t always crossed boundaries (and broken them down) .
Believe you me, I love Love. I identify with Love. I’m almost certain Love and I have the same birthday, or at least Love must a Gemini too. If I had to be any emotion, I’d like to be an inexplicable force that makes no logical sense but opens people up and changes their lives. Love. What else could seem sweet and flirty one minute, callous and fickle the next?
At this point I must note a distinction: while I find the bullshit that seems to come part and parcel with relationships utterly repugnant (and no, I am not advocating free love, bootie calls, friends with benefits, polygamy, or celibacy) love is, without a doubt, the most incredible thing there is.
“But, oracle of love, doesn’t love make us want to be relationships? How can we be willing to die for someone and not want to be committed to them and have their babies?”
Um, I’ll get back to you on that one too.
I say this because I believe that no matter how heartbroken, how devastated, how certain you are that you will never ever ever love again, you have to have faith that you can and you will, even when you don’t.
I say this because that which has the power to eviscerate you even through your invisible chakras and slice you wide upon must, in some upside down cake kinda way, be a damn good thing.
I say this because while the gurus and psychologist are trying to work out some formula for what makes love work (common values + commitment + togetherness=lifelong love?) we all know its best to just listen to your heart.
I say this because that seems to be so utterly, painfully, catastrophically difficult, and I’d like to figure out why.
So dear friends, lovers, and weird strangers skulking around the blogosphere in search of intriguing new online buddies, this brings me in roundabout way to the conclusion, or rather, the beginning, that I’ve been trying to reach for the past two blogs now: How does love work?
It's not you, it's ME.
“Love lifts us up where we belong, love is a many splendid thing, love is all you need.”
Discuss.
I attempted to start a cryptic new blog under the pseudonym of Eros, Aphrodite, Agape, or something equally cliche. Just call me Dr. Drew and dial up my love line. Lonely hearts, broken hearts, wild hearts, even cold, sterile, impotent hearts are welcome to punch in my digits for a dose of amor.
There’s a slight glitch. Every time I contemplate some original love thought, Ewan McGregor prancing around in Moulin Rouge pops into my head. ...five, six, seven, eight...jazz hands! Crescendo! Hold that pose...hold it...now sing: “Never knew love could feel like this....” Suddenly I can only think of voule vou couce and other overplayed top forty songs.
So I’ll just cut to the chase. What I really want to say to all of you out there who are dealing with matters of the heart is something much more sentimental and well thought out: Get over it. Love is sooo passe. Self-actualization is the new partnership. Hole yourself up in an ashram, read some Sartre, set up a tent in Wyoming, find a mantra, and if all that sounds a bit extreme, just make yourself some green tea and read a little O Magazine. If you still really feel the urge to find someone, why fall in love the old fashioned way when eharmony.com has practically got it down to a science?
If you still don’t believe me, just consider your options. Even if you do find love, you will inevitably use one of the following ideological pillars to support your wimpy union.
First, there are those who proscribe to the opposites attract school of thought. These people generally tend to fall on either end of the behavioral spectrum and love to stew in their stale personal issues and fermenting neuroses. (Nothing like a cocktail of insecurity and inferiority with arrogance and narcissism to jumpstart a relationship)
Case in point: the introvert and the extrovert. This brand of relationship allows those who love the limelight a justification for their obsequious, attention seeking ways. Those who scoff at small talk can sit back and sip their beer, cosmo, pelligrino or whatever while their other half does the talking. They never gave a shit about the cyst you had removed from your armpit, and now they don’t have to pretend to care. This category also includes the people who want to date someone from the other side of the tracks, the globe, or the dermatological skin scale (from 1 for pasty albinos to 6 for the melatonin rich ebony skinned) merely because they love the idea of something different (fyi I am a 2-3 for olive with a yellow underdone). Yeah, using someone to make a statement or rebel against your upbringing is really healthy.
Then there are the peas in the pod – the people who complete each others sentences and probably have a dog they dress in sweaters during the winder and wear the same outfits from the Gap and have bizarre pet names like my honey bunny wonny zunny! My cinnamon toast crunch! My organic soft noodle! They always seem to have some inside joke that you are left to wonder about, therefore reinforcing their air of exclusivity and thus reinforcing the foundation of their relationship: “Yes, we do inhabit our own world and don’t you wish you could be on it? We have to keep telling ourselves we like each other, or else we’d realize we’re just in love with ourselves. ”
So while all this lovey dovey stuff sounds thrilling, I’d rather you gag me with a spoon first.
Discuss.
I attempted to start a cryptic new blog under the pseudonym of Eros, Aphrodite, Agape, or something equally cliche. Just call me Dr. Drew and dial up my love line. Lonely hearts, broken hearts, wild hearts, even cold, sterile, impotent hearts are welcome to punch in my digits for a dose of amor.
There’s a slight glitch. Every time I contemplate some original love thought, Ewan McGregor prancing around in Moulin Rouge pops into my head. ...five, six, seven, eight...jazz hands! Crescendo! Hold that pose...hold it...now sing: “Never knew love could feel like this....” Suddenly I can only think of voule vou couce and other overplayed top forty songs.
So I’ll just cut to the chase. What I really want to say to all of you out there who are dealing with matters of the heart is something much more sentimental and well thought out: Get over it. Love is sooo passe. Self-actualization is the new partnership. Hole yourself up in an ashram, read some Sartre, set up a tent in Wyoming, find a mantra, and if all that sounds a bit extreme, just make yourself some green tea and read a little O Magazine. If you still really feel the urge to find someone, why fall in love the old fashioned way when eharmony.com has practically got it down to a science?
If you still don’t believe me, just consider your options. Even if you do find love, you will inevitably use one of the following ideological pillars to support your wimpy union.
First, there are those who proscribe to the opposites attract school of thought. These people generally tend to fall on either end of the behavioral spectrum and love to stew in their stale personal issues and fermenting neuroses. (Nothing like a cocktail of insecurity and inferiority with arrogance and narcissism to jumpstart a relationship)
Case in point: the introvert and the extrovert. This brand of relationship allows those who love the limelight a justification for their obsequious, attention seeking ways. Those who scoff at small talk can sit back and sip their beer, cosmo, pelligrino or whatever while their other half does the talking. They never gave a shit about the cyst you had removed from your armpit, and now they don’t have to pretend to care. This category also includes the people who want to date someone from the other side of the tracks, the globe, or the dermatological skin scale (from 1 for pasty albinos to 6 for the melatonin rich ebony skinned) merely because they love the idea of something different (fyi I am a 2-3 for olive with a yellow underdone). Yeah, using someone to make a statement or rebel against your upbringing is really healthy.
Then there are the peas in the pod – the people who complete each others sentences and probably have a dog they dress in sweaters during the winder and wear the same outfits from the Gap and have bizarre pet names like my honey bunny wonny zunny! My cinnamon toast crunch! My organic soft noodle! They always seem to have some inside joke that you are left to wonder about, therefore reinforcing their air of exclusivity and thus reinforcing the foundation of their relationship: “Yes, we do inhabit our own world and don’t you wish you could be on it? We have to keep telling ourselves we like each other, or else we’d realize we’re just in love with ourselves. ”
So while all this lovey dovey stuff sounds thrilling, I’d rather you gag me with a spoon first.
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Sisyphus
"The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a [wo]man's heart." (No, this is not my lover)
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