empty promises.

I know it's been a while! I'll have a ton of posts up by tomorrow.

With finals being up right after the port-to-port-to-port time massacre that happened between Vietnam and Japan, it's been tough.


Soon, children. Lots to talk about.

green

So, we’re headed back down the river now. Goodbye, Vietnam.

I don’t want to leave. If we spent another three months here, I would be happy.

I just realized that I can say the word “yesterday” and follow it up with “I was in Vietnam”. That I’ve been able to do this with so many different countries, ones that only existed on maps and in history books before this trip, astounds me. Sometimes, for moments, I’m caught off guard. I wake up from a strand of seconds of normalized travel and say “Oh shit! I’m in Penang!” “I have India’s dirt under my nails” “Jesus Lord…I’m in Vietnam”

As for pulling myself away from these places, I’m not sure if it’s become any less difficult. I don’t know that I’m used to it, and I different levels of different types of affection for each port.

Yesterday was my most intense day in Vietnam. Hanan and I went first to the War Remnants Museum. Anyone who knew I was going to Vietnam and did not expect me to burry myself in a pile of photojournalism is a fool. I spent hours there. It was intense. Deformed Agent Orange babies in jars. Photographs of mangled bodies. Love letters from people who hadn't seen each other in three years. Craziness.

I also climbed through the Cu Chi Tunnels, an experience that has left me certain of one thing: you do not mess with Vietnam! You just don't! Seriously, America, what the HELL were you thinking?

You F'ed up, US. Then you faught dirty. Then you still lost.

I can't even write anymore. More later.

PS, I fired an AK47

Back in Nam.

So I’m just going to get this out of the way now: I very much am looking forward to accidently burning the side of my leg on the exhaust pipe of one of the motorbike taxies (which are hell of cool to ride—it’s weird to have to hug/hold onto someone you don’t know), or accidentally tripping and skinning my knee, or hell, even accidentally choking on some bangarang Vietnamese food for the sake of having an explanation to an injury that can be prefaced with “Oh that? It happened back in ‘Nam…”

Kevin’s pet ‘Nam expression is going to be “well that was before ‘Nam.”

I spent our first day in Ho Chi Minh doing very, very, very little. In fact, I did nothing. I walked down the street from our ship and, while thinking of an article Toni had us read for our gender class, bought a pack of cigarettes so I could smoke one on the way back. The article stressed how rare it was for women in Vietnam to smoke cigarettes. Since the vast majority of what they teach us in Cultural Pre-Port has turned out to be unrelated or outdated information, I decided test out the whole smoking thing for myself, firsthand.

Results? Okay, so I did get some stares when I was walking down the street, cigarette-free. After I lit one up, though…damn! So, thank you, Toni Zimmerman, for presenting us with information about a country that was both relevant and accurate…and wasn’t completely false.

Seriously, though… about that whole telling-us-things-we-need-to-know-to-survive-in-these-cultures thing… stop it! I’m not even surprised anymore when I learn that something we’ve been taught was a faux pas actually isn’t anymore, and I’m learning these things at the very welcome receptions they suggest we go to for an intro to the culture. I’m learning them from the locals on the streets and the guides during small talk. Note to anyone going to India: no, using your left hand to hand something to someone will not horrify all people. Malaysia: you’ll see the shoulders of many local women in Kuala Lumpur.

Some of the things are true, too—don’t get me wrong. It’s true that showing irritation in some places will be seen as losing face. It’s true that American women might not want to stay out late at night in some ports because of the reputation they have overseas. I guess the rest of it is just to leave us in a state of being too cautious rather than not cautious enough. At least I hope that’s what it is. I’d rather not think it’s more that they haven’t done their research on cultural norms since 1956.

Got a couple of lovely phone calls going on again today: I called my mom this afternoon. I was hoping to catch her while it was still Easter Sunday in the States, but that didn’t happen. It was more like Early Monday. Oops. She was happy to hear from me (of course [who wouldn’t be?]) and gave me some updates on what’s going on at our homes.

I also got to talk to Bill, just about a half an hour ago, mid-blogging. It was, as usual, nice to hear his voice. I’m glad I get to do that more often. The week-long stretches between ports that we had between San Juan and Salvador, Salvador and Cape Town, and Cape town and Port Louis were hell for that. Now, we’re only at sea for three days here and there. Well, until the stretch between Japan and the US. Grrr.

I was in a bit of a mood today. A horrible one, actually. When I got off the ship, I didn’t go far and walked right back on after hitting up an internet café. I came back and slept, and slept and slept and slept. April’s not a good month for me this year, mostly because it wasn’t good for me last year, and apparently, that is affecting me. I was fine some months ago and anticipated nothing come the anniversary, but I was wrong, I guess.

Some people made me feel better, though. Zhimin (quite possibly the nicest guy on the ship) asked me why I looked so sad. He’s so awesomely sweet that I didn’t want to give him the ol’ lie “hmm? nothing" so I gave him a couple-sentence explanation of why this month is affecting me. He encouraged me, “well you should try very hard to get over that because you are going to have a lot more Aprils” and it was one of those obvious statements that very much helped me to at least glance in the right direction. Maybe I needed to hear that, or maybe it was his cute Chinese accent, but he helped.

Afterwards, Andrea called me and first asked if I wanted to go out with them. I said I felt like staying in. She said, “Okay, well would you then come to my room to look at a rash I have? I have this weird purple rash on my leg and I don’t know what it is.” I agreed, I showed up, I looked at her leg, and the rest of the hour or so was spent, of course, with the two of them (Kevin and Andrea) trying to finish baiting me enough to go out. At one point, Kevin had me pinned in various positions (he was a wrestler), demanding that I submit and come out lest he keep me in the embarrassing entanglements for as long as he could (which would have been very, very long, as he wasn’t even trying though I was struggling as hard as I could). They couldn’t convince me, and when others showed up and we all left the room, I went back to my cabin. Upon entering, however, I actually said out loud, “I’m passing up alcohol for this?” and ran back out, made it to the gangway, saw that their cards had been swiped, and made my way to the gate where they were bargaining with motorbike taxies. They were happy. I was happy. Yay. After a few failures, our lifts took the three of us to a really nice bar with a pretty talented band (though they sang only American “hits”). Our bartenders were both hot and talented. The drinks they gave us were amazing. Two men and a woman kept staring at either Andrea or myself.

A particular crew member who is always the first to detect my mood and often the first to make me feel better did his job today. It’s cool to see someone go out of his way to ask twice about how I’m doing and show concern against the backdrop of whispers among other crew people. Goddamn politics. Being kind is so lovely. I appreciate it.

Speaking of crew members, today (yesterday) was Brian’s birthday! Brian from the piano bar is one of the most wonderful individuals on this ship/in the world/ever to have existed. I absolutely love him [in a strictly platonic and non-fraternizing way]! I made him a card and it is awesome. I’ll have to remember to take pictures of it.

Brian’s so great. He’s a beautiful person and often makes me feel better when I find that his bar’s not overcrowded with crazy kids who shout orders at him rather than politely ask for their peanut M&M’s. He thinks I’m “cool”. That’s funny. Also, he sure has the most English, even European sounding full name I’ve ever heard of for an Indian man. He often tries to discourage me from using an American accent by feigning one himself. When we were in Cape Town, he loved it, as it was impossible for me to maintain an American tongue in country of people who all sound like me. He’s also crazy into progressive rock, and any of the points I didn’t score for being Indian I earned tenfold for being the first person on the ship to have even heard of his favourite band, let alone guess it (he literally hopped when I asked about Dream Theater).

Today, I realized I lost Rajesh’s business card. Damn.

Okay, bedtime.

It's not a Maria blog without internet-awesome from Jon

omgitsjonlolwtf: STOCKHOLM, Sweden - Metallica may work as a name for a heavy metal band, but a Swedish couple is struggling to persuade authorities it's also suitable for a baby girl.
omgitsjonlolwtf: HAHAHAHA
omgitsjonlolwtf: HAHAHA
omgitsjonlolwtf: HAHAHAHA

Tumid little bears

My head itches.

Okay, better.

Well, I just washed off three days of Malaysia, including two days of travel to and from Kuala Lumpur, one day of Little India, and a night of clubbing/bar hopping in K.L. We leave tomorrow (technically today) and I feel I’ve not the chance to fully get a hold of Malaysia, though I’ve spent every waking hour since we docked immersing myself in it.

Dan was my travel buddy to Kuala Lumpur. We left early on Tuesday morning. The bus ride was five hours long, but it was far from bad considering that all of the busses we’ve seen in Malaysia seem to be first class. Seriously, these things could easily fit about twice as many people on them if they didn’t make all of the seats lazy-boy sized and give everyone enough leg room for the person in front of them to recline nearly all the way. It was a cheap ride, too; less than US$10.

In KL, we met up with Samuel, Greg, Michael, and…Andria[? was that her name?] I knew the others from various groups I attend[ed] on the ship: People of Colour @ Sea, LGBTA @ Sea. We later met up with a pack of frat boys from the ship: Isaiah & Sean [who accept me for no reason other than my nationality], Nick [a ginger], and a couple of typical jocks whose typical jock names I cannot remember. When we all went out, it was pretty sausage-y.

So, here was my train of thought over the past fortnight or two:
Before Mauritius: [Jerry Seinfeld voice] Whaa-aat’s the dee-eal with middle-aged Indian men and my mouth?
Mauritius: Okay, no seriously—this is weird.
After Mauritius: Never again!
Before India: Oh, wait…. India probably has a lot of middle-aged Indian men, huh..
After a kiss-free India: Woohoo! The curse is broken!
Kuala Lumpur: Damn!!

This one’s name was Rajesh [tied with Nanarayan for my favourite Indian boy’s name]. He works in finance with some company that sends him all over the world for three weeks out of the month. He was actually pretty cool in spite of that; businessmen and bankers tend to really, really turn me off. Also, he was quite the looker. I met him at the second bar my pack of friends [and a third of the Semester At Sea population] had ventured into. Actually, a good friend, Lindsey, introduced me to the two of them [there is another whose name I simply never caught].

These individuals were clearly loaded, which made me uncomfortable. The amount of fun for which they were willing to pay was remarkable. I don’t believe I reached into my pocket but once after we first met. I told Raj that when his company sends him to Atlantic City again, I’ll buy him a drink in return [but just one, since drinks in AC are expensive and I don’t work for some big financial riffraff company].

On the way back, Dan and I sat in traffic for about two hours more than we had originally anticipated due to a couple of guys who, somewhere in Penang, set off a bomb. Cars were not moving. We jumped out of the taxi that picked us up from the bus terminal and walked the rest of the way. Good call, that one, considering it would have taken us two-and-a-half hours to get to the harbour had we just sat there. We gave him our money and walked for 20 minutes. A Malay man weaving between gridlocked cars on a scooter kept calling to us as we walked, asking us if we were from Semester At Sea. He told us that we were heading in the right direction and, when he finally met up with us, gave us his card and asked for a postcard. I’ll send him a couple. That was sweet. Sweeter than the time a stranger on the sidewalk approached Jesse and I when we were looking at the map of Asheville. Dan and I didn’t look lost, although we did look American.

Dan was a cool travel buddy. He’s fun to hang out with and knows when to tell the right people that he’s my boyfriend. He’s also fun to watch when we go out because many a Malaysian, Mauritian, and South African seem to believe he’s Justin Timberlake.

It was hilarious in Kuala Lumpur. People who barely make eye contact with me in the halls on the ship came up to me in the bar, drunk out of their minds, like “Maria… you’re one of the coolest girls I know.”

“Yeah, thanks doll,” was one response of mine.
“No, I’m serious. Dude…” to another guy sitting next to him, “this girl is solid as hell.”
“Man I know. Maria, you’re tight.”
And so on.

It was great because the “I’m so seriously serious, guys. I’m not drunk.” face gets me every time.

There’s a lot I want to do here with my last stretch of hours. I might spend the last day by myself. I want to go to the Snake Temple, the Spice Garden & Rainforest, a net café, and then spend the rest of my day in music stores. Julie Strand, the ship’s Ethnomusicologist and my African Drums professor, played us a medley of Malaysian music, both traditional and popular, before we got to Penang. I fell in love. Immediately, I could hear this region’s influence on a good amount of my music collection. Plus, Julie says the Malaysian heavy metal and punk scenes are strong and well worth checking out. I hope to find someone who can direct me to some Malaysian hiphop, but I’ve become such a hiphop & rap snob that those hopes aren’t too high.

On our first night, I went to a welcome reception during which we were able to view a very short traditional Malaysian puppet show. The puppet master was this 927583592-year old guy and the musicians were all students. After the show, I was able to go behind the screen and play a couple of the instruments under the instruction of a student I met. He was lovely and told me I did well with what he was showing me on the drums. He plays the bass, too, and got all excited when I told him that I did as well. We traded information on what brands we had.

Your camera's okay when I'm gorgeous.

My great mood from the other day coincided with Joe’s birthday, so I decided to make him a mixed cd entitled “Don’t you love it when pretentious college students who lack any familiarity with your musical tastes whatsoever are so presumptuous as to make you a mixed CD for your birthday?” and left it in his door without a name.

I tried to make it pretentious yet listenable; including such as “Nietzsche” by The Dandy Warhols, some Massive Attack, some old punk and Pixies for campus cred, William Shatner, Ween, Tom Waits, and of course, the token Japanese underground metal track. It was all guessing. Then the next day, he walked up to me on the 6^th deck aft with this smile and said “thank you.”

Being the worst liar on the planet, I couldn’t hide the grin as I tried to feign confusion. “For what? Teehehehehee”

He said I was the only person on the ship who “had the ability to guess some of the things on that track list”

Then tonight he told me he finally got a chance to listen to it and that I was spot-on with his favourite Ween song, the Tom Waits, Massive Attack, and “a good amount of the CD”

Hell yeah.

Six people want me to make them CDs. The best excuse I've ever had for being late ever is “I was in India/Malaysia/South Africa."

Those of us who can reflect have it all wrong.

I wish I could write about India.

That place was amazing. The food was amazing. The ability to call Bill for $1 for 3 minutes was amazing. The children, amazing.

Happiness and any money beyond what is necessary for food, shelter, and education cannot coexist. Astonishingly, happiness seems to exist without those things, even. I’ve found it everywhere, on the faces of people who have, absolutely, nothing. Even those of us who get it can do nothing but blink.

Ahem. Bill alerted me that he and Josh came to the conclusion that I was being too sensitive with my complaints from earlier about the racism and structural violence on the ship, that factors such as my never having lived on campus may be what had those emotions running. Years of studying feminist theory and the social sciences, clearly, would not count for anything here. Yep. It’s all inexperience. This doesn’t explain the others who feel the same way.

Josh, you’re invited to stop reading this. Bill would be too (and believe me, he got the “I’m about to hang up”; however, I am in love with him. I hate you, but I’m not in hate with you.

Any other middle class white males wanna tell me I’m being oversensitive?

Good mood? What?

I was in a great mood today and I haven’t much of a clue why. The day wasn’t itself wonderful. I just felt lovely. Maybe it was the sweats.

I spent lots of last night giving massages to Wendy, Dannie, and Andrea. By the end, my hands were killing me, but I loved it. For some reason, giving massages always makes me feel happy. They’re lovely people to massage, too. Wendy professed her love, Andrea proposed marriage, and Dannie, I think, is to bear my children. Aww… I just remembered Szotak and how much he dug my massages. Good ol’ Bri-Bri.

Three things to report before I crash:

Thing one: Dean Mike is gaining tons of Maria respect lately. He’s been doing a great job of keeping it real during class and interport lectures. I hope the kids listen, because he’s certainly highlighting important aspects of both India and travel as a Westerner. He spent all of Global Studies class the other day bashing the notions that population increase leads to poverty and that people in developing countries would be better off if they stopped having kids. Rock on, Dean Mike.

Dan Christie, on the other hand, needs to stop referring to Chennai as “India.” He pointed out that there were rich parts and poor parts of every other port we’ve been to, but this time, he’s all about just saying “India” when speaking of abject poverty and dirty lepers peeing in the street. Agh.

Thing two: Rumors are that Gloria Rudolph is a hard grader, so I was quite pleased with the A I had earned on our first paper. I didn’t receive full credit though. It was a low A, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t slowly slip into B land, so I asked her if we could meet and we did, today. She complimented me on my paper; called it thoughtful and very well written. She said she even made a note of how thoughtful and well written it was for herself. Aww. She explained why I didn’t get full credit and I’m nearly certain I’ll do better next time.

Speaking of my excellence, I had my African drumming midterm yesterday with Julie Strand. We had to play two of the percussion parts while she kept time. I’m used to playing the togo drum, which comes in after the kidi drums, which comes in after her lead in. She told me to try to come in on time regardless of the absence of the my cue from the kidi. She played her lead and I actually got it! And. AND she said I was the only person in the class who could do that.

I don’t really speak to anyone else in the class, but I have been asked by a bunch of the students, “you play drums, right?”

It felt grand to do well, especially since I find Julie to be quite intimidating. I mean… she’s an ethnomusicologist who studied with real players in west Africa and I was touching a drum for the first time.

Thing three: Our interport lecturers keep rocking! Prujval is so badass. We watched a video on the threat of nuclear war between India and Pakistan during the Clinton era. Afterwards, she got up and killed the video. Making points about how underlying message of the video, that India shouldn’t be messing around with nuclear technology, ran parallel with the British colonial attitudes that India and its military can’t hold the big guns, and about how the US was “portrayed as this mother figure looking out for her two naughty boys” when really the US is/was selfish and hypocritical and has no right to talk at all seeing as how they’re the only country in history to have actually planned to and used nuclear weapons against an enemy. Agh. Awesome.

Thing four: I talked to Bill today! Though it was only for 13 minutes. :( I couldn’t take it and bought a $20 phone card from the Purser’s Office. I think I called him around 7:15 AM Florida time, which is about 18:45 India time. It was great to hear his voice. Wonderful. Hard not to get sad, actually. What was horrible, though, was that I didn’t get to say “I love you”. We cut off before that. Anna and Jennifer told me they can dial out from their phones in India. Ah man… if that’s true for me as well, I shall be a very happy girl.

I think that’s all for now, and they’re all in chronological order. I just calmed down from my workout, so it’s bedtime now. Toodles.

Titles are for chumps

I told everyone we’d have to advance our clocks by 30 minutes for Chennai. I told em.

I’ve converted two more good souls to David Crossism. I got Eric back when we were on safari. Yesterday, it was Kevin. Hell yeah. It’s relieving to have someone to start quoting redneck fight with.

Eat the flag. Eat it.

I spent a good portion of last night giving out massages. Three or four of them. My hands were killing me, but it felt nice to cause relief (rather than engender fear) in people. Dannie, Wendy, and Andrea all professed their love and/or wills to bear my children during their massages last night.

Ooh, that reminds me: I have to book my Beijing trip. I decided to accept Andrea’s invitation to go along with their plans to the Great Wall. Dannie and I’ll take the sleeper train to Beijing and meet up with Wendy, Kevin, Andrea & Eric. That way, we’ll save a couple-few hundred.

I’ve started going to the gym again. Also, I’m going to have to change my diet. Otherwise, I’m just going to end up walking off this ship weighing more though I’ve been eating less thanks to the menu here. Pasta, potatoes, pasta, potatoes, pasta, potatoes, no protein.

So I think this is what’ll be up: I’ll eat breakfast (if feel like waking up). I’ll try to stay away from any cereal that has much sugar in it. I’ll reeeeeally try to enjoy the eggs, and maybe I’ll trick myself into liking sausage. Oh, protein, please come back to me. Or maybe I’ll just have plain yoghurt like I did today.

Lunch, I’ll skip. I can’t rely on the dressing here being appetizing to me on a daily basis, but when it is, I’ll have a salad and some fruit.

Somewhere between breakfast and dinner, I’ll have a Balance bar. I’ve succumbed to purchasing my veg-friendly/moderately non-disgusting protein source from Brian at the snack bar.

I’ll eat dinner…. Or maybe I’ll skip dinner and eat lunch. I don’t know. I can’t afford to have two nothing-but-starchy-carbs meals a day.

Gah… why have we only had tofu one day out of the last fifty?

I’ll be hitting up the ol’ gym at least once a day.

Moving on, I love the interport lecturers for India. They’re beautiful inside and out. I find them both intellectually attractive and aesthetically pleasing. The woman, Prujval, has sit in on a couple of my classes. I love to hear her talk. She’s insightful and wise, and the way she speaks in calming to me. Her husband has been speaking every day in Global Studies. I adore his sarcasm. “I love this kind of bureaucratic language” sounds better in an Indian accent.

Gotta run.

Sorry, sorry / We're close to India

As y'alls can see, I've finally updated m'blog. I took so long to do so because during the stretch between Cape Town, South Africa and Port Louis, Mauritius, I had learned that Mauritius was a land of free wireless, so I just waited.

Then we got there and it wasn't working...and I didn't get back onto the ship to upload because I was in Mauritius.

Then it took me a while to get my ish together. I spent the last few days editing all of my pictures so that they could he uploaded nicely aaaand they're going really slowly, so I'll have to do that in port.

Anyway, I promise I shall be more loyal to this blog now. Honest. Posts no less frequent than once every few days.

Jesse - Yes I can receive email. Hit me up: mmmm.gin@gmail.com or whatever address you have.

I don't know if I've already written about this, but postcards from Mauritius um... won't actually be sent from Mauritius. See, in my short time there, I hadn't learned that Mauritian post offices close three minutes after they open, which is about five hours before I wake up. So... those of you who receive postcards from Mauritius, written at sea, and sent with Indian postage, pretend not to have.

Entertainment on the ship has been lovely. We've been rocking the Bollywood. Ones I recognize the few times I've been able to turn the tv on are Water, Fire, and Monsoon Wedding. I'd seen the first and last before, and didn't really finish Fire. Hey I can't succeed at everything. It was good to see Monsoon Wedding again. It's one of my favourite Indian films. Watch it.

Our interport lecturers for India are awesome. They're a family. The man is... something I can't remember, and the woman is an astrophysicist. They're both beautiful. I shall take their picture (and then not upload it because the internet is too slow - agh).

The interport students for India keep staring at me, too. I wonder if they can spot my Indian.

I wish we weren't going to Chennai. Chennai is dirty.

I need to make plans for China. I'd love to wake up one morning on the Great Wall.

I missed breakfast today. I don't see why I can't seem to figure out how to make using the internet, getting sleep, eating meals, and getting to the gym co-exist in my life.

Speaking of that, I have to dramatically change my setup. Semester at Sea doesn't exactly cater to vegetarians in a healthy manner. All I've been eating is pasta and whatever reinvented potato dish they serve at every meal. I know I said I'd stop being a vegetarian for the trip, but what's available on the ship isn't exactly the best reintroduction to meat, so I end up filling up on carbs. I've been upping my salad intake, but egads is it hard to stay full on that. Whenever I find protein I can stomache, I'm overjoyed. It's definitely not something I get three meals a day, though.

Alright. Enough talk of food. I'm going back to bed before Global Studies. Word got out that I take "excellent notes" so Dia wants me to give her a copy for the special kids who can't make it to class... which pretty much means I have to go to class now. Just when I was beginning to figure out that I could get an A without showing up.

.....heheheh... with the exception of the one B I received on the first Global Studies exam (which I totally blame on the initial misery caused by the setup of this very establishment), my grades have been pretty shiny. All of my exams, all of my papers which were written at the last minutes.. A A A A AAAAA.

Lessons learned: I rule, my genius only comes out at 4am after 6 cups of coffee, and nothing should ever be done in advance.

Service visits, Mauritian girls, and all kinds of heartbreak

I was going to nap because that would be the wise thing to do right now. However, wisdom and time management are enemies. Two things that need to be done right now include sleeping (both to catch up on yesterday’s loss and to prepare for tonight’s madness) and writing in/editing photos for this blog. I can’t do both at the same time, and I can’t do one without thinking about the other. DAMN YOU, LIMITED HUMAN ABILITY!

I returned from my second service visit about an hour or so ago. We visited Terre de Paix, an education and culture center/community for Mauritian children who have been abused, abandoned, or otherwise neglected. We got there sometime before 13:00, right as the children were finishing up with lunch. Only about thirteen SAS people went on this trip. I hadn’t signed up for it, but last night, after dragging myself up onto deck 5 en route to Kovila’s room, I took a quick look in the Give Away box and saw a ticket for this.

I’m glad I went. Like yesterday’s, today’s experience made me feel so close to people. There are so many things we in the West polish our lives with. On top of the necessities we take for granted, we layer on want after want until they’ve become so normalized that we call them needs. I need to buy an ipod. I have to get some new jeans. I really need a new hair cut. It’s to the point where we actually feel naked or handicapped without having some of them met, but the cushy, pretty coating on our ball of perceived needs is just layer after layer of hungry, superficial, ADD nonsense. I don’t yet have the words for how I feel when confronted with those whose basic human needs, such as food and clean water, or even paper, are what’s at the surface; what obviously needs to be met.

The nature and structure of the educational experience at Terre de Paix is something that kept me smiling. All around the classroom were the children’s antiviolence art, photographs of victims of violent and negligent acts, and feminist themed drawings and paintings.

I was able to sit in on a music class that was being held upstairs. There were four students and a man. The two girls were learning how to play the keyboard and each of the boys were seen with a guitar and a drum at different points throughout the class. When we walked in, he was teaching them a jazz song the name of which I can’t recall. Upon their teacher’s instruction, the four of them played a beautiful, chill version of Fur Elise. I smile stretched across my face. I was so inspired and at that moment felt very happy.

After that, one of the students tried to teach a couple of us how to play a certain kind of drum, the name of which, again, I cannot remember. He had outstanding rhythm, and laughed at us when we tried to mimic him. I’d never seen a drum like that before. The teacher said it was probably of Arabian origin. It was just a large, wooden circle with goat skin stretched across it. It looked like a gigantic tambourine without its tiny symbols.

When we returned downstairs, Cress was teaching some kids “You Are My Sunshine.” After that, they taught it to us in Creole French.

Our percussion teacher returned to the guitar with us downstairs and played us a few songs. I have decided there is a direct link between his singing and my happiness. One of his friends played another song and then another guy rapped while others kept a beat.

Unrelated: I just put on a song Bill let me listen to once and it zapped me back to his truck in Jacksonville. Bah, I miss him, and that time. I’m going to ask Kovila tonight if there’s any place around where she’ll be taking us where I can use my phone card before he plum forgets me. I reckon she’ll know.

If I may, I also miss exchanging words with my beloved Egon/Edvard/Aiakos/Matic/Dr.Doom. I think about him [if not Jesse] every time a drink coffee, which, if we’re counting by cup, can be around 4-12 times a day. Oh dear, if he reads that, he may feel awkward, or sexy.

I’ve also found myself missing Jason, though I knew him for only a couple of days. I had his cd in my bag for a few days after South Africa. I found myself pulling it out to glance at the image on the cover (though the one on the back is my favourite).

Writing the name Jason made me think of Janson. Hi dollface. :)

Okay no more shoutouts. Back to kids.

Yesterday, my visit was to an SOS children’s village. Incredible place with incredible people. AH!!!

It’s a little community in which children who, similar to those at Terre de Paix, were abused, neglected, orphaned, or abandoned, go to school. They also live there in these “families.” Each family has about seven or eight kids of varying ages and is head by a “mother.” These mothers are absolutely amazing individuals. Go ahead and kill yourself now, because you’ll never live up to what these women have done with their lives. They are all women of extraordinary backgrounds who for, for reasons ranging from their own compassion to what they described as God’s will, leave their lives—their families and occupations—to live in the SOS village and be mother to children as if they were their own. And to see the way these women care for the kids…amazing. They are strong, compassionate, insightful individuals who have somehow found the ability within themselves to devote every hour of their lives to taking on the [joyous] burden of being matriarch in a family of children who have all been traumatized.

And the kids! Good lord are these children beautiful. A tiny little guy whose name I couldn’t get out of him stole my heart. He must’ve been around 2 or 3. The oldest one I met was 16. He fancied me some bit it seemed and kept taking our picture with my camera. He also said “goodbye” about three times more than necessary. I came armed with gender-neutral, non-militarized toys and learning aides: notebooks, flashcards, stickers, pencils, crayons, and slates & chalk. I gave the stickers and drawing materials to the kids and the flashcards and books to one of the women working there. One of the girls asked for my hair tie, so I gave it to her.

I didn’t want to leave at all. My heart melted away and regrew many times until I was simply so overwhelmed that I had to walk away from the crowd of playful sticker-covered children towards my beloved professor, Toni. She was speaking with one of the mothers, who, upon introducing herself to me, gave me two kisses. Aww. Awwww. She’s an incredible woman who had worked for women’s causes for 23 years before becoming a mother. Toni introduced me to her as this insightful feminist activist and I started to blush. For that, the woman congratulated me. We all exchanged addresses. I can’t wait to write her. I wish I could have spent at least a week there, getting to know about the lives of these women and the children they raise. Oh, to be a rich documentary filmmaker.

Oh! Joe, the videographer with whom I enjoy exchanging cynical banter lately, told me on the bus ride to SOS that he’s met and shaken the hand of James Nachtwey! What the hell! Good lord, is that incredible. I was telling him about the “huge black photojournalism book I look at when I’m becoming to selfish and materialistic” and just as I was recreating the dimensions of the book with my hand, he got goose bumps and told me about how he’s met the man. Ahh!

So cool!

Oh…speaking of photographs, I have some advice for Semester At Sea, since I know they read this: Please, please briefly ask you students to take a moment to at least speak to the people—children, mothers, beggars, workers—especially on these service visits, before they turn on their cameras and start shooting away. Please? It’s embarrassing to be part of a group that’s acting like we’re at the zoo. Within ONE minute of entering the SOS village, cameras were flashing in children’s faces. I find it disrespectful. The point of these visits isn’t to come back with images of pretty orphaned children in dirty clothes.

Anyway, these service visits have made feel...a lot of things. I’m so very, very fortunate to have been able to cross paths with these individuals. This is what Semester At Sea was like in my dreams back in May when I first applied.

Skip the first couple of paragraphs of this entry. It's embarrassing.

Wow.

Yeah so… how bout all that dancing I’ve been doing, ah? I’m fairly certain I was possessed by the spirit of something that was not myself my last late night in Mauritius. Never have I danced so much in my life. Seriously… what the hell was that all about?

Apparently, I made a few fans, as well. When our group of ten or twelve came back from the club, the taxi drivers, who were also in the bar with us, told me I was their favourite. Not sure how I felt about that. The next morning, too, when they were out at the dock waiting for people who needed rides, I’d walk off the ship and hear “Mariaaaaa….” and look over to see these cheesy, embarrassing grins. Whatever, at least they were young-ish.

Let me talk about that for a moment—WHY DO I ONLY ATTRACT MIDDLE-AGED MEN?!

I thought, maybe, this was a New Jersey thing, but no—no! It’s becoming clear to me that, globally, 45- to 59-year-old men are my biggest fans. The only thing this trip has taught me about that is that I’m not strictly “old white guy candy” as Bill had previously dubbed me.

Aww… Bill. He called me last night about an hour or so before we left the port. I was so excited when I saw his name that I jumped up from the meeting I was in for a class project and yelled “Sorry! I’m out! Gotta take this” but when I picked up, he wasn’t there.

Balls!

I don’t know what happened; if he hung up, or if my phone decided not to actually pick up but reject the call, but I was indeed quite sad. My mother called a few times. It was good to hear her voice. She said she called Cingular and had them give me the power to call the States from abroad, but that turned out to not be the case. Perhaps by the time I reach Chennai, I’ll be able to dial out.

Aaaand, today, I received a parcel from my beloved mother. It included three much needed items: my check card (woohoo!!!), two hundred dollars, and a hand-written letter from my mom (awww). I have the letter up on my wall because it makes me a happy person. The card also made me happy since the magnetic strip on my original one got desensitized in Brazil and I’ve been relying on credit for the past few ports.

Mom totally takes care of me.

Some awesome people including Bill and Lee offered me funding in the event that I needed any, but I was so stubborn and unwilling to take money from people that I didn’t even consider it.

Anyway.

Today was the day of the Sea Olympics. See, the ship is sectioned off into a number of seas. People living on the third deck port side aft are in my sea, the Baltic.

And that’s about the extent of this Sea business with which I’m familiar.

People from different seas signed up for different events for the Olympics and they’ve been going on all day.

All day.

We’ve been hearing the announcement bell ring about every 15 minutes with new notice about relay races and limbo competition time changes. Basically, anyone who decided to try to sleep in, wake up at noon, and then do school work for the rest of the day wasn’t afforded an environment conducive to peaceful study.

Well kids, I’m sure you can narrow down the many possible routes to awesomeness I may have taken today, keeping in mind that there hasn’t been a day in my life in which I’ve exhibited any amount of school spirit.

Par-tay in Mauritius.

Went out last night with Kovila, the interport student from Mauritius. She’s staying on the ship til tomorrow, our last night in Mauritius. She’s totally cool. She walked a rather large group of us to Chinatown. Most people went into one spot. Seven of us decided to go to a place just down the block. We figured a group of fifty people would mean slower service.

After that, we made our way to the pubs on the waterfront. The group dwindled as some people went to the casino, others [supposedly] back to the ship, and the rest of us to separate pubs. I got into a conversation with a man from Seychelles. After a while, though, Kovila came over and rescued me from the conversation (he started sitting too close and kept trying to hold my hand/arm).

At the second bar, Kovila had us all do shots of Sambuca. They were on fire. Quite literally, I mean. We had to drink them through straws. Yep. Plastic ones. So I’m sure everyone has a nice coating of plastic on their lungs now. However, it was lovely.

We spent the rest of the night there, drinking and dancing. Jon was there. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned him, but he’s way cool. Very chill. Josh McNeil-esque, but talks more and isn’t mean to me.

Aww.. I miss hating on Josh.

I saw that Bill called me last night. Balls!! I hate missing his calls. I hope he does that again soon. OR. Maybe my phone card will work in Mauritius and I simply didn’t know it. The only problem is timing. If I can get Kevin or someone to come out with me one night, I’ll be fine with making a call from one of the payphones at 3am.

Kevin and I still have to get drunk together I know for a fact that those conversations will be off the chain. He’s already become one of my favourite people ever. He’s my favourite male SASer.

Very often, I want to slap myself for not pinning Jesse down and beating him into submission to make him join SAS. It’s usually during conversations with the people with whom I’ve become friends on here. I keep thinking “Jesse would totally like __________.” For example, I think he’d get a kick out of Anna. I may have spoken of her before. She’s Malcolm X in a girl’s body.

And I know he would have had a wonderful time figuring out Theo. And he would be just as fascinated with Kevin’s life story as I am. And he and Kevin would have competitions for who could make out with the most drunken, hypocritical Bible study girls. And I could laugh. Ha ha.

Jennifer and I spent the night in Kovila’s room. Yaaay. Sleepover. I’m very sad that she’s leaving. She’s awesome, and so many people on this ship are not.

I’m going to nap now. Today’s going to be a lot like yesterday: I’m doing a service visit to an orphanage and then coming back to party with Kovila.

Yesterday’s service visit was excellent/heartbreaking. It was to an SOS Village. More on that later.

Brian is excellent.

Brian at the Piano Bar makes the best coffees with that espresso machine of his. They gave me the ability to forge through cramming through two exams (got an A for each) and a cumulative 16 pages of writing about, first, Saint Teresa of Ávila and then... well I’ll just give you my title: HIV/AIDS: The Link Between the Subjugation of Women and the Ultimate Destruction of the Global Economy.

Hahah….I love me. And Brian’s coffee.

Brian himself is awesome. Sometimes I sit at the piano bar because there’s a plug there and I watch how he handles the raucous waves of mer'cans (then I get angry at them and leave).

I drew Brian a picture on a napkin and he didn't throw it out! Awwww....

The boat's rocking so hard things are falling down

In the middle of a 10-page paper which is due in less than 12 hours, my bloodstream is filled with caffeine and taurine, and in my ears, catchy punk music is keeping my head bobbing, shaking me conscious. I put my head down for a moment in front of my laptop. The table is the only thing colder than the air in this empty dining hall. I, for whatever reason, found myself in the pleasant memories of Bill I have stored, smiling. I want him to, at random, remember how much I appreciate him as often as I seem to arbitrarily find myself thankful for the way I’m able to feel when he’s within reach, or at least earshot. It’s been too long. I miss him. The absence of his voice on top of the distance between myself and the rest of his person is having its effect. He seems more like a favourite dream I used to have; something very close to me, special, personal, but existing at least for now only in my thoughts, and if then, only if I can focus clearly, and we all know how good at that I am.

I’m bummed, and as often as I resist ever realizing this, I’m lonely.

Ahh look at that. Misty eyes. It’s been long enough I guess.

Sometimes, I sit back and become conscious of the fact that I, Maria, am in the middle of some foreign ocean with people who just a month or so ago were (and in many cases still are) complete strangers. Really? Maybe I don’t know myself very well, but I was under the impression that I barely even like the people I know. What the hell am I doing around carbon copied 20-somethings who have no sense of social or ecological responsibility on a cruise ship? Cue the Twilight Zone theme.

The point of this entry, I guess, is that I’ve lost track of what it’s supposed to feel like when I’m dreaming.

Very, very many people here think I’m troubled. It became clear to me when I realized people found my behaviour strange while we’re in port. See, in port, I turn back into myself. I’m free and in a situation in which I wanted to be from the beginning. I’m in the place I was looking forward to. Context is crazy. Students, staff members, and crew were saying, “What the hell happened to you? Get some action or something? Cause I sure as hell have never seen you this happy,” and I respond with “What are you talking about?” because I feel relieved and content.

Not everyone thinks I’m an uptight activist. An RD here said to me during Apartheid day, “Maria, you feel things so strongly” when I was getting worked up over willful, perpetual ignorance and structural reinforcement of unawareness or oppression invisibility. I think that’s all. I think “feeling things strongly” translates to “hates everyone,” though. I don’t hate everyone, though; I only hate morons.

Homesick

I miss it. Agh, god do I miss Cape Town. What a wonderful place!

...And it's still outside!! Seriously... what the hell. My friends, I cannot explain to you how painful and aggravating it was to wake up this morning, pining for this beautiful place to see it outside my window. While sitting in class, while working out, while eating... it was all right out there. And of course we're not allowed back out.

Word on the deck is that the seas are too choppy to leave or some such nonsense.

Let us back out... please?

Getting onto the ship was hard for me. Almost got into trouble, too. On-board time was 20:30pm and I ran up the stairs to the gangway at 20:28! I rock!

Jason and I were hanging out all night and attempted to spend as much time together as we possibly could before I absolutely had to leave. He treated me very well the entire time we were together and I'm grateful for everything he taught me about the area while we were hanging out.

Also, it's not a hassle having a beautiful 6'6", guitar-making, Radiohead-loving, musician who likes to kiss you around. He looks like a model, has an awesome job, and we get along fabulously. Naturally, he lives on the other side of the planet. Why can't these people at least live in the tri-state area?

Anyway. I love the time I spent here. No, not just because of the friends I made, but they were definitely part of it. The people here are amazing. I hadn't met one non-remarkably kind person during my entire visit. Weird to a person who lives in Jersey.


Gahh... why is it still outside? I could swim to it from here.

.....

.......maybe you won't see anymore posts from me...

I love Cape Town!

Cape Town is BEAUTIFUL!

There’s music in the streets, art everywhere I look, and friendly, loving beautiful people!

I made a friend in the craft market near the Waterfront. He’s an artist. He’s called Jason. He makes guitars out of old motor oil cans and sells them in the craft market with another musician named Dani. They’re pretty expensive—I think the cheapest is ~ZAR6,000 or so—and he’s got quite the impressive customer list. Lots of big names. I bought his CD.

To my RadioShack, Health Food store, and tattoo studio friends: check out how global my tendency to make friends out of clerks and artisans has become.

Jason’s great. I’m never, ever expecting to find someone with so compatible a sense of humour. He’s calm, very, very calm, and his sarcasm is intelligent, rather than a cheap waste of breath (as is found on the ship), and actually, he’s already learned how to burn me pretty effectively. He dislikes how angsty I am against chivalry, but respects it every other time we approach a door.

Also… he’s pretty nice on the ol’ eyes.

We’re to meet up again, tomorrow night, at this place that has live music. That’s actually how we got to talking. He asked if I dug listening to live performances then recommended a place, Mannenburg’s (sp?). Then, during our conversation, he asked if I was just going to be walking around, and if he could come with me. We spent most of the evening lazily exploring the Waterfront, buying ourselves and each other drinks. Actually, we started at Mannenburg’s. I hadn’t asked him to, but he helped me get acquainted with the area and told me about some places to go to.

And he bought me falafel! Instant friend, right there.

Before meeting Jason and Dani, I was walking around the craft market, picking up a few things. I got something for my mom’s friend, Iris. It’s a hand-woven grass table runner. I met a jeweler named Mike from Ethiopia in the market. He sold me two single earrings, which is awesome. I hate having to buy a pair when I only need one. They’re both very cool. I also got a necklace made of brass and recycled glass. All of his stuff was beautiful. It would have been very easy for me to spend hundreds of dollars there. If and when I become ruler of the Milky Way, Mike shall be my jeweler.

Anyway, all of that stuff I bought, the weaving, the jewelry, the cd, I left it all on the bar at the last pub Jason and I were in. Just left it. We left and started walking around, wasting time until he had to leave, then on the way back, I met up with another SASer and realized during our conversation that I no longer had the bag with me. I went back to the bar and it was still sitting there. Awesome.

I had to answer to about four or five of my friends about Jason on my way back, though. Lots of raised eyebrows and stubborn, knowing smiles.

Alex and Shayla invited me to go back to Manenburgs, where our night was hijacked by a cluster of middle-aged businessmen, one of whom had no teeth. The other was a crazy Indian man who had too strong a grip and gave us all his phone number. Another was an apologetic Irishman. After they left, we spent some time talking to a couple of the women who worked there. One of them, the manager, I believe, was absolutely beautiful. She was quite tall and on the skinny side with creamy dark skin, big eyes, and long, thin, black braids that fell close to her knees. Some people look like deities.

Anyway, I’m tired now. Again, no pictures. But South Africa’s outside; no one expects me to stay inside editing photos. There’s a lot to be done while my head is still young.

I am in love with South Africa.

I am more comfortable with South Africa than I have ever been with any person. I am willing to sacrifice more to be around South Africa than I have ever been with any person. I am truly, truly in love with this place.

In the same way that you meet someone and you feel as though both of you have been waiting for that encounter, this country has greeted me with amazing feelings of love and beauty. Look, it even makes me cheesy and hyperbolic.

I just returned from my trip to the Savannah. It was nothing less than life-altering. I had some very, very emotional experiences in the wilderness and I know I will never be able to free myself from their weight on my mind.

I found the trees that I draw all the time. They’re here. That’s incredible. Between the trees, the quiet absence of nonsense, the elephants, and the fact that I spent a night twenty feet from a hyena…I couldn’t dream up a place where I felt more at peace.

So I’ve decided to come back. Well, no… I didn’t so much decide; it feels so much more like a need or a natural response. This is in the same vein as when I tell religious people to bear in mind the fact that one cannot cleanly choose to believe or not to believe in a deity. I simply am coming back to South Africa.

I’m back in Cape Town now. I’m sleep deprived and have a lot of picture editing to do. I will write more tomorrow morning when I’m ready to love and rant.

Goodnight.

Apartheid Day / "heehee!! I'm protesting!!!"

My bum is killing me.

I suppose I can’t really complain since it’s killing me because I was sitting on the floor of the Union for an hour and a half while Archbishop Tutu spoke. It could be a lot worse.

You can’t really be like, “god DAMN it… I have to sit on the floor and listen to this Nobel Peace laureate speak AGH!”

Well actually, you can, now that I think about it. I mean, if you’re one of the whiny jacks I overheard in the surrounding occupied floor space, you can.

First, some good news before my three-page rant on spoiled, ignorant brats: Gloria Rudolph took time out of our class yesterday to address the concerns raised in our evaluations of her course thus far. She cited each objection and what she planned to do to improve the class experience, including reducing the amount of reading assigned, correcting people who make blatantly racist/sexist/classist/etcist remarks, and incorporating other forms of information such as documentaries and speakers. She also thanked those of us who gave positive feedback as well (me!). I am quite optimistic about this and thanked her for giving us the opportunity to give an evaluation during a class rather than afterwards when it wouldn’t change anything for us. Today’s mad respect goes to Gloria.

Some neutral news: I "got" to sit a the Captain's table yesterday for lunch. As Alex and I finished preparing our plates, Solomon asked us if we wanted to sit with the captain, and I believe we both rejected the invitation, but the next thing I knew, I was following my plate as it was being carried to the center of the dining hall. Yay, I guess. It wasn't really exciting. We sat there with other strangers and ate our food. I wasn't prepared to make conversation with the captain. I appologized to him for that. We were tired.

And I'm not going to treat it like it was any special honour to me. The guests are chosen at random just about every day, by Solomon.

While speaking to Captain Jeremy, however, I did take the opportunity to make mention of the high amount of respect I have for the crew on the ship. I told him that I can't find a complaint; they work very hard and it shows.

"Well I'm glad they do, because I certainly don't."

He then told us about how the captain does mostly deskwork and has open office hours.


Speaking of the crew, I made a new friend [UVA/ISE people, read: "non-fraternizing acquaintance"] who dislikes the fact that I use an American accent when it is not natural to me. He shakes his head at me in disappointment every time I speak and is always asking to hear what feels natural.

Let me tell you, though, how hard it is to be around people with even remotely similar accents without slipping. It's been enough years now that I shouldn't have any problem.


Oh! I got to talk to my mom the day before yesterday! Only for ten minutes, though. It was great to hear her voice. I miss her, and am pretty certain she misses me terribly (or she damn well better). I'll be calling her again from South Africa. We're 7 hours ahead of NJ time, though. It was weird to know that while I was in class this morning, people had still not gone to bed back there.
She said my cat won't leave her alone. She can't move from room to room without him following her. She can't lie down without him jumping onto her chest to nap. Awwww... kitty.

Okay, now for the grumbles:
The day before yesterday, we, the Diversity Programming Committee, put into action our plans for an Apartheid Simulation Day, a 24-hour period during which those who shaved or hawked their heads on Neptune Day became the elite and those who did not had to yield to them. At the core of the simulation were your basic segregation/“separate but equal” rules: Only people with shaved heads and hawks could eat in the 6th floor dining hall. They were the only ones allowed onto the 7th deck at all (the 7th deck holds the pool, workout equipment, bar, and preferred tanning areas) and the only ones who could use the public restrooms or elevators. Additionally, a person with a shaved head or a mohawk could make a person with hair give up his or her seat in the computer lab or any other public space. Also, my beloved Ryan made propaganda posters about "bald love" and anti-hair products and hung them up. Nair if you're aware.

Diversity Programming committee members played the law. We patrolled areas to make sure the privileged were comfortable and that the “hairies” knew their place.

Depending on who’s asked, the simulation was a raging success, a total disaster, or a complete waste of time.

I, myself, am happy about the simulation, and though I have multifold problems with the ways in which the majority of the students I encountered reacted, I was happy to see some reaction at all.

My major objections were as follows:

I believe the simulation created an environment in which the value of protesting was diminished completely. The announcement that the Apartheid simulation was taking place was made circa 10:45am. Before an hour had gone by, people were planning to protest their oppression.

Do not read that incorrectly. I completely believe in the power of protest and am behind its use against oppression. However, before anyone was even given the opportunity to feel subjugated and disrespected, they were rising up with zeal. It was as though the history books had taught us too simple a lesson: Oppression = problem. Protest = solution. Combine and let stand.

No.

So what happened when people were protesting was bizarre to me, a person who has actually taken part in real protest.

I say “bizarre” when what I mean is “disheartening.”

Disheartening aspect No.1:
People were protesting without understanding this simple truth: Resistance without fear is nothing. If you’re going to take printer paper, write a slogan on it, and hold it up as you sit with arms linked in front of the entrance to the 6th deck when absolutely nothing can be done to you in retaliation, you need to recognize that. While “guarding” the entrance, I engaged the protesters in conversation. They were unwilling, at first, as though I actually believed they were to be denied the rights granted to others.

I said to them, “You realize you’re protesting without threat to your person or remaining rights, right? Absolutely nothing can be done to you. You don’t have to sit here and do this. In fact, you could walk right into that dining hall, get yourself a plate, and eat for the next two hours and nothing will be done to you,” and there was no reaction. Honestly, they shrugged it off and kept chanting demands for their rights. Seriously!

Disheartening aspect No. 2:
With those same protesters, I began this conversation [which took place prior to my above statement]:
“What are you doing?” I asked
“We’re protesting.”
“Why are you blocking the doors?”
“To keep them in!”
“To keep who in?” I inquired wearily
“The people in there who are oppressing us!” and the surrounding protesters agreed.
I wasn’t so much shocked as I was disturbed, “What?!” Then I paused to try to stop contorting my face, “They’re not the ones oppressing you. They didn’t make the rules. We did! You should be protesting us!”
Nothing.

The reaction, again, was a weak moment of thought which lost its attention when concentration was again shifted to chanting.

Seriously, what were these kids learning? That resistance is disorganized mob action in which you place blame on the people who benefit rather than those who made the rules? That protesting is, in fact, pretty bloody easy because all you have to do is make a sign and stand your ground, listening to no one? Really?

I wasn't yelling or reacting in any outward way, but both Kevin and Drew had to tell me to calm down upon seeing my expressionless face as I rubbed my temples or hearing my quiet-but-on-the-brink-of-a-meltdown tone. I was angry to the point at which all I could do was widen my eyes or bite down on my lip as hard as I could not to scream something insulting in reaction.

Okay, so, another discouraging event or series of events which took place the day before yesterday involved the faculty participation or lack thereof. Twofold. First, I, me, Maria, an adult, was pretty much yelled at by a professor’s spouse after asking him to leave a Bald/Hawk Only area. He had apparently been holding within himself quite a lot of anger about the day’s’s activities (early, too—it was only 14:30) and I was the one lucky enough to receive his angry outpouring. Great, because what the responsible and mature thing to do in a situation in which you as a person of superiority in the student-staff-faculty hierarchy, is to engage in aggressive discourse with someone who can’t talk back to you in the same tone. Excellent. No, seriously. Way. To. Go.

I swear I was being pleasant with him from the very beginning, too, as I am scared to death of people and avoid confrontation like the plague. There was a witness (and apparently, word got back to someone that there was a conflict because Drew, Dr. Matt, and one of the deans had heard about the incident and that area was turned back into a free zone) and he could, I’m sure, attest to my cordial approach. I asked him for his opinions on how to improve. I wanted his feedback, but he showed little interest.

Why put yourself in an environment with 700+ young people when you cannot return the respect with which one of them approaches you simply because you disagree with her philosophy on learning, today?

I was shaken to the point at which I felt my eyes heat up while talking to Drew and Toni about it. Call me a woman or write it off as being too emotional, soft, or young, but no one deserves to have a voice actually raised against them in that way during what should be respectful disagreement… or any sort of conversation, at all.

What’s best--and this is the second part--is that the very same man, along with at least two other faculty members, went on to urge students to participate in mob mentality-driven action. What have we been learning about in Global Studies for the past month? Is it paths to positive peace? Yeah. Yeah, actually I think that’s the ENTIRE FOCUS OF THIS VOYAGE. Linking arms and physically pushing people aside to get what you want is not positive peace. Chanting slurs and grabbing at the feet of the privileged as they attempt to make it into the only dining hall into which they are allowed is not positive peace. Becoming overzealous by noon and then revolting before dinnertime because you couldn’t gorge yourself on all the food you could eat on the 6th floor and had to gorge yourself on all the food you could eat on the 5th is not positive peace! Poor baby, you couldn’t tan on your usual deck for 24 hours. Having to walk down 32 stairs to your cabin (which is still cleaned and made up for you today) instead of taking the elevator... You darlings! Ohhhh the humanity. I am surely a demon for having taken part in such a travesty.

There were also people who paid no attention to the simulation, saying that there wasn’t any way anyone could learn anything about apartheid on a cruise ship. Point taken, however, the point wasn’t to make anyone feel apartheid; it was to give 702 privileged students, many of whom have never once been told “no” in their entire lives, that they couldn’t have what they could see. That was all. It was for them to know that because of the way they looked, they were going to be denied arbitrary conveniences (which to many of these students, believe me, seemed to be comparable to denying them water).

Many people, some faculty/staff included, did not understand the point of this exercise, and to know that there are people today who believe that we actually believed these people should have been oppressed disgusts me. Oh yes, yes. Of course! The Diversity Programming Committee got together and said “what we should do make people feel bad. Why? Because they deserve it for not shaving their heads. Surely they are inferior.

Bahhhghgh.

Well, whatever. A couple dozen thanked us for the exercise and let us know that they appreciated the experience. That’s good enough for me. I trust that there were more who feel that way, but even if it was only one, that is beautiful.

People talked, and that was the point.


I could add more (and you know that I could), but I shan’t.

"Shave Or Behave!"
"Don't Picket; Bic It"

Ehhh.. titles.

Gloria Rudolph did something excellent today. She had us use the last five minutes of class to give her written feedback about the way the class is going. I have endless respect for that, or will if something comes of it. She’s an intelligent being, so I’m nearly certain something will. Why she did it, I do not know. Maybe UVA’s blog spies have read too many complaints and approached her. Maybe it’s just something she does a few weeks into the class. I do not know, but I am happy.

I sent my mother an email yesterday and received one back from her address saying that she can’t get to the internet. I assume it was from Lila, who has taken the responsibility of checking her mail for me. That is sad.

Then today, Bill sent me an email saying that my mother had called him, asking him to get to me and have me call her. I made an attempt, but with the time difference missed the window of opportunity between her two jobs. Tomorrow.