it isn’t that i believe that breaking the law is ok. i don’t. they are there for a reason. in terms of immigration my assumption it has something to do with safety. of course i have a raging leftie friend who swears that the social construction of borders is simply to create an “us” vs “them” mentality. but i put that aside for the moment…
my support of the boycott today has much more to do with the arbitrary nature of our immigration policies, our arbitrary vilification of illegal immigrants and not those that employ/profit from their work.
sure, a lot of different issues all jumbled up, but important none the less.
we have cheap fruit, cheaper houses, cheap labor in restaurants and hotels because we…americans…hire illiegal immigrants. i find it amusing that we are disgusted with the idea that others would come over and work but are eager to profit from that illegal work.
to loftier political issues…some countries just have an easier time coming over. talk to a haitian and see what kind of reception she got in her intake process…talk to an iranian. and ther are any number of arguments against letting people in…but those very arguments test the fabric of the american dream turned myth. “bring us your tired and your weary” unless of course we don’t like the country they are fleeing from…or we think there are too many of you hear already.
of course there is a burden on our delicate systems…and that needs to be addressed. but 12 million illegal immigrants aren’t the reason our domestic and international spending are out of control or the reason our medical system has spiralled out of control.
equally…no matter what folks might think they want (wait until prices start inching up…it would affect prices like gas does) we can’t afford to ship every single illegal immigrant home. it isn’t practical. so why not concentrate on the actual issues…
reexamining our current immigration laws and look for a way to integrate those already here into the system.
and in the process…i hope we remember that with the exception of the native americans…we were all immigrants once…
The sand dunes in the namib desert look barren of anything but me-colored sand. But dwarfed by the expanse, there are actually tiny plants – succulents – desperately crafting delicate homes in the absence of water and in the loose spaces of intolerable heat. Some manage to put down roots and flourish, others succumb to the desert’s conditions. Relationships are like that. Taken for granted they can thrive or wilt…attentively cared for and the same is still true. Some scatter to distant places while others etch themselves into permanent places.
Over the years I haven’t been able to put my finger on the thing that makes some of my most treasured relationships fall by the wayside…either quietly or in tumult, and others prosper regardless of the attention paid or not paid to them.
Whether in matters of friendship or matters of the heart, I have found myself swept up in a current of people that bring light and Blue to my world. People who hold me to high standards they have every certainty I can reach…people who offer their strengths, their gifts, their tears, their laughter, their homes, their very lives up to me simply in the name of love.
But sometimes those friendships falter. As individuals we change directions and lose sight of each other, or misunderstandings prevent us from seeing our roles in each other’s lives clearly. Sometimes who we were to each other runs its course and we are left simply with the memory.
Saddest for me are those that move away from me even as I watch, unable to summon them back so that we can search – together – for our common ground that has somehow escaped us. This week has been a dichotomy for me, in terms of relationships. I have been pulled close and held dear and I have been pushed away for want of more. And even with a seeming balance of events, the loss of a friendship always weighs heavy on me. It allows me to look back on the journey I’ve taken with someone special, consider their fingerprints on my life, and then say goodbye.
you’d think that since i speak english as my mother tongue…and since english is the national langague of zed…and since both countries have their histories nestled in with the queen’s…that language would be the last thing to confound me here. aside from the little things, like calling flip flops jandels and bathing suits togs, i didn’t expect any embarassement to emerge from language. nothing like south africa, where just learning to greet in northern sotho proved a task.
still, life is full of surprises. for instance, imagine my surprise when i casually told my host father that my real father was under the weather. he looked at me strangely, raised an eyebrow and then asked me what that meant in the US.
i told him it meant he wasn’t feeling well…my dad has a minor cold. he laughed out loud and then informed me that in zed, under the weather means a hangover. yep, nothing like telling folks your dad is 3 sheets to the wind without meaning to.
A few months ago a friend and I got into a heated debate about religion. Actually it spiralled out of the realm of debate and into an argument. I told him he was being a leftist version of Pat Robertson – bestowing his grand wisdom on the masses. He countered that at some point the middle was not an acceptable seat, some things were wrong and people have to take a stand.
I was uneasy with that idea. My thoughts on life and liberty have always been to live and let live as long as your living doesn’t infringe on anyone else’s quality of life. So if you believe in Jesus or Buddha or Osugun or whoever…I support that right. It stems from my need for others not to dictate to me how I should pray, look, eat, or live.
But my friend had a point. Eventually the water gets murky and you either have to swim all the way out or you have to retreat to shore in order to see what is going on. This gets complicated in a world full of different cultures and norms. I’ve never wanted to be associated with the “America knows best” camp. If nothing else, my time in South Africa taught me that sometimes things are done differently for very good reasons.
But sometimes cultural differences and another person’s rights clash. And once again South Africa emerges as an example in the sparks that fly.
There has been an ongoing rape trial against the ex deputy president of the ANC. He is accused of raping an AIDS activist and friend of the family in his home.
Until this week he maintained that it was consensual sex, that she came on to him. But in a twist, he took the stand this week and used “traditional Zulu values” to prove his innocence. He claimed that she was wearing a skirt that showed her knees and exposed her thighs when she sat down and that that was an invitation to his Zulu maleness. Moreover, he declared it would have been culturally insensitive (“tantamount to rape” was the reported phrase) to refuse her.
And I don’t know. Maybe it is Zulu tradition. I’m not Zulu, who am I to say? And looking at the protesters – some women – burning not his face in effigy but his accuser, dancing and celebrating him, and I feel the pull of deep waters or stable shores. My friend is right in one way, I have to decide what is appropriate for me to endorse and support. I have to speak out against things that I deem wrong. But I was right too. Deciding and speaking out makes him, makes me, Pat Robertson.
Granted our views are probably more widely accepted – at least here in the US – but that doesn’t mean that we haven’t assumed the role of moral police dictating what is best/right/appropriate for people very different from us.
A long time ago I read an article that was talking about the anti- female genitalia mutilation campaign spearheaded by western women. There was one quote, by no means a majority or statistically viable proof – only a single quote that has stayed with me, it begged that western women would let them fight the battle in their own way. She said that we were compromising their own initiatives because the men viewed this change in ideas as western propaganda instead of a cultural change from the inside.
Of course the question becomes, when is silent too silent. Rwanda, Sudan, the holocaust…we were silent and evil things transpired…of course in Australia, with the lost generation(s) of aboriginal children stolen to “better” them…the intervention, the idea that outsiders knew best, mandated kidnappings that have had heinous results.
Who are we to decide…who are we not to…?
so the new tourist tag line to lure people to austrialia is…
where the bloody hell are you?
do i really need to write anything else?
i love food. no surprise there. and i adore dim sum/yum char. the tiny dishes of food. the random flavors that assault the tongue. the giddiness at fresh tea steaming aromatically in front of me. and of course a crowd of friends smiling and talking about whatever comes to mind.
make that an all you can eat expereince and i might just wet myself…or not. i might just have a wonderful morning on a dreary auckland sunday.
and so i found myself with a much smaller group than anticipated (we were due for 9 and ended up with 4) but what a group we were. four different countries (china, nigeria, kenya, and the us), various religions and even studies.
conversation was good and random. the food was the same. for two of my friends this yum char expereince was a first. one found it ok (he preferred the japanese food i introduced him to) but the other LOVED it…even with the modifications we insisted on (he can’t eat pork). and i was so thrilled to see him so thrilled. and i was so excited to have my friends together – eating and talking. reminiscent of my times back in dallas or houston or new york…the aroma of chinese food floating in the air and mingling with people i enjoy.
so far away and yet so close to home.
the view from my window is limited. a newly erected building blocks most of my view. for the first frew months that meant i gazed at workers dangling percariously from ropes as they sanded down concrete or washed windows. now, i have to be careful when i dress to make sure that someone isn’t contemplating their own limted view and looking back at me.
but that isn’t the point. the point is that my view is limited. a building, the street below. over the stretch of trees there is the motorway. and above that, the grafton bridge.
for some of it, i can fill in the gaps. i have a friend who lives over the grafton bridge, i’m there enough to know what shops i’ll pass, what the view looks like from the middle. there is curved plastic that lines the sides to protect jumpers from themselves and walkers from the rain. and when teh day is clear you can see the harbor with ease.
of course i’ve seen these things from other perspectives now. from the bus riding down the motorway or coming from new market (a different direction all together). and it is interesting how the very same things can look so foreign when seen from a different perspective.
the weather is fickle here. it makes houston’s indesicion look like slow and deliberate thinking. while staring out the window in class today it felt like watching forced time lapse in a movie. like in notting hill where he walks down his street and the background goes from sunny to rainy to flowers in bloom and a woman goes from slim to busting at the belly to baby in arms. we started with clear blue skies and managed to wade through deluge after clear sky after deluge. i saw a weeks worth of wether out the window today.
i’d like to have something else to say, but school has fially caught up to me. i’m finally submerged in reading, writing, discussion and creation. maybe later..maybe later…
i knew i’d been in class too long today when, immediately after sending my friend a text message, i thought “that question, ‘do you want to get something to eat or are you tired?'” wasn’t well written. today’s 8 hour educational excursion was on research proposal writing and we discussed good interview and survey writing skills…i guess i was paying attention because the details stuck!
it is 10pm and i still haven’t finished the assignment due tomorrow. and it isn’t that i waited until the last minute to work on, i’ve actually broken my ritual “last minute start” and began this a few weeks back. only the urgecny didn’t hit…at least not the kind i’m used to.
this urgency is more a fear. fear that my american-ness will not be what they are looking for. fear that what i produce will not be satisfactory for uni.
but i plug on. working the libarary journals looking for what i think janet would like. (my professors are not called dr. or prof. here, rather i am still working my tongue up to saying, “hey janet, can you check this out for me?” if i can’t bring myself to do that how on earth can i bring my pen to create an assignment worth 30% of my grade?)
so it is coming along…my thoughts a little sporadic and with me in definite need of a printer to check what i’ve said…but even so it is coming along. and all i can do is pull together the apa format for my bibliography and go forward from there…yeah…sure…i’m calm…
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