Today has been a day of music. I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I entered the Subte with thoughts of the Coca Cola tango-dancer billboards around the city. I shimmied in my seat to outdated American jazzy pop music as our van to La Matanza flew by sunshine and the city and horses and fields, leaving Capital behind us.
Upon arriving at my volunteer site, we were told that until the kids arrived for classes that we could help pack up the Semana Santa pan roscas (sweet breads for Easter). In the midst of sweet, sugary-smelling breads and celophane wrapping and crinkling and the snipping of pink ribbons, two Argentine brothers walked in. They smiled and said hi in a familiar way that prompted my compañera to ask if I knew them. They promptly unpacked a guitar and announced they would play for us as we worked. They opened their mouths and my heart stopped (and melted); all jokes aside, they had the most beautiful voices I have heard in years, each like a different texture of honey. In between 4 or 5 songs we chatted a bit and learned that each is in a different band. One is an Argentine rock band, the other a Mexican Mariachi and Ranchera band. The Mariachi brother plays just a few blocks from my dorm on weekends, so at least one of this weekend's nights is now booked.
(Oh, and let's talk about how last night I fell asleep with freshly beat-boxed rythms in my head. One of the friendliest boys in my dorm is a famous Hip Hop artist in Paraguay, where he's from. He wouldn't freestyle for me, but agreed to beatbox, and upon beginning was joined by an NYU kid who's also really good.)
The evening wound down with a Tango Orchestral performance and presentation on the history, methodology, and music of tango, conducted at the NYU academic center. Check the mout at www.myspace.com/orquestaimperial. My mind drifted as I soaked up the notes and smiled to myself and to the performers (which I'm sure weirded out one of the women who got caught off guard when she looked up from her accordian-like tango instrument to a cheesing Lilly), and in the moment I felt so utterly happy with Buenos Aires. I also felt so thankful that I attend NYU... I am living a charmed life in Buenos Aires, via New York City--specifically Greenwich village, Manhattan.
I love my life the most in the moments when it is filled with music. And the moments it is filled with love... but love is its own flavor of music.
Here's to a musical day and the hope and belief that this music is a foreshadowing of what is to come,
L
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
People are people are people?
And so we return to the theme of my blog, to the inspiration with which I began this journey of airing my dirty laundry on the internet.
I have spent the past week going to events in the young Jewish Argentine world. It's been amazing and enriching and immersive on multiple levels. I have been reunited with hummus and babaganoush (eggplant dip), pita bread and grilled vegetables, prayers in Hebrew and people who observe and appreciate shabbat. One of the young men in my program is working for Hillel International and helping to plan Jewish events for International students, so he is super tapped into the young Jewish scene here. He invited me to a sushi dinner shabbat on Friday night and to a shabbat lunch at a Jewish youth center, both of which I attended this past weekend. I met young Jewish Argentinians and spent the weekend mingling and practicing my Spanish with them. I am always a little hesistant when stepping into new Jewish spaces because I worry about how I will be perceived and received; I have tattoos (an absolute no-no for Orthodox Jews), I am not observant, I support the liberation and autonomy of Palestine, I come from an interfaith family and do not believe that interfaith marriage will kill off the Jewish people... the list goes on. Still, I felt relatively comfortable and very welcomed this weekend. I might even start going to art classes at the Jewish youth center where we had lunch on Saturday/Shabbat. (The center is GORGEOUS and probably the most attractive building I have been in yet in Buenos Aires. It has tons of windows, bouquets of flowers everywhere, skylights, comfortable chairs and couches, huge bookshelves, a rooftop with a view of Buenos Aires... a very calming, purifying, communal space that feels like what I believe a Jewish space should feel like.)
I love thinking back on my childhood and realizing how integral a part of my identity my Jewishness is. Although I was never particularly religious or observant, both Kehilla and JYCA were so crucial in the formation of my beliefs and orientation about the world. Kehilla is the Jewish congregation my family belonged to, and many of the families are interfaith, interracial, multiracial, non-heterosexual, and services almost always include dancing and singing and instruments in the audience. JYCA, Jewish Youth for Community Action, is a group of high-school-aged Jewish students in Berkeley, California, that focuses on youth leadership and community activism and social justice.
Despite all of these wonderful emotions and memories that occur when I spend time around Jewish people and Jewish communities, I can not help but feel creeped out when other Jewish people suddenly seem to like me worlds more when they find out I am Jewish. While I understand the importance of sharing time and relationships with people who also share histories and traditions and beliefs, I can not endorse the idea of treating people with more attention, more energy, more care, more love, and more interest just because you both are Jewish. I believe that we should share our energy and our love with everyone who exhibits the same love and energy for the world that we do. Sure, people cling and flock to those who share their same moral and political beliefs, but I want to be assured that when I am being loved, I am being loved for me and not for my ancestry.
"People are people are people" is a quote that our tour guide on my Taglit birthright trip to Israel kept repeating. He used the phrase to demonstrate that people are the same all over the world, that basic humanity connects us all. But his constant usage of the phrase bothered me, especially in light of the fact that not all Jews are treated equally in Israel (see one of my extremely old blog posts on the situation for Ethiopian Jews in Israel, for example, and the popular belief held by many non-black Israelis that they would never ever bring a black Jew home to meet their parents). So lately, as I've been spending lovely afternoons and evenings mingling with beautiful Argentinian Jewish young people, loving my heritage and roots and the chance to connect to these people here, I have also been contemplating this concept. To me, people are totally people are people (the more I write the word "people," the funnier it looks!). It almost feels wrong, then, against my internal moral compass, to accept this acceptance that I am receiving from communities that might not believe that "people are people are people" in practice. I think that I need to read more about Judaism and what Judaism declares about this concept. In the meantime, I am loving my entrance into Jewishness in Buenos Aires, and eagerly anticipating an Argentinian Passover seder (though nothing can ever compare to my faimly's seders, where we eat potatoes and hard boiled eggs while we read through the Haggadah 'cause no one can handle hunger pains, and the entire seder is sprinkled with pieces and songs on global justice).
With love for people who are people who are people, and with respect and acknowledgment of the ways that people are not always allowed to be or not interested in being people who are people who are people,
L
I have spent the past week going to events in the young Jewish Argentine world. It's been amazing and enriching and immersive on multiple levels. I have been reunited with hummus and babaganoush (eggplant dip), pita bread and grilled vegetables, prayers in Hebrew and people who observe and appreciate shabbat. One of the young men in my program is working for Hillel International and helping to plan Jewish events for International students, so he is super tapped into the young Jewish scene here. He invited me to a sushi dinner shabbat on Friday night and to a shabbat lunch at a Jewish youth center, both of which I attended this past weekend. I met young Jewish Argentinians and spent the weekend mingling and practicing my Spanish with them. I am always a little hesistant when stepping into new Jewish spaces because I worry about how I will be perceived and received; I have tattoos (an absolute no-no for Orthodox Jews), I am not observant, I support the liberation and autonomy of Palestine, I come from an interfaith family and do not believe that interfaith marriage will kill off the Jewish people... the list goes on. Still, I felt relatively comfortable and very welcomed this weekend. I might even start going to art classes at the Jewish youth center where we had lunch on Saturday/Shabbat. (The center is GORGEOUS and probably the most attractive building I have been in yet in Buenos Aires. It has tons of windows, bouquets of flowers everywhere, skylights, comfortable chairs and couches, huge bookshelves, a rooftop with a view of Buenos Aires... a very calming, purifying, communal space that feels like what I believe a Jewish space should feel like.)
I love thinking back on my childhood and realizing how integral a part of my identity my Jewishness is. Although I was never particularly religious or observant, both Kehilla and JYCA were so crucial in the formation of my beliefs and orientation about the world. Kehilla is the Jewish congregation my family belonged to, and many of the families are interfaith, interracial, multiracial, non-heterosexual, and services almost always include dancing and singing and instruments in the audience. JYCA, Jewish Youth for Community Action, is a group of high-school-aged Jewish students in Berkeley, California, that focuses on youth leadership and community activism and social justice.
Despite all of these wonderful emotions and memories that occur when I spend time around Jewish people and Jewish communities, I can not help but feel creeped out when other Jewish people suddenly seem to like me worlds more when they find out I am Jewish. While I understand the importance of sharing time and relationships with people who also share histories and traditions and beliefs, I can not endorse the idea of treating people with more attention, more energy, more care, more love, and more interest just because you both are Jewish. I believe that we should share our energy and our love with everyone who exhibits the same love and energy for the world that we do. Sure, people cling and flock to those who share their same moral and political beliefs, but I want to be assured that when I am being loved, I am being loved for me and not for my ancestry.
"People are people are people" is a quote that our tour guide on my Taglit birthright trip to Israel kept repeating. He used the phrase to demonstrate that people are the same all over the world, that basic humanity connects us all. But his constant usage of the phrase bothered me, especially in light of the fact that not all Jews are treated equally in Israel (see one of my extremely old blog posts on the situation for Ethiopian Jews in Israel, for example, and the popular belief held by many non-black Israelis that they would never ever bring a black Jew home to meet their parents). So lately, as I've been spending lovely afternoons and evenings mingling with beautiful Argentinian Jewish young people, loving my heritage and roots and the chance to connect to these people here, I have also been contemplating this concept. To me, people are totally people are people (the more I write the word "people," the funnier it looks!). It almost feels wrong, then, against my internal moral compass, to accept this acceptance that I am receiving from communities that might not believe that "people are people are people" in practice. I think that I need to read more about Judaism and what Judaism declares about this concept. In the meantime, I am loving my entrance into Jewishness in Buenos Aires, and eagerly anticipating an Argentinian Passover seder (though nothing can ever compare to my faimly's seders, where we eat potatoes and hard boiled eggs while we read through the Haggadah 'cause no one can handle hunger pains, and the entire seder is sprinkled with pieces and songs on global justice).
With love for people who are people who are people, and with respect and acknowledgment of the ways that people are not always allowed to be or not interested in being people who are people who are people,
L
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Crossing Paths
I find it difficult to write when I am in a bad mood. It's not that I want to censor myself or only pen down a bubbly image of who I am and what I think and feel; it is more that I do not like to associate writing with a negative cloud of energy. I haven't been in a bad mood lately, per se, but I haven't been at my best. There is something about the city of Buenos Aires that does not click with me completely. Then again, it took me 6 months to begin to like NYC. That said, we will wait to pass final judgment.
You know those moments when you witness something so wonderful you just have to smile? Those moments that create a secret between you and yourself? Sometimes other people get in on your secret, when they see your internal smile and you lock eyes and share an understanding that what just happened should be preserved, imprinted in memories and tucked away to treasure at a later date. Tuesday night on my way home from volunteering I had a smile-with-myself moment. On my way into the Subte, I noticed signs saying that the station was closed and you had to walk to the next station to catch a train. Despite the signs, however, hordes of people were surging down the stairs, so I decided to follow. All of the turnstiles were blocked off with caution tape, but a security guard had opened a gate and people were flowing onto the platform for free. I waltzed through with them and took a place on the platform. Once my brain registered that there were people waiting for a train that was supposedly not coming, I also picked up a clapping noise that was going on. People all up and down the train platform were clapping in sync. A woman near me asked one of the clappers why she was clapping, and the woman, seeing me looking, told both of us that we should join in; the clapping was to show the train operators that the people are angry and want the train to stop at that station. Minutes later, amidst the claps, a train arrived, slowly inching along and finally stopping to pick us up. I was thrilled. That would NEVER happen in New York. MTA has schedule or route changes and you just suck it up and deal with it. I smiled the whole way home as I eavesdropped on a conversation next to me between an Argentine chef and a Korean visitor whose only language in common was English. In Buenos Aires, though, apparently the people have a good deal of everyday power. It sounds trivial, but the power to clap a train into changing its route is a big deal in my mind.
At breakfast a couple of days ago, the 9-year-old daughter of one of the women who works in our residence hall ate breakfast with us. She walked up the stairs, saw me and Desiree, and ran over and threw her arms around us. Having kids around makes such a difference in my happiness level; my happy energy skyrockets when I spend time with kids.
Classes are all solidly good, but I am not feeling intellectually stimulated here, which is hard. I love to love school. I miss my Social and Cultural Analysis classes that address the problematic elements in every part of society, while also talking about the power of the people and the ways that people rally against oppression. I miss analyzing dominant power forces in regards to culture and being assigned readings that help me develop my own thoughts, or put into words what I can not verbalize myself. Especially in light of the interesting immigration-related, racially charged, class-based, and city dynamics of Buenos Aires, I especially feel the lack of support, the lack of encouragement and nourishment for my brain and soul that I receive in New York.
Today I went to a huge bookstore that used to be a theater. Supposedly it is the largest in Buenos Aires. Every time I walk into a bookstore I feel at home. (I have realized I have an obsession with the idea of home. It comes out in most of my writing. One day I'd like to write a book called "Home and Wanderlust.")
The world continues to be small: Last night we were walking around a plaza near our residence, and a guy points at us and shouts "Punta del Este!!" Three guys from Switzerland who stayed at our hostel in Uruguay--and who we played cards with at the bar's happy hour--were in Buenos Aires, and just happened to run into us. They return to Switzerland tomorrow. Who knows if we will ever meet again, but it got me thinking: how many people in my life do I cross paths with multiple times and just do not notice? I'm sure there are tons of people in New York who I have seen on a subway train or walking down the street who I come across again in a restaurant or in a park, but we don't take note of each other. The world is too small for us not to be constantly crossing paths with each other, whether or not we realize it as it happens.
More will come soon. I let too much time pass between my posts.
With thoughtfulness and happiness that the people reading this have crossed my path,
L
You know those moments when you witness something so wonderful you just have to smile? Those moments that create a secret between you and yourself? Sometimes other people get in on your secret, when they see your internal smile and you lock eyes and share an understanding that what just happened should be preserved, imprinted in memories and tucked away to treasure at a later date. Tuesday night on my way home from volunteering I had a smile-with-myself moment. On my way into the Subte, I noticed signs saying that the station was closed and you had to walk to the next station to catch a train. Despite the signs, however, hordes of people were surging down the stairs, so I decided to follow. All of the turnstiles were blocked off with caution tape, but a security guard had opened a gate and people were flowing onto the platform for free. I waltzed through with them and took a place on the platform. Once my brain registered that there were people waiting for a train that was supposedly not coming, I also picked up a clapping noise that was going on. People all up and down the train platform were clapping in sync. A woman near me asked one of the clappers why she was clapping, and the woman, seeing me looking, told both of us that we should join in; the clapping was to show the train operators that the people are angry and want the train to stop at that station. Minutes later, amidst the claps, a train arrived, slowly inching along and finally stopping to pick us up. I was thrilled. That would NEVER happen in New York. MTA has schedule or route changes and you just suck it up and deal with it. I smiled the whole way home as I eavesdropped on a conversation next to me between an Argentine chef and a Korean visitor whose only language in common was English. In Buenos Aires, though, apparently the people have a good deal of everyday power. It sounds trivial, but the power to clap a train into changing its route is a big deal in my mind.
At breakfast a couple of days ago, the 9-year-old daughter of one of the women who works in our residence hall ate breakfast with us. She walked up the stairs, saw me and Desiree, and ran over and threw her arms around us. Having kids around makes such a difference in my happiness level; my happy energy skyrockets when I spend time with kids.
Classes are all solidly good, but I am not feeling intellectually stimulated here, which is hard. I love to love school. I miss my Social and Cultural Analysis classes that address the problematic elements in every part of society, while also talking about the power of the people and the ways that people rally against oppression. I miss analyzing dominant power forces in regards to culture and being assigned readings that help me develop my own thoughts, or put into words what I can not verbalize myself. Especially in light of the interesting immigration-related, racially charged, class-based, and city dynamics of Buenos Aires, I especially feel the lack of support, the lack of encouragement and nourishment for my brain and soul that I receive in New York.
Today I went to a huge bookstore that used to be a theater. Supposedly it is the largest in Buenos Aires. Every time I walk into a bookstore I feel at home. (I have realized I have an obsession with the idea of home. It comes out in most of my writing. One day I'd like to write a book called "Home and Wanderlust.")
The world continues to be small: Last night we were walking around a plaza near our residence, and a guy points at us and shouts "Punta del Este!!" Three guys from Switzerland who stayed at our hostel in Uruguay--and who we played cards with at the bar's happy hour--were in Buenos Aires, and just happened to run into us. They return to Switzerland tomorrow. Who knows if we will ever meet again, but it got me thinking: how many people in my life do I cross paths with multiple times and just do not notice? I'm sure there are tons of people in New York who I have seen on a subway train or walking down the street who I come across again in a restaurant or in a park, but we don't take note of each other. The world is too small for us not to be constantly crossing paths with each other, whether or not we realize it as it happens.
More will come soon. I let too much time pass between my posts.
With thoughtfulness and happiness that the people reading this have crossed my path,
L
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Getting Lost
I really enjoy getting lost. Getting lost physically, en route to a destination, getting lost in thought, getting lost in love, getting lost in a book, getting lost in life.... It also scares me half to death sometimes, but at multiple points in my life, it is through getting lost that I have found my way. Yesterday, my compañera, a young woman from London and Barcelona whom I adore, and I got lost on the way to our volunteer site. We work in La Matanza, a province outside of the Capital. We take two buses to get there, and it's not well-marked at all, but still not super difficult to navigate once you've done it a couple of times. The problem is we enjoy each others' company so much that we got lost in conversation and got on the wrong second bus. We ended up about a ten minute walk from where we needed to go, in a neighborhood that is pretty run-down but very friendly and safe--if you're from there. We are clearly not. In the midst of different people giving us different walking directions to get to where we needed to go, a woman who we had seen at the busstop and her 11-year-old daughter took us under their wings and walked us the whole way to our destination. We encouraged them to utilize the programs at the Coop where we work, so she left her daughter with us and I spent the afternoon teaching her English and doing art projects with her and another girl. As I've gotten older I have realized that when my mom used to worry about me and be what I thought was overly cautious, there was some rhyme to her reason. Still, I have been very lucky and blessed in my life and have found people willing to share their light with me even in the darkest situations.
After spending the weekend on the beach in Uruguay, getting lost in the burning hot sun and the refreshing, beautiful, beautiful water, sitting through classes is painful. My motivation level is low; a huge part of me wants to leave school and work a desk in a hostel on the beach somewhere. I suppose it might be hard for me to spend my days hearing stories of other people's adventures getting lost, though. I'm learning how to navigate the Subte (subway) system here in Buenos Aires, though, so while I have yet to get lost underground, the possibility always lingers, and I'm feeling confident enough in my sense of direction that I get lost in my book while riding the train (I am currently reading Zora Neale Hurston's "Mules and Men," which I grabbed off the bookshelf of my dorm's lobby).
My 21st birthday is fast approaching, and it doesn't feel like March. I've never been in summertime weather around my birthday before, so maybe that's why; usually my birthday weekend ends up being the first day of sun for the season. I know a birthday is supposed to be a marker of maturity, of life progression, but I have never felt different when a new number gets tagged on to my introductions. I'm definitely growing...growing up though? As my mama always says, "you have to grow old, but you never have to grow up." 21 is supposed to signify American adulthood (meaning I now have license to poison myself with alcoholic beverages and still have to wait two years to rent automobiles), but I'm not so sure that's something I want.
(The picture above is "La Mano," in Punta del Este, Uruguay. I thought it fit well with this blog post. Why? I dunno, you tell me....)
With love and lostness,
Lilly
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