The same city as me (2008)

Knowing you live in the same city as me is like knowing the pantry's stocked, or that the river's there, if I want it, even if I can't see it, even if I'm just sitting at my desk.

Your name pinches me.

And god is an atom.

Nightwind (2010)

for Eleni

My window is open to you

nightwind

Oh

if you should enter to find me

zipped up 

and preparing

for the full sleep granted only to travelers--

Alone, between worlds, I am one even in my own city.

My lullabye is my own love

vast for you

warmer than even you 

night wind.

lover.

How do I move oceans, 

how do I leave continents 

for my other half, 

while my sister is without me?

But it is

this:

My love is my only lullabye

and with this much of it

how can I be lonely?

how can I be cold?

A Sweater Is (2005)

A bicycle that you love and love and love and love until it is stolen or lost or if you are lucky, used until it wears down to dead-beat brakes and shone tires. When the paint is peeled and the spokes are rusted—that is when it has been loved too thin to keep you warm, and you will throw it in a chest of other old bicycles in the attic, to forget, but not trash, on account of sentimentality.

Jane Greatall

I went to see Jane Goodall on Wednesday night. She was speaking in the gym at Canisius College and the queue went right down Main Street, then wrapped around West Delavan. The line was moving...well, barely at all. Despite this, everyone was calm and patient and without complaint. It reminded me of when the Dalai Lama came to UB and for the 3 days he was in town, although there were actually more people on campus, it felt like less because nobody was pushing one another to get through doors. And forget fame--that is what the presence of a very special kind of person does. I saw old people and young people; everyone felt like-minded and simpatico. Even Erik Starchild was there. The two Canisius women in front of me had gym bags and were eating donuts. What I really wanted at the moment was a juicy hamburger. It was nearly 8 pm, I'd worked hard all day and hadn't had dinner, but I didn't mind. I reflected on this as I sat down. I was one of the last 20 people admitted and yet because of the way they seated us, I had an incredible seat, very near to Jane's profile. I was reminded of a bit of Barthelme, who wrote: 

...and that it is good to leave a few crumbs on the table for the rest of your brethren, not to sweep it all into the little beaded purse of your soul but to allow others, too, part of the gratification, and if you share in this way you will find the clouds smiling on you, and the postman bringing you letters, and the bicycles available when you want to rent them, and many other signs, however... (Barthelme, City Life, Farrar, Strous, 1970).

I dropped out of my rat-race job in order to spend all of my time meaningfully, and of my own design. Wednesday was my first night of freedom and I felt, sitting on those bleachers, waiting for Jane--we were encouraged by an introductory slideshow to think of her as "Jane"--that I'd been brought letters--she hadn't said a word yet. When she did begin, she told us how humbled she was that we had all come to see her, ("I know some of you saw me peering at you as we drove up, and you recognized me"). To thank us for coming, she said hello  in chimpanzee. We laughed, we clapped, our hearts were warm. I should age half as well! I thought.

By way of introduction, she said, "Nobody can do anything alone," and thanked her mother. It was her mother, she said, who was the reason for everything, for her success. Jane's story is incredible. From the age of tiny, she wanted to go to Africa to study animals. But to go to Africa at all, which is now an attainable dream for a hard working lady scholar, was laughable. There were no study abroad programs then, and she was the wrong sex. Plus, her family was dirt poor. There were very few scholarships given, and they were only given to those who excelled at languages. Although she knew everything there was to know about the animal kingdom, Jane did not excel at languages. Her mother advised her to learn to become a secretary, and get a job in Africa. Jane did, and then proceeded to pay a visit to her future mentor, the paleontologist, Louis Leakey. She wowed him with her animal knowledge, and soon after, began to work for him. And just as the six months of funding he had was about to run out, Jane came upon a chimp in the forest, who was dipping a stick into a mound of insects and putting it to his mouth. Then he began stripping the bark off the stick: toolmaking. Louis Leakey got more money. Thus Jane became a research scientist before she had had an ounce of secondary education. It wasn't until much later that she got her PhD.

For my friends who couldn't make it, I want to share Jane's message, which I found so inspiring I turned down a Salman Rushdie ticket later in the week (I didn't think I would be able to process everything). The following is a sample, and less eloquent synopsis, of what Jane said, as I remember it:

We're not separated from the animal kingdom, we're part of it. Between their constant evolution, and our own continual revolution into our animal nature, the line between 'us' and 'them' gets blurrier all the time. Chimps are our relations enough to us to give us blood transfusions, but we don't need to look that far to see that we are part of the animal kingdom. Anyone with a dog knows that animals have personalities, intellect, and feelings. So what is it that makes us different from the others? The main difference between us and chimps is this explosive intellect: language. It is our ability to talk about things that are not present: we can talk about the past, and plan for the future. Above all, we can discuss the issues and questions in our lives. And so, how is it, with the unbelievable and magnificent tool of language, how is it that we are destroying our home?

How? We've lost wisdom. The wisdom of religious ancients and elders, who asked, when it was time to make decisions, "How will this effect the community in the future?" and not "How will this effect me now?" or even "How will this effect my job? my country? in three months?"

(Verbatim): Do you think there's a disconnect between this clever brain and the human heart? Everybody cares about their children and grandchildren, but they act as if they don't. There's a disconnect. But we cannot live through a single day without making a difference. The question is not if you do, but what impact you're going to make. What do you eat and how do you eat it? What do you wear? How do you get from A to B? When you arrive, how do you talk to people? These are the choices that add up. 

Jane then talked about what brought her to leave research and teaching (which she loved) and become an activist surrounding environmental and social problems in Tanzania. You can read about her work here and here.

Of her hope and faith that we humans will manage to come around, and fix these massive environmental and social problems, she said, "Maybe I'm naive and simplistic, but it works for me." She also discussed how closely linked these two issues are: "Poverty," she said, "is one of the great destructors of the environment". Jane gave three talking points on hope, and I realized that my dad has been saying exactly these things for years, and I've always disagreed with him. 

Reasons to hope:

1. The human brain. We are innovative; we have a way of problem solving. We are not always good at it, but we manage, particularly when our backs are at the wall. 

2. The unbelievable resilience of nature. This has been a big one for my dad. The lesson hit home today when I was gardening at Eaton St, and was astounded to discover how nice and juicy Megan's soil is, with plenty of earthworms. Last year it was very crummy, but it's bounded back from only one year of planting. Sunflowers and mustard greens are actually capable of removing heavy toxins from the soil. Nature wants to help us help. 

3. Youth taking charge. Sounds cliche, but it's not when you hear a 76 woman who lived through the second world war utter the phrase "a critical mass of youth." She started a youth empowerment program called Roots and Shoots, which is worth reading about. 

But I don't want to talk about Jane Goodall in the vacuum of an evening of inspiring speech. It's not enough to be inspired; or, rather, inspiration comes as much from one's own hard work as it does from outside sources. I think my dad and JG are potentially right, but I also know that you don't make problems go away by looking at them. I know too many people--good people, smart people--who know what is happening to our world, but continue to complain and sit on their hands. And sitting on one's hands is not a passive act; it is a destructive one.

Living sustainably has been made very difficult for us to do. I buy in too--one would have to be a superhero not to--but I can also account for every hour of my day. When Jane asked us What do you eat and how do you eat it? What do you wear? How do you get from A to B? I knew that for the most part, I liked the answers I was able to give. I work hard to give them. I'm not a saint and I like my urban life. I don't think we have to give up urban life; we just have to change what it looks like. What it looks like. What it looks like.

The planet is going to go on with or without us, but if we are going to go on with it, because we love life, we need to make sacrifices. The green capitalist marketing campaign would have us all believe it's a simple matter of switching to the brand with the green label.  I promise you, it will not be that easy. We're going to have to get used to chopping wood for the winter, and we're all going to have to learn to grow a little food. We're going to have rely on our muscles, and on each other to get around.  Did you know that you can make toothpaste, shampoo, and laundry detergent (among other things you usually buy) at home, thus avoiding unnecessary packaging and a lot of nasty chemicals? All of these things take time, and are, by conventional perceptions, inconvenient as well, which means you will have less time for T.V., Nintendo Wii, and your soul sucking job. But if you can feed yourself, and warm yourself, you will find yourself naturally gravitating towards books, and there won't be a place in your life for a soul sucking job. And if you start doing any of these things for yourself, you will be astonished to find just how much you are capable of. All of us already have power. It's a question of whether we're brave enough to take it. 

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if it's a chimp (named Jojo), a mouse, or a lot, but you have to ask yourself, what crumbs have I left on the table for the rest of my brethren?

Seagull and Sparrow

My best friend, Eleni, and I got through the cold winters of our undergraduate studies by fantasizing about the things we would be doing if all of our time wasn't consumed by studying and writing papers. One of the things we talked about was making a zine called Seagull and Sparrow. Seagull and Sparrow because birds are travelers who have a different natural vantage point than humans (a good place to make observations from), and because both seagulls and sparrows are underrated and overlooked. 

Seagulls in cities (and even on beaches) are the rats of the sky. They fly over parking lots and eat junk food. Once I saw one chasing another, and it appeared to be a life or death question for the seagull with the donut in its beak. Plus, any animal that's not afraid of humans has to be fierce and/or intelligent (I don't have room to expound here, but you have the internet--look into the history of the relationships of whales and humans and bears and humans). 

Sparrows are underrated because they're little and plainlooking and fat, but they stick out the winter. It's no easy feat, as we all know. Almost any human with the means flies south in the winter. And sparrows are the ones whose voices you always hear. If you ask someone what a sparrow song sounds like, they will say they don't know. But sparrows are always singing in the background. They are everywhere: fat and tough, simple and brown, and so Eleni and I feel like they are in our corner. One seagull. One sparrow. Fierce. Intelligent. Will eat anything for survival. Little, but with compacted strength. Always singing. Not afraid of humans. That's us! 

Buffalo Flavor

I forgot how ugly Buffalo is. Or, I didn't notice before, because it was my home. Towards the end of my time in Europe, I was looking forward to what I thought of as Buffalo's 'neutral look.' Not good or bad, just blank and grey. I was looking forward to this because being in Europe can be a little exhausting on the eyes. It is too attractive. Being an American in Europe for an extended period of time is like staring at someone with a perfectly symmetrical face: the beauty is overwhelming, and then boring. I needed something off center to focus my lens. A crooked nose, or a strip mall, a hairy mole, or a street in trash and dirty snow. 

Buffalo greeted me with rain and wind, and that weird smell that it is: wet diesel and fried food and smoke. The flat road seems to get flatter. You are hoping it's going to be one of those nights when the scent of Cheerios is blowing all over the city (Buffalo is home to a very aromatic General Mills factory), but it's not. There's just that heavy air that pulls you in. I started to feel a little nauseous. I was quiet, but feeling cranky inside, when I remembered about the food thing. How the eggs don't really taste like eggs. And I know some people who would disagree with me. About the food thing.

Buffalonians get notoriously defensive on behalf of their city, and with good reason: people are always telling them just how much "it sucks." I'm not here to say Buffalo is what it's not, and there are a lot of aspects of the culture I just can't get into. But there are some beautiful things happening in this city too. 

And on the other side of that link are people who will not be in the paper, and projects that will not be advertised. We have so many unsung heroes. It's not that other cities don't have a lot of grassroots energy, but the bleakness of the landscape in Buffalo makes our projects pop. I swear, you've never met people like these people.

Dear America

I. Eric Margan in the sugar shack, Cambridge, NY.
II. Country scene.
III. Irish the horse.

Is the U.S.A. cool or what? We have Esperanza Spalding, and hip hop, and true stories of people who come to their death by chocolate chip cookies (it's as terrible than a death by cigarettes or booze), and words like "snarky" and phrases like "peace out." I'm rediscovering things I didn't know I missed: This American Life, my love/hate relationship with New Yorker fiction, the gray, bare look of March in upstate New York-- the ugliest, calmest time of year here. And, I'm diving into the things I missed quite consciously: bluegrass, peanut butter, hot sauce, and wearing dresses.

And to my friends of the great and varied countries of the EU:
Rest assured, I got a hero's welcome. I stepped off the jumbo jet and everybody in the airport immediately sat down to a hamburger eating contest and the winner, an eleven year old boy wider than he was tall, took off all his clothes and wrapped himself in an American flag (which, despite it's size, didn't quite cover his protruding stomach). We all shook hands and congratulated each other that evolution doesn't exist. And then we drove very fast in our SUV's...in circles...around the mall.

Just kidding. From JFK, I took the A train to the Amtrak train to Hudson, NY where I was greeted by my parents. In my very extensive experience on Amtraks, I have come to the conclusion that only two kinds of people travel by Amtrak: incredibly pleasant ones and horribly cantankerous ones. I lucked out and sat next to one of the former. My new friend, Steve, is a NYU Biology Professor and we spoke for two hours about traveling and riding bikes and genetics and stone masonry and the beauty of the brains of small children. And then I spent a slow week with my parents, eating vegetables and playing word games and learning how to make maple syrup out of sap. All I can say is that there are no hippies like New England hippies. Oh. And that no one does lawn decorations like Americans ("Hello!? Was that a seven foot blow-up leprechaun? Really?")

I happened on an old friend of my parent's, running, and he said, "You've been home for a week?! Are you sick of it yet!?" And I said, "No! I feel fantastic! I think I go away so that everything is new again!" (People from small towns in upstate New York state speak with exclamation points at the end of every sentence when it is cold out or when we are busy or when we are excited--we were both experiencing all three when we met--just imagine!) And so it is. I don't feel like my trip has ended. I'm meeting America through the eyes of a pseudo-foreigner. I was away long enough to forget some important things about my country. I feel like someone from somewhere else who has read a lot about America, and so it appears as a dream I had once, hidden somewhere in the recess of memory, that I can only remember the feeling of. Appropriately, this is exactly how I felt when I arrived in Ireland for the first time.

Somewhere between 20 and 30 percent of Americans hold passports. And I don't know how many of these passports are used only for going to Canada (no offense, Canada--I love you) or for partying in Mexico (no offense, Tijuana--I pray for you at night). In our defense, Americans have to fight a few hefty battles to get out of the country. First there is the cost. Photos and fees and postage all told, it can cost upwards of $300 just to get a passport. That's money that a lot of Americans just don't have. And it can be time consuming.  (Here's a sort of interesting little commentary on the subject: http://www.columbiamissourian.com/stories/2008/10/20/debunking-passport-myth/). But as great as the financial burden is the geographical and psychological isolation. From the place where I live, I can easily go to Canada, which is, yes, another country, even if a lot of people don't see it as one. Still, the culture that lies just across the border does not vary greatly from my own. To get anywhere else in the world, I have to fly for at least 7 hours. But it's not just the time. In two directions there is an ocean of land, and in the other direction is an ocean (the other direction, obviously, is Canada). There's a conceptual distance that's much bigger and lasts much longer than the flight. It's not nothing to overcome. I don't want to make excuses for the insular view of the world that some of my countrymen have. I just want the world to develop a little sense of empathy for North American isolation, which can be pretty lonely.

Americans, if you can afford to travel, don't go to resorts! And world: visit. I met a few Europeans who had no interest in traveling to the U.S. because they felt they already knew what it is through movies and music, (and the world mostly gets our artistic poop). Alternately, people only want to see New York, Las Vegas, and LA. I don't want to give the impression that New York is not wonderful, and if I was a different sort of person, I would live there in a heartbeat. But there is another America. The America that hides, like men worth dating, under rocks and leaves. It's the draft that sneaks around plastick-ed windows in Buffalo and the gardens that grow in places where there are smokestacks not far off. It's the 60 year old guy you meet on the street in San Francisco who is homeless, broke, and hungry, but doesn't know it because he is still reliving this amazing acid trip he took when he was 17. There's El Capitan, and the redwoods, which I still don't believe, which I still dream about. There is the vast, bizarre, beautiful and warped world of Utah. If you're American or not, go eat red-hot peanuts and wander around the strange playground of the Sloss Furnaces in Birmingham, Alabama. I dare you to go and not feel something. New Orleans--dear lord, there is New Orleans--everyone's vacation should start, or end, there. I imagine that Alaska makes the A list too, although I've never been there.

Mark Twain wisely said,"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness," but he didn't mean just any kind of travel. He meant the kind in which you are awake, and he meant the kind in which you take yourself outside your comfort zones.  There is no reason to stop traveling just because I am home. In fact, it is more important to think like a traveler at home, where it is easy to get lazy and intellectually soft.  A traveler must be easygoing and adaptable, but quick to react. From the west side of Buffalo, where I live, to the east, where I work, I pass through a few worlds. 

Sometimes America really does feel united (when we elected our 44th, or on the days when I walk clear across Buffalo and meet more different kinds of people than countries I've been to in my life). Other times it feels like each person is a different country. I think both perceptions of our country, (which, because it has made itself everywhere, also belongs to everyone), and of my city, are true. 

And the quote above--like most of the things Mark Twain said--is not just a quote, but can be applied as a life philosophy. Excuse me if I get a little over-excited. I really love Mark Twain. I need to go re-read Pudd'nhead Wilson. Oh boy oh boy oh boy. That is what I need to do!